Mansard roofs were quite ugly. They had this abrupt sort of feeling to them as they sloped down on each side of the house. One could even suggest that such a roof be carved out of foam, that was how utterly simplistic the shape was. 

As you stand just short of the gate, you peer up at said disappointing sight. The house before you was plain as could be. White concrete walls run three floors high. All complimented with large windows which appeared to hold no movement inside. A burglar might think the estate was empty and make for a break in. 

Though you were hardly a burglar. There was too much risk going into a profession like that, and you could hardly open a window without fuss, let alone smash one to pieces. No, you were just looking to make some extra money, and starting today — you suppose you could call yourself a nanny. 

The prospect of looking after kids never did entice you if you were being honest. They were cheeky little bastards, always finding new ways to slobber all over important documents or shove non-edible objects into their drooling mouths. 

But your monthly budget was currently stretched thin enough to rip. The hours you spent cleaning tables at the restaurant downstairs to your apartment only gave so much and you were growing all the more desperate for a second income. 

That's when Mr Jeon's advertisement had so conveniently fell into your lap. "Help Wanted — Nanny Position" True to your previous words about children, you had been prepared to brush past the simple post when your gaze had landed on the pay — and holy shit was it too good to pass up on. 

Now, there were two reasons someone paid such a ridiculous sum for the simple act of babysitting. They were either absolutely loaded, or, the kids in question were absolute nightmares. Though judging by the eerie stillness of the house in front of you, your hopes were rising in favor of the former option. 

The note in your pocket had become somewhat crinkled during your journey and you flatten it out in your palm as you read the address one last time. Your eyes flicker between the number on the paper and over to the cursive '7' that sits next to the front door. This was the place. 

Without further contemplation you push the gate open and make your way over to what could potentially end up saving your current financial predicament. 

The three stone steps leading up to the front porch are climbed with ease and you make sure to straighten out your wrinkly coat before ringing the bell. You can hear the soft tune as it carries through what could only be a maze of rooms inside, alerting the residents of your arrival. 

To say that you were nervous would unfortunately be quite the correct statement. It wasn't like you weren't used to meeting new people. The long mornings spent out on the floor of the restaurant had you sure to be greeted with at least two angry customers each day. And yet you find yourself exhaling sharply through your nose as your nails dig into the heel of your hand. 

In front of you wasn't Mrs Lee waiting to argue about the pickles in her food — but more money than seven hours spent cleaning tables would ever get you. This had to go well, for your financial state might just depend on it. 

The wait is long and unbearable when, in reality, it was a mere ten seconds until the door was swung open. Sucking in a quiet breath, your eyes snap up to meet with who you could only presume to be Mr Jeon himself. He's dressed in all black, his hair slicked back to expose his forehead and the thick brows that were already set into a most judgemental frown. 

He doesn't say anything and only when the silence becomes dangerously prolonged to you manage to clear your throat. "Hello, I'm here for the—," 

"You're the nanny," He simply states, not bothering to hear you out as he steps aside to make room for you beside him on the threshold. Talk about a pleasant greeting, you thought to yourself as you made your way inside. 

The hallway is a lot warmer than the unforgiving October air and you let out a shuddering exhale. Somewhere behind you, the sound of a lock clicking into place is heard and before you can blink, Mr Jeon has walked past you and headed down the hall. "Shoes by the door," He gruffly calls before rounding a corner and disappearing entirely from sight. 

You rush to get your old sneakers off, grimacing when you have to place them next to his neatly polished shoes. The carpet is soft under your feet and you curl your toes in an attempt to hide the hole in your sock. There's two pairs of considerably smaller shoes alongside yours, which you could only presume to be the children's. 

Not wanting to waste more time, or money, lingering by the entrance, you carefully start making your way down the hall which Mr Jeon had disappeared. The house was absolutely breathtaking inside, much contradictory to its plain exterior. Its high ceiling had a sparkling chandelier hanging from it and your gaze lingered on the detailed wall trims that ran along both sides of the hallway. 

When rounding the same corner Mr Jeon had just a moment prior, you suddenly find yourself in a grand living room. The space enough made your entire three room flat look pathetic and you almost scoffed as you regard the expensive looking vases that held nothing at all, effectively defeating their purpose. 

The head of the house himself waits by the fireplace, shoulder leaning against the cold brick and his arms folded across his chest. From there, he looked every bit the rich and arrogant upper class he was. "Have a seat," He gestures toward one of the pristine armchairs, and by the tone of his voice, it was clear he wasn't making a suggestion. 

You oblige without complaint, sinking down onto the cushion before folding your hands in your lap. It smelled faintly of lavender, a most soothing scent which you generously inhaled. Letting your gaze wander across the room, your attention lingers on the tall bookshelves, all neatly organized. 

In fact the entire living room was freakishly clean. There wasn't as much as a single speck of dust to be seen, not one feather out of place. You wondered if perhaps he had a hired maid — no way could a home with children be this spotless without a pair of extra hands. 

Mr Jeon shifts where he stands by the fire place, clearing his throat enough to bring your eyes back on him in an instant. "You got my email I presume," He says, not waiting for a response as he continues in a brisk manner, "I won't waste our time by going through the contents." 

He pushes himself off of the fireplace and takes a step in the direction of the large windows which looked out into the garden. His hands find their way back into his pockets, the crease between his brows had yet to ease up. 

"Today's meals are already prepped, they're in the freezer with a note on each," He points vaguely toward the archway leading into the kitchen. "Cassian is lactose intolerant, don't feed him dairy." 

Then he turns and nods toward the TV. You follow his gaze, eyes widening when they fall on the black screen. You had never seen something like this inside a home before, growing up television had been a luxury your family had been unable to afford. But Mr Jeon shrugs it off like it was nothing but an inconvenience. "Feel free to use it as you please when the children are asleep, though they are not to spend time in front of it." 

"Homework hours are between four and five thirty in the afternoon. They study Mandarin for an additional thirty minutes after that. They eat their dinner between six and six thirty before washing up. Have them in bed by seven and turn the lights off no later than seven thirty." 

As you listen to him ramble you recount the details of the email he'd sent you that same morning. It had included a lengthy and detailed list of things the children weren't allowed to do as well as an attached scheduled counted down to the second where not as much as a single moment was spent in vain. 

It all seemed a little… extreme, but you were in no position to judge a father for the way he raised his kids. You were only the nanny, after all. 

Mr Jeon turns back to you, his lips pressed into a thin line as he regards you with dark and calculating eyes. "Any questions?" 

You shake your head, forcing a small smile. "No, I think I've got it. Thank you for this opportunity Mr—" 

"Call me Jungkook," He grunts, arms flexing slightly against his sides. Straight past the formalities it seemed. You weren't opposed, titles did make things awkward after all. 

Before you can proceed to thank him for the position, he's already walked past you and headed for the hall once again. "I'll be at work until nine, you can reach me on the number in the notebook next to the phone." He pauses, throws a pointed look over his shoulder at you, "You do know how to use one?" 

The question makes you splutter and you twist in the chair. "I— Of course I do!" 

Jungkook clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth before giving an almost unnoticeable nod that was more a jerk of his head. "The children are in their rooms upstairs," He pauses, "Third floor is not in use so there's no point in you going up there." 

Then he's turned on his heel and disappeared down the hallway. A moment later you hear the front door open and close, the sound of the lock mechanism falling into place following shortly. 

The house is eerily silent after that, with only the ticking of the old clock by the fireplace to fill the quiet air. You remain sitting on the armchair a moment longer, thumbs rolling over one another absentmindedly as you glance around the living room one more time. 

He was certainly a character. You could only wonder what his kids would be like, if they were anything at all like their father then you were in for a ride. With a sigh you heave yourself from the comforts of the plush cushion, wandering back down the hall to discard yourself of your coat. 

So far this seemed like an easy enough job — especially considering the pay. All you would have to do was follow the strict plan Mr Jeon— Jungkook, had laid out for you, and leave with your check by the end of the night. Piece of cake, really. 

With that you turn your attention toward the stairs by the end of the hall. Past them awaited the children. You quietly brace yourself as you approach, one hand wrapped around the railing, you begin the journey to the second floor. 

The upstairs did not disappoint. It matches the running theme of the house, an expensive carpet going down the hall where doors lined both of the walls. Two of them were left ajar, the kids' rooms you guessed. 

When reaching the first one you stop to peer inside. The room looked nothing like that of a child's. With plain tapestry and only a bed, bookshelf and a desk to occupy the space. By the desk sits a young girl, her back is turned to you and she's hunched over what you presumed to be a book. From here you could only make out her long, black hair that was gathered into a neat ponytail. 

Hand curled into a loose fist, you give the doorframe a light knock. She turns to face you, big and round eyes meeting yours. "Hi," You smile, stepping over the threshold as you greet her. She doesn't appear surprised by your sudden appearance, in fact she seems almost annoyed with your presence and she quickly turns back to whatever held her attention on the desk. 

You frown, your steps faltering slightly as you regard her backside a moment longer. Jungkook had not bothered to introduce you to his children which you had found odd, but his daughter's lack of response was all the more concerning. 

Walking up to her, you come to a halt beside her chair. "Rayne, was it?" You hum, sliding your hands into the back pockets of your jeans. 

The girl mutely nods, her gaze firmly fixed to the book laid out on the desk. Her arms are folded over the table and tucked against her chest as she reads. "You're the new nanny," She states in a monotone voice without taking her eyes off of the pages in front of her. 

You nod, rocking back and forth on the sole of your feet as you peek at the contents of her book. "That's right," You muse, wondering what could possibly be so interesting that she couldn't spare you as much as a glance. It takes you but a minute to realize that this wasn't a children's book. The words on the page were far too advanced for any child before high school at least to be indulging in.

"What are you reading?" You can't help but ask, leaning just a bit closer as you skim through one of the paragraphs. 

Rayne shrugs, "The Great Gatsby." She said it like it was the most normal thing in the world for her to be reading something like that one afternoon. 

Your eyebrows shoot high on your forehead, your jaw slacking just a little as your gaze flickers between the open book and her. "Rayne, how old are you again?" 

She sighs, clearly fed up with your questions as she pushes back in her chair. "I'm seven," She simply states, "I'll be eight in December." 

Seven years old and she's reading The Great Gatsby, for fun? Sure, her father seemed strict about the television and you did suppose it was beneficial for kids to be reading rather than consuming mindless nonsense on a screen. But wasn't this a little extreme? 

Rayne peers at you through the corner of her eye when she notices that you're still here. "You should go check on Cas," She huffs, "He's probably getting himself into trouble now that father isn't here." 

"I…" You blink, stunned by the fact that she had just dared give you such a blunt command. "I guess I should." Straightening back up, you throw her book one last skeptical glance before heading back out into the hallway. 

Cassian's room was next to his sister's. And it was just as plainly decorated, save for the stuffed teddy bear that sat on top of his neatly made bed. Repeating the same procedure as you had with Rayne, you give the doorframe a quiet knock before stepping inside. 

Perched on the edge of the mattress, Cassian sits with his legs swinging back and forth aimlessly as his hands pick at a loose thread on his pants. His gaze is downcast but at the sound of your approach he lifts his head to look at you. 

You nearly falter in your steps, eyes widening a fraction as you take in his appearance. He was the spitting image of his father, with the exception of a gentleness to his eyes that his dad lacked. 

Just like his sister, he doesn't seem surprised by your arrival. He gives but a tiny nod when you greet him. "Are you our new nanny?" He wonders, his voice is surprisingly soft, not at all what you had expected after your conversation with his sibling just moments prior. 

"Yes, I am." You smile, crouching down in front of him where he sits. Your attention drifts back to the teddy bear and you reach for it. "This one's cute, does it have a name?" Fingers brushing over the small bow that sat around its neck, you boop the plushie's tiny nose. 

Cassian only shrugs, not sparing the toy as much as a glance when he says, "It's nothing special." 

His dismissal makes you hesitate and you carefully place the teddy bear down. When turning back to him, you find that he's gone back to picking at his pants with his tiny hands. "Don't do that, you'll ruin your clothes," You hum in an attempt to grab his attention. 

He lets his hand drop to his side, dark eyes meeting yours through his lashes. "Your sock has a hole in it," He said, like he was one-upping you for commenting on his fidgeting. 

The remark makes you grimace and you shift slightly where you crouch on the floor. Kids were too perceptive for their own good. Throwing a glance toward the clock on his nightstand, you realize that it was already past four. "How about we go down to the kitchen and do homework?" Slapping your hands on your knees, you prepare to rise from your crouch when Cassian suddenly interrupts you: 

"We study in the library." Is all he says. And with that he jumps off of the bed, walking over to his desk by the window as he gathers a couple of books in his arms along with a notepad and pencil. He doesn't wait for you to follow along as he heads through the still open bedroom door. 

Stunned into silence, you watch after his retreating figure. You had expected him to put up a little more of a fight, given that he was only five, but Cassian seemed indifferent about the prospect of homework. 

You found that the children were awfully independent. They took to studying like it was second nature, never once letting their attention stray from their work nor complaining about the time. On the contrary, you found yourself awfully bored as you sat on a chair beside them for two hours, watching as they worked diligently. You could not remember ever putting that much effort into something so mundane. 

When you had asked them if their dad made them study everyday they simply nodded. Neither of them made an attempt to indulge in any conversation with you. For all you knew, you could have been a ghost in their presence, nothing but a shadow left to linger in a corner. 

Homework finally came to an end by six pm and you urged them downstairs for dinner — eager to have something to do and perhaps get to know them better. 

Though you were quickly dumbfounded when standing in front of the microwave, trying to reheat the meals that were left prepared inside glass containers. Cassian and Rayne are both standing behind you, their eyes boring into your back as they study you silently. 

The frown between your brows only grows and you pull your lip between your teeth as you try to decode the variety of buttons on the damned electric box. How difficult could it be? Just as your finger hovers over a suspiciously round button, Rayne suddenly speaks up. 

"Do you even know how to use it?" 

You scoff, "Of course I do." A brief pause follows before you dare a glance over your shoulder, "It's this button, right?" 

Rayne rolls her eyes but gives a curt nod. You press it and the microwave beeps to life. Breathing out a small sigh of relief, you slump back against the counter. 

"Daddy never cooks our food in the microwave," Cassian suddenly quips from where he stands next to his sister. His lips were pressed into a small pout as he regards the container behind the glass. 

"Well," Giving a small shrug, you turn toward the children, "You'll find that me and your daddy are quite different." 

Neither of the kids seem very impressed with learning that. Instead they wordlessly begin rummaging through a close by drawer for cutlery. They set the table themselves, leaving you to guard the food in the microwave which felt like a completely useless task, though you followed through with it nonetheless. 

The children spoke even less as they ate, with only the sound of knives and forks scraping against porcelain to fill the stiff silence. Their table manners surprised you, both of them chewed with their mouths closed, wiping their lips with the corner of a folded napkin between bites and sipping their water elegantly. 

You found yourself watching them like some sort of wildlife documentary. Their behavior was almost uncanny, nothing at all what you would expect of a five- and seven year old. 

Halfway through their meal, Cassian finally speaks up. "How long will you be staying?"

You frown, "What do you mean?" 

But Cassian has already taken another bite of his food. His sister answers in his place, "My brother is asking how long you plan on working here." She takes a sip of her water before putting the glass down without making a sound. 

"Well I… I don't know. For a good while I hope," You hum. The pay was too good for you to let the offer just slip from your grasp, not that the kids needed to know that. "Why do you ask?" 

The small boy shrugs, picking through his vegetables mindlessly. "Our last nanny came only twice." He sends you a glance, "Will you come three times?" 

Twice? Was he implying that their last caretaker had worked a total of two days before taking their leave? You blink, shifting uncomfortably in your seat as you think of a way to answer his question. 

"Father will probably fire her tomorrow," Rayne shakes her head. 

Fire you? Sweat beads on your forehead at the thought of losing your job just as quickly as you had gotten it. What on earth were these kids telling their dad to have him fire their nannies. It had to be only the worst of a child's imaginative mind. "Why do you say that?" You ask, unable to hide the concern in your voice. 

Rayne only sighs, like the answer was written in the stars, "Because that's what he did to the last ones." She sends you an almost condescending look, "What makes you any different?" 

That one snide remark made you walk on eggshells for the remainder of the evening. You brought the kids upstairs, helped them wash up and laid out their pajamas on their beds before fussing with the pillows — all the while Rayne's words kept playing on loop in your head. 

The children were just as obedient when it came to brushing their teeth as they had been with their veggies and homework. Not as much as a frown or a single complaint left their lips and you wondered what kind of military training their father had put them through to have them act like this, with a nanny no less. 

And though you would admit that your knowledge on kids went no further than your own cousins, which you had babysat a handful of times — even you could tell that there was something seriously wrong with these two. 

So you stand outside the bathroom upstairs, arms folded across your chest as you glance up and down the hall whilst Cassian used the toilet. Rayne had already retired to her bedroom, insisting that she would be heading straight to bed and that there would be no need for you to check on her. 

The house is unnervingly quiet. Outside the sun had set, leaving only the chandelier above to light up the long hallway. Your gaze drifts from the shut bathroom door and down toward the window by the very end of the hall. There, to the left, was a door you had yet to walk through. 

You had kept your word and stayed away from the third floor, trusting that it held no more than dust and spiderwebs — which you were not too keen on exploring. But this door was on the second floor, and Cassian was in the bathroom. 

On tip toes you pad over, throwing a glance over your shoulder, you make sure that Rayne was still in her room before reaching the closed door. It looked no different from any of the others, its white paint staring back at you without an ounce of emotion. You regard the doorknob, the invitation waiting on the tips of your fingers. Wrapping a hand around the cold metal, you inhale a shuddering breath before twisting the handle. 

Nothing happens. 

Puzzled, you try the doorknob again. But the door is locked. That was odd. Jungkook had not mentioned anything about any locked doors, nor had he forbade you from going inside any of the rooms, long as they weren't on the third floor. 

In the midst of your confusion, you fail to catch the sound of a toilet being flushed and the running water of the sink. A moment later the bathroom door is swung open and tiny feet pad down the hall. 

"Miss, what are you doing?" 

Whirling around, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to face a wary-looking Cassian. He takes a couple of steps toward you, small hands drying themselves on the pants to his pajama as his dark eyes flicker between you and the locked door. There was a deep crease between his brows, showcasing his suspicion toward you. 

"Oh," You exhale, wiping your clammy hands on your thighs as you swallow. "I was just—" Gesturing between yourself and the door, you send him a smile you hoped convinced him of your innocent intentions. 

When Cassian remains silent, you take it as your window to shoot a tentative question. "What's behind that door?" You didn't expected him to even respond, he was scarily smart for a five year old — undoubtedly seeing right through you. 

He regards you a moment longer, the frown between his brows deepening. Finally he sighs, giving a small nod in the direction of the locked door. "It was mommy- and daddy's room," He simply states, bringing his mother up for the first time since your arrival. 

Taken aback by the mention of her — you almost brush over one of the key details he'd used. "Was?" You echo, arching a brow just enough to disclose your interest. 

Cassian nods, his expression betraying nothing of what he felt. "Daddy doesn't sleep in there anymore." 

He yawns then, stretching his tiny arms over his head before blinking up at you tiredly. "I need to sleep now," He murmurs before turning on his heel and heading down the hall toward his own room. 

You're left standing with a gaping mouth as your gaze flickers between the child and the door which you had just attempted to break through. Shaking off the confusing thoughts that Cassian's statement had left behind, you turn to follow him inside his room. 

It's silent as you tuck him in, your hands moving gently across the blanket when you pull it over his tiny frame. Cassian sinks back against the pillow and you can feel his big eyes on you as you fiddle with the corner of the duvet. 

"Will you be alright?" You hum, glancing over at him where he lays hugging his teddy bear. For a second it looks as though he's about to say something, his lips are parted and there's an almost anxious edge in the way his gaze darts around the room. 

A moment later though, he's nodding his head, murmuring a quiet 'yes' as he snuggles closer to the plushie. Choosing not to prod further, you settle for a gentle pat to his cheek before flicking the bedside light off. 

It was seven forty five and even though you had the entire house to yourself for at least another hour, you found yourself curled up in the same armchair you had been sat in just a few hours earlier. Having busied yourself with cleaning up after dinner and scrubbing the kitchen until it was spotless — you now had nothing left to distract your thoughts with. 

Could it really be that Mr Jeon would fire you that following morning? Had you not done a good of enough job — perhaps the children were dissatisfied with you, would they tell him that? Chewing anxiously on your bottom lip you walk yourself through all kinds of possible scenarios, each one of them ending with your possible termination. 

Your mind wanders back to the locked door by the end of the hall, Cassian's words resurfacing the longer you thought about it. "Daddy doesn't sleep in there anymore." Neither him nor Rayne had brought up their mother at all today, come to think of it, Mr Jeon hadn't either. 

Had she passed away? Would that be insensitive to ask? Probably. It would be best to refrain from prying, you tell yourself as you settle back against the cushion. 

The hour ticks by faster than you would have hoped. None of the kids come down — and when you went up to check on them, they were both peacefully asleep in their respective beds. Perhaps you had nothing to worry about after all?

By nine pm sharp, the sound of keys rattling inside a lock can be heard. Shooting up from the armchair, you turn toward the hallway as you listen to the front door opening and closing. His punctuality was quite terrifying. 

You make your way out of the living room, turning down the hall just in time to see Jungkook hanging off his coat. He crouches down to undo the laces on his shoes, a few loose strands of hair falling down his forehead. Quietly approaching, you come to a slow stop next to the dresser on which the phone rested. You had yet to call him all night, mostly because nothing eventful had happened — you could only hope he wasn't upset with you for not being in touch. 

But Jungkook appears indifferent as he places his shoes next to the children's' with a small huff. He straightens up, then he turns to you. "Everything went okay?" He phrases it like a question but when it reaches your ears it hardly sounds like one. 

Nodding, you hum out a small 'yes' as you rock back and forth on your feet awkwardly. It is then you remembered the book Rayne had been reading previously that afternoon. "Rayne was reading The Great Gatsby", You say, unable to mask the frown that crept its way onto your face. 

You expected him to be at least slightly surprised, but Jungkook simply shrugged when he heard that. "Then that's good," He muses as he fishes up the car keys from his pocket and throws them onto the dresser — that was probably the biggest mess the house had seen all day. 

"You're not… worried?" You ask, turning to follow him with your gaze as he walks past you. 

Jungkook scoffs, "Why should I be? Kid's just reading." 

You wanted to argue that his seven year old daughter was reading literature someone her age should not even think about touching. Not to mention the fact that his two children were behaving like tiny adults, you hadn't seen either of them crack as much as a smile all day — and they hadn't even suggested playing with any kind of toys at all. That was not normal. 

And yet you keep silent. Because for all you knew, this could cost you your job. That, you were not ready for. 

Jungkook had disappeared down the hall, leaving you to wallow in silence for a moment before he returned with a small envelope in one hand. He comes to a stop before you, close enough to where you could pick up the musky scent of his cologne. Wordlessly he hands you the envelope and you take it with a nod. It feels heavy in your palm — your promised payment rewarding as it rests between your fingers. 

"I need you to come by around noon tomorrow," Jungkook says as his hands slip inside his pockets. 

That makes you pause, your gaze lifting from the envelope and over to meet his dark eyes. "Noon?" You splutter, perplexed by the idea of arriving nearly four hours early the day that followed. That wouldn't work, because outside of working part time at the restaurant under your apartment, you were a med student. It just so happened that noon tomorrow was in the middle of one of your three classes a week. 

Jungkook cocks a brow, "Is that a problem?" 

Ah. Well. You rub the back of your neck sheepishly, avoiding his piercing gaze to the best of your abilities. Now might be a good time to mention the last bit of his lengthy email — the one tiny, tiny paragraph stating that he would not hire a high school graduate.

Suppose you might have stretched the truth a little when you called to apply for the position… You justified the lie by telling yourself that you desperately needed the money, that any sane person would do this, that the idea of refusing to hire someone simply because they were a high school graduate was ridiculous. And it wasn't like you didn't have a degree. You would have it. In about eight months. That still had to count for something, right? 

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you quickly shake your head. "No! No, no, not at all. Noon is perfect for me!" You give an enthusiastic nod, silently praying that he couldn't see the inner turmoil soaring through you. Noon would be just fine — when you figured out how to attend both class and watch over his children at the same time without surgically splitting yourself in half. 

But then you're reminded of the heavy envelope in your hand. Your fingers curl a little tighter around it. Think about the money. Think about the money. You could figure this out, you would figure this out. 

The shelf by the door coughs out its contents: a can rolls, then a bottle, another bottle, a clatter that jars the pulse behind his eye. Sticky leaks on the tiles. No one looks at him—customer, manager, pink-haired girl behind the second register sketching with a dried-out pen. He’s the quiet one. The shadow. The clean-up.

He counts the droplets on the ground. One. Two. The stain widens. Beer and cola. A chemical amber, eating its way along the grout. His fingers twitch for the cheap blue rag balled up under the till. Sticky spots, dirty dots, broken thoughts. Three. Four. Five. It’s spreading. Marcel’s voice always comes before the panic does.

“Kid! Clean that shit up, come on! Clients don’t have all day.”

He sees the world in surfaces and stains. Every footprint etched in last night’s grime. Chewing gum slicked flat under a boot near the cooler. The way someone’s fingernails left half-moons in the tape over the torn cereal box. Small atrocities. He is intimately acquainted with the way filth lingers—in the cracks, yes, but also in his chest, in the language of his own hands.

He moves without thinking: rag in hand, knees bending. The bottle neck is sticky. His palm leaves a ghost on the glass—oily, ugly. 

(dirty, dirty, dirtydirtydirt)

He swears he can hear her voice; the echo that raised him sharper than any cradle song. 

He wipes too hard, more circles than necessary, like there is any chance of making the world new.

One. Two. Three. Seven. Seven. Seven again. If the number is right, the feeling dulls. 

Nothing makes it right. 

The rag soaks up sugar, cheap wheat, that thin acrid scent that reminds him of old men on metro benches. The stickiness clings to his fingers, seeping past skin and nail, as if he’s absorbing the world’s waste molecule by molecule. 

If he had a choice, he’d bleach the whole city. Himself first.

Someone steps around him—he feels the shadow before the person—a grunt, a grumble in French about the mess, about incompetence. He shrinks into the crouch. Tries to take up less space. 

Sometimes, he wonders what it would take to be truly invisible. 

Sometimes, he thinks he’s halfway there already.

(worthless) 

He doesn’t know when the word started looping. Was it, really, at two years old? Maybe three. Maybe four, when he dropped a bowl and she made him hold the shards, blood trailing into the grout as proof of his clumsiness. 

‘If you were worth anything, you’d be clean. You’d be careful. You’d be quiet and good and wanted.’

He’s quiet. He’s careful. He’s so good at disappearing he startles himself when Marcel barks his name—the only time he hears it, sandpapered into a reprimand. 

Sometimes the sound of it makes him nauseous.

He presses the rag into the floor. Bleach sting in the back of his throat. Nails scrub until knuckles ache, the line between diligent and desperate lost years ago. He likes this better than standing—the way knees grind bone against bone, the ache that says he’s solid, present, here. 

It almost feels like penance.

He glances up—Sophie sketches him again, glancing once, twice, pausing on the curl of his neck. He will become a line in her notebook, a story she tells at parties, a tragic fixture in the background of her real life. He hates that he has thoughts about being observed. If anyone really saw, they’d peel back layers until nothing was left but the word. 

(worthless)

The store’s radio coughs static. Some old pop song limping its way through a broken speaker. The world blurs at the edges—what is Paris, if not concrete and piss and distant sunlight, leaking slowly across linoleum? He wishes the tiles here would just dissolve. 

Wishes his skin would too.

He wrings the rag out in the bucket, watches beer foam swirl with grime down the cheap plastic drain. His hands are pink, raw, stained with the same feeling that never quite leaves. His fingertips burn. Sometimes they bleed. That’s good. 

Pain is clean. Pain is honest.

Marcel doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t look at him. Sophie tucks her drawing away, eyes flickering elsewhere. Taehyung straightens, wipes his palms on his trousers, and returns to the counter. He exists to erase.

Counting in his head—seven steps to the end of the aisle. Seven minutes until the shift ends. Seven letters in the nine his mother wrote under his skin:

Worthless.

Sometimes he thinks it’s the only word he’ll ever earn.

And outside, the city is gray. Inside, he is nothing. Inside, he is clean.

(For a moment. For seven counts. That’s all.)

The water makes patterns like fractured light.

His shift ends like they always do—uneventful, almost unregistered in the library of his mind. 

Paris is set in a brooding mood, rain stalking down the windows carelessly. Taehyung watches each droplet make its slow descent, leaving dirty trails on the glass he'd scrubbed this morning. 

Seven hours ago. The bleach has worn off. Everything wears off eventually.

He'll have to clean the windows before going home. Marcel doesn't really care. Clean windows mean cleaner space. Cleaner space is good for Marcel's business. Or its reputation at least. Not that Taehyung cares about reputation or lack thereof, he just needs to quiet down the bubbling pressure that builds in his chest when the water droplets remove the bleach he's injected into the glass this morning.

The streak marks form constellations he doesn't know the names of. Names have never mattered much to him. Except when they belong to ghosts.

(worthlessworthlessworthless)

The register drawer sticks when he pulls it, a metallic scrape that makes his molars ache. He counts the bills by sevens—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Again. Again. The rhythm is comforting, like a metronome he can set his pulse to. His fingers leave no prints on the paper. He's careful about that. So careful.

Sophie comes by his counter, as she usually does at this time. Her hair is wet at the ends, dripping onto her shoulders. The moisture makes him twitch. He knows the pattern, knows how her hand raises to pat him in the shoulder, so he moves. Just lightly. A shift to the left. His body tilting away from contact like a plant bending from shadow.

She notices. She always notices. But she never says anything about it.

"Marcel left early," she says, tapping her pen against her lower lip. "Something about his daughter's recital. You know how he gets about that little prodigy of his."

Taehyung doesn't respond. He doesn't know what it's like to have a father proud enough to leave work early. He doesn't know what it's like to have someone watch you with anything but disappointment.

Sophie sighs into the silence. The sound scrapes against his eardrums. He counts the register one more time, even though the numbers are perfect. They're always perfect. He makes sure of it.

"You should really come to the dinner tonight. Would do some good for you to socialize," she says with a grin that shows too many teeth. 

Her lipstick is smudged at the corner. Imperfect. He wants to hand her a tissue but his hands stay where they are, counting, ordering, fixing what isn't broken.

He doesn't blame her for trying. He doesn't blame her for the invitation that comes every Friday, the same words in slightly different arrangements. He doesn't blame her for not understanding that socializing feels like drowning with an audience.

Taehyung doesn't respond, simply nods. He's learned the minimum requirements for human interaction. Nod. Blink. Breathe. Exist without being noticed.

She sighs, signals two fingers over her forehead as she exits the store, all while saying, "Don't stay too late, and close before you leave!"

Taehyung didn't need the reminder. He always checks seven times before he leaves, that the door is closed. 

Sophie knows. He knows she knows. He still doesn't say a word, just nods. Then, Sophie is gone.

Solitude, at last. 

Empty store, peace restored.

His fingers move to the cloth under the register. It's damp from earlier, beer and soda and whatever else the world tracked in. He should get a fresh one. Clean things with clean tools. His mother taught him that, at least, between the lessons about worthlessness.

The rain comes down harder now, drumming against the glass. The windows will need extra attention.

The rain comes down harder now, drumming against the glass. The windows will need extra attention. He can already feel the itch building under his skin, the need to make everything spotless. He checks the time. Heavy rain until midnight. He puts the keys back in his pocket. He isn't leaving. He never leaves when the sky is like this; he’d rather sleep on the floor of the back room than step out into it.

He’ll have to wait it out until he can go back to into his apartment, where everything is already clean but never clean enough.

He moves methodically. Counts each step. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Again. The mop bucket rattles as he pulls it from the back room. Water sloshes against plastic sides. He measures the bleach precisely. One cap. Two caps. The smell burns his nostrils, familiar and comforting. It smells like absolution.

The store is empty now. Just him and the endless task of erasing evidence that anyone was ever here. He likes it this way. Prefers it. People leave messes. People notice things. People try to touch his shoulder and invite him to dinners where he would have to speak and be seen and remembered.

No one remembers the person who cleans up after them. That's the beauty of it.

The mop makes wet streaks across the floor. He counts each stroke. Seven in one direction. Seven in the other. The pattern matters. The rhythm matters. If he gets it wrong, something terrible might happen. He doesn't know what. He just knows the fear tastes like metal at the back of his throat.

The windows come last. He saves them because they're the worst. Because they connect inside to outside. Because they're never truly clean, no matter how hard he scrubs.

He sprays the glass, watches the solution drip down in rivulets that mirror the rain on the other side. Seven sprays. Seven wipes. Seven circles clockwise, seven counterclockwise. The ritual matters. The counting matters.

When he's done, the store gleams under the harsh lights. No evidence that anyone has been here. No evidence that he exists at all, except in the absence of dirt.

Then, a sound.

 It comes from behind the door nobody opens.

Not the storeroom where Marcel keeps the cigarettes he thinks no one knows about, not the employee bathroom with its perpetually damp floor—the other one. The abandoned space where even Marcel refuses to go.

Taehyung freezes mid-wipe, cloth suspended against glass. The sound isn't loud. Just different. A disruption in the pattern of silence he's grown accustomed to.

He finishes the seventh circle, completing the ritual. Can't leave it unfinished. Bad things happen when rituals break. His mother taught him that—one of the few lessons that wasn't delivered with a slap or that word.

(worthless)

The sound comes again. Not a crash or a thud, but something lighter. A scrape, perhaps. The shuffle of something being moved after years of stillness.

His bleach bottle is nearly empty. The level has dropped below the label, and the thought of finishing his cleaning without it makes his chest cave inward. The supply closet—the forbidden one—holds what he needs. Marcel put the cleaning supplies there because no one else wants them. Because Taehyung is the only one who uses them. Because Marcel knows he'll go, no matter how much it terrifies him.

The handle feels wrong under his palm. Not cold or hot, but somehow both. The metal leaves an impression on his skin that he'll need to scrub away later. Seven times. With soap that smells like nothing.

The door creaks—not dramatically like in films, but with the quiet protest of hinges that have forgotten their purpose. The smell hits him first: dust and mildew, ancient paper, and something underneath it all that reminds him of childhood. 

Not his childhood—someone else's. Someone who was allowed to be happy.

Taehyung doesn't step fully inside. He hovers at the threshold, one foot in darkness, one in light. Liminal. The word appears in his head unbidden. He knows it from somewhere. A book, maybe. Something he read in the quiet hours when sleep refused to come.

The bleach is stacked against the far wall. Seven bottles. Always seven. Marcel orders them in sevens now without being asked. It's the only kindness Taehyung has ever noticed from the man.

He'll have to cross the room to get there. Step fully into the space that feels wrong. 

His skin prickles with contamination.

One step. The floor creaks.

Two. Dust motes dance in what little light filters through a grimy window.

Three. His breathing shallows.

Four. The sound comes again, clearer now. Not from this room, but beyond it.

Five. His hand twitches at his side, wanting to count on fingers but knowing better. Counting out loud is for children. Counting visibly is for the insane.

Six. He sees the wall isn't solid. There's glass embedded in it, cloudy with years of neglect.

Seven. He stops, right where he needs to be. The bottles wait, patient as saints.

He crouches, careful not to let his knees touch the floor. It's filthy here. Beyond salvaging. The kind of dirty that lives in the bones of a place, too deep for even bleach to reach. He imagines gutting the room—tearing out floorboards, scraping walls down to bare structure, burning it all and starting fresh. The fantasy calms him enough to grab a bottle.

That's when the melody starts.

Piano notes, distant but clear. A practice scale, then something more complex. The music doesn't filter through the wall—it seems to emerge from it, as if the plaster itself remembers a tune.

Taehyung stands, bottle clutched to his chest. His eyes find the glass panel naturally, drawn by the sound. It's a mirror, he realizes. Or it was meant to be. Years of grime have turned it into a cloudy barrier between this space and whatever lies beyond.

Curiosity is dangerous. His mother taught him that too. But the music pulls at something in him—a thread he didn't know was loose.

He approaches the glass, steps measured in sevens. The closer he gets, the clearer the sound becomes. Not just piano now. There's movement.

Without thinking, he raises his free hand—the one not clutching bleach like a lifeline—and wipes a small circle in the grime. The action is so automatic, so ingrained, that he doesn't register the contamination until it's done. 

His palm is gray with dust. He'll need to wash it. Scrub it. Make it clean again.

But then he sees through the cleared space, and everything else falls away.

The room beyond isn't abandoned. It's alive with light—not the harsh fluorescence of the convenience store, but something softer. Golden. The floors are wood, worn but cared for. Barres line the walls. A practice room.

And in its center, a figure moves.

You don’t dance to the piano. 

You are the music. 

(worthyworthyworthy)

Your body creates shapes he doesn't have names for. Arcs and lines that make his breath catch.

Taehyung doesn't know ballet. Doesn't know dance at all. But he knows beauty when he sees it. Knows holiness. Recognizes glory.

The glass, he realizes, isn't just dirty. It's one-way. A mirror on your side, a window on his. You can't see him watching. Don’t know you’re being witnessed.

The knowledge makes him feel profane. He shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be seeing this. It's too intimate, too sacred for someone like him.

(worthless)

But he can't look away.

Your hair is pulled back, severe and perfect. No strand out of place. Your leotard (is that the word? he thinks it might be) clings to a form that seems impossible—all angles and curves existing together in defiance of what bodies should be able to do.

When you turn, your face catches light. Features like a doll. But your gaze is nothing like that. Eyes focused on nothing but your reflection. On perfection. On control.

You are everything he is not.

Clean. 

Worthy.

Then, a series of turns that make his head spin just watching. You’re counting, he realizes. Your lips move slightly with each rotation. One, two, three... he can't tell how high you go. Can't follow the complexity of it.

The bleach bottle is cold against his chest. His palm still dirty. His breath fogging the small clear spot he's made in the glass.

He should leave. Should run. Should take his bleach and go back to his world of sticky floors and meaningless tasks. Should never come back here again.

But even as he thinks it, he knows he will. Knows that he'll return tomorrow, like he has to now. And the day after. And every day the store is open. Just to stand in this filthy room he can't bear to be in. Just to watch you move like water, like air.

Like everything pure in a world of contamination.

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The September sun's brutal on the pitch, turning the grass into a furnace, and Coach keeps barking orders like they haven't run this same formation a thousand times.

"Fucking hell," Marco grunts beside him, bent over with his hands on his knees. "If I have to do one more suicide drill, I'm actually going to commit one."

Leo laughs—that nervous kind of laugh he does when he's not sure if Marco's joking. Kid's still too green, still thinks there's some magic formula to fitting in. Taehyung remembers being twenty and giving a shit about what the older players thought. Now he's twenty-four and the only opinion that matters is his own.

And right now, his opinion is that training's boring as fuck.

"New physio starts today," Leo offers, like that's supposed to make the sweat stop pooling in uncomfortable places. "Jesús something. From Barcelona."

So… A man. Boring.

Marco spits on the grass. "Great. We now got a Barça prick to tell us we're stretching wrong."

Taehyung's about to add his own commentary—something about how Barcelona's medical staff couldn't fix their players' egos, let alone their hamstrings—when movement in the bleachers catches his eye.

Hello.

There's someone up there. Female someone, from the shape. Not unusual—girlfriends, agents, journalists, they all hover around the complex like expensive flies.

But this one's different.

This one's got nose in a book (okay, miss 'not like other girls'), completely ignoring the show on the pitch.

And that's…

Interesting.

He shifts his stance, trying to get a better angle without being obvious about it. Hair pulled back, oversized university hoodie despite the heat, legs crossed at the ankle. Can't see your face from here, but the way you're sitting—spine straight, pen moving across the page in quick, efficient strokes—suggests you're not here for the view.

Which is fucking absurd, honestly.

He's shirtless. Marco's shirtless. Hell, half the team's shirtless, and you're more invested in whatever's on that page than twenty-two professional athletes in peak physical condition.

"Oi." Marco's elbow catches him in the ribs. "You checking out the competition or planning to actually train today?"

"Who's that?"

He doesn't point—he's not twelve—but tilts his head toward the bleachers.

Marco squints, then grins. That specific grin that means he's already mapping out his approach strategy.

"Oh shit. That's the new physio's daughter."

So a man—with a daughter.

The information slots into place like a puzzle piece.

Barcelona physio. Daughter in tow. Probably forced to tag along while daddy gets settled into his new job, bored out of your mind, killing time with—he squints—whatever the fuck that textbook is.

"Dibs," Marco says automatically.

"You can't call dibs on people," Leo protests, still adorably convinced that ethics apply to their world.

"Watch me." Marco's already running a hand through his hair, activating what he calls 'the panty-dropper smile,' which Taehyung's seen work on models, actresses, that prosecutor who definitely should've known better. "I give her two days before she's begging for a private tour of the facilities."

Taehyung watches you turn a page, pen tapping against your bottom lip. The gesture is unconscious, academic, completely unaware of the attention you're drawing.

Something about it makes his mouth quirk up.

"Hundred euros says she doesn't even give you her number."

"You're on." Marco's already moving, that swagger in his step that says he's never met a woman who didn't eventually cave. "Watch and learn, boys."

But Taehyung's not interested in watching Marco crash and burn. He's already moving, cutting his friend off with the kind of casual interception that works just as well off the pitch as on it.

Marco's protests fade into background noise—something about fair play and bro code and other shit that stops mattering the second Taehyung gets a clear view of your face.

You're pretty.

Not Instagram pretty, not 'done up for the cameras' pretty. Just… pretty. The kind of face that probably looks the same at 6 AM as it does at midnight. No makeup that he can see, just skin and eyes and a mouth that's currently frowning at whatever you're reading.

He leans against the barrier separating the pitch from the stands, letting his weight settle into the metal. Close enough now to smell something sweet—not perfume, something else. Candy, maybe. The artificial cherry kind kids eat.

You don't look up.

He's standing three feet away, shirtless and sweaty and radiating that post-workout testosterone that usually has women tripping over themselves, and you don't even glance his way.

What the fuck.

He raises an eyebrow, even though you're not looking to see it.

Clears his throat.

Nada.

You make another note in the margin of your textbook, and he catches a glimpse of the page—medical terminology, diagrams that look like someone exploded a knee joint and tried to map the debris.

A physio's daughter studying what looks like physio stuff. Following in daddy's footsteps. Cute.

He waves a hand in front of your face. Not aggressive, just enough movement to break your concentration.

And finally—finally—you look up.

Your eyes are darker than expected, the kind that turns black when annoyed.

Which, judging by the expression on your face, is exactly what you are right now.

He smirks. Can't help it. It's automatic at this point, the expression that says 'yeah, I'm that guy, you're welcome.'

"Hey."

You blink at him. Once. Twice. Then go back to your book.

What.

"Studying?" He tries again, because maybe you're one of those delayed reaction types.

Maybe the neural pathways from eyes to brain to mouth need a second to fire up.

Nothing.

He glances at the textbook again.

The words swim in front of him—Spanish, mostly, medical Spanish at that. His comprehension tops out at ordering beer and asking where the bathroom is. Carmen tried to teach him once, spent hours conjugating verbs while naked in his bed, but all he remembers is that 'cama' means bed and 'más' means more.

"I guess you already know my name."

He leans harder against the barrier, angling his body to block the worst of the sun from your page.

See? Thoughtful.

"But it's Kim. Taehyung. First name Taehyung."

You raise your eyes from the textbook. Slow, like it's costing you effort. The look you give him is so flat it could resurface a parking lot.

"And I should care because…?"

It's not quite a question because you clearly don't expect an answer. Or want one. You're already turning back to your book, dismissing him as efficiently as a referee's whistle.

He blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it.

"Tae!" Marco's voice cuts across the pitch. "Coach wants us back!"

But Taehyung's still processing. Still standing there like an idiot while you scribble another note in that incomprehensible textbook.

You've got a red pen now, underlining something like nothing else matters in the world—not even him.

That makes him frown.

The barrier digs into his forearms but he doesn't move. Can't quite figure out why you're not looking.

You're just… sitting there. Ignoring him. Like he's furniture.

Sweaty, expensive furniture that you have zero interest in purchasing.

"Taehyung!" Marco again, louder this time. "Unless you want extra laps—"

Right. Training. The thing he's paid millions to do.

He pushes off the barrier, but not before catching one last detail—a small bag of those candies peeking out from your hoodie pocket.

"Any day now, princess," Marco calls, and that gets a laugh from the others.

Taehyung flips him off, and he knows, technically, the smart thing would be to walk away. Get back to training. Forget about the physio's daughter who clearly has better things to do than stroke his ego.

But Taehyung's never been particularly smart about these things.

"You know," he says, loud enough to make sure you hear him, "most people at least pretend to be interested when someone introduces themselves."

Your pen stops moving. Just for a second. Then continues its path across the page.

"Most people," you say without looking up, "introduce themselves when there's a reason to."

It's so casual, so dismissive, that it takes him a second to realize you've just called him irrelevant to your existence.

Him. Taehyung Kim. Real Madrid's starting right-back. A hundred and thirty-six million Instagram followers. Face of three luxury brands and that unfortunate cologne campaign his agent swears was artistic.

Irrelevant.

"Taehyung, I swear to god—"

"I'm coming!" He shouts back at Marco, then his eyes move back to you.

He glances at your hoodie pocket again, at the candy, sweet-shaped things you're chewing.

"What's that?"

You look up slowly, like you're completely done with this, and he kind of likes the little groove appearing between your eyebrows.

"What's what?"

He nods at the small red jellybean thingy between your fingers.

"That."

"It's called gominola," you say, flat as concrete, like you're explaining colors to a toddler.

Gominola. Spanish word.

He's heard it before, maybe, but Spanish flows past him like water most days.

"Right." He nods like he totally knew that. "Gominola."

You're already deep in your textbook again, like the last two minutes didn't happen. Like he didn't happen.

He runs his tongue over his teeth, tasting salt and something sour. When he finally turns back to the pitch, Marco's wearing that shit-eating grin that means he watched the whole thing.

"So," his friend says as Taehyung jogs back to formation. "How's that hundred euros looking?"

"Shut up."

"No, really. I want to know what kind of flowers to send to your funeral. Roses? Lilies? Something that says 'here lies Taehyung Kim, murdered by a girl who didn't give a fuck'?"

Leo's trying not to laugh and failing. Even Diego looks amused from his spot near the goal, and Diego hasn't been amused by anything since 2018.

"She's playing hard to get," Taehyung says, grabbing his water bottle and taking a long drink.

The sun's turned brutal while he was standing there like an idiot, and his shoulders are probably fried.

"Right." Marco stretches the word into three syllables. "And I'm playing hard to get with Scarlett Johansson."

"Different game entirely."

Taehyung caps the bottle, eyes drifting back to the bleachers. You're highlighting something now, yellow marker moving in precise lines.

"Trust me."

"Oh, this is gonna be good." Marco's practically bouncing on his toes. "Taehyung Kim, rejected by the physio's daughter who'd rather read about—what was that, tendons?—than talk to him."

"I wasn't rejected."

"You literally just stood there while she acted like you didn't exist."

"She was just busy."

"That's what we're calling it?"

Taehyung grins, and it's the one that usually makes Marco nervous. The one that appears right before he does something spectacularly stupid and somehow makes it work.

"I'm calling it round one."

Because here's the thing—he's been bored. Genuinely, mind-numbingly bored.

Same training, same parties, same faces in his bed.

Madrid's full of women who know his name before he opens his mouth, who laugh at jokes that aren't funny and pretend to be fascinated by stories they've already heard from three other players.

But you? You looked at him like he was blocking your light.

So he spends the rest of training with one eye on the bleachers, and you don't look up once, not even when Leo completely botches a penalty kick and Marco screams creative Italian profanity at the sky.

You just keep reading, occasionally popping one of those gominolas into your mouth, completely absorbed in a world that has nothing to do with the spectacle fifty feet away.

By the time Coach calls it, the sun's turned the pitch into a sauna and everyone's dragging.

Taehyung grabs his shirt from the bench, pulling it on while trying to look like he's not watching you pack up your things.

You move like you have all the time in the world—book into bag, pens into case, everything in its place.

Then you're walking down the bleachers, taking the steps two at a time like you've got somewhere better to be.

"So what's the plan?" Marco appears at his shoulder, following his line of sight. "Flowers? Jewelry? Groveling?"

"Don't need a plan."

"Everyone needs a plan."

"No," Taehyung corrects, watching you disappear through the exit without a backward glance. "Everyone else needs a plan."

Marco laughs, but it's the kind that suggests he thinks Taehyung's lost it.

"She didn't even tell you her name."

True.

But he noticed the way your fingers tapped against the book when you were thinking.

Noticed the three different colors of highlighter in your bag, organized by size.

Noticed how you bite your lip on the left side when concentrating, leaving the faintest indent in the pink.

Details.

The kind that matter when you're mapping out a challenge.

"She will," he says, and means it.

Because Taehyung Kim doesn't do rejection.

He does persistence, charm and strategy wrapped in a smile.

And you, with your medical textbooks and gummies and complete inability to give a fuck about his existence?

Oh. You're gonna be fun.

Nube’s stealing your socks again.

You watch her drag the pink cotton across the hardwood floor of your bedroom, tiny paws working overtime to claim her prize.

She’s gotten bold since the move—probably stress-induced kleptomania.

Can’t blame her. You’ve been stress-eating pikotas like they’re a food group.

"That’s my good pair," you tell her, but she’s already disappeared under the bed with her treasure.

Hari’s less ambitious in his criminal endeavors. He’s sprawled across your stomach like a furry hot water bottle, occasionally chittering when you stop petting him. The sound vibrates against your ribs—small, warm, alive.

Better than the silence that fills this house most days.

Your phone’s face-down on the nightstand because checking it leads to Barcelona rabbit holes, and Barcelona rabbit holes lead to wondering what Dani had for breakfast or whether Jungkook’s figured out how to use the coffee machine without flooding the kitchen.

Pointless thoughts. Dangerous thoughts.

The knock on your door is soft, tentative. Dad’s signature.

Mom used to say he knocked like he was apologizing for existing.

"¿Sí?" (Yeah?)

"¿Puedo pasar?" (Can I come in?)

Hari perks up at your father’s voice, whiskers twitching. Traitor. You scoop him up anyway, settling him against your shoulder before nodding toward the door.

"Adelante." (Come in)

Dad enters like he’s entering a crime scene—careful, observant, ready to back out if needed. His hair’s still damp from the shower, smelling like that medicinal soap he uses. The scent of competence and sterile environments, you figure.

"¿Cómo van los estudios?" (How’s the studying going?) He settles into the chair by your desk, the one that’s supposed to be for studying but mostly holds laundry you’re too lazy to put away.

"Bien." (Good) You scratch behind Hari’s ears, feel him melt against your palm. "La anatomía es anatomía. Da igual si estás en Barcelona o en Marte." (Anatomy’s anatomy. Doesn’t matter if you’re in Barcelona or Mars)

He smiles at that, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Never does anymore.

Not since the move.

Not since Mom.

"Bien. Eso está bien." (Good. That’s good.) His fingers drum against his thigh—nervous habit he developed after Mom died. "Oye, sé que este cambio ha sido… difícil. Para los dos." (Listen, I know this change has been… difficult. For both of us.)

Here we go. The conversation you’ve been avoiding for three weeks. The one where he apologizes for taking the job, for moving you from everything familiar, for choosing survival over sentiment.

"Papá—" (Dad—)

"No, escúchame." (No, listen to me.) He leans forward, elbows on knees. The posture of a man confessing sins. "Sé que no querías irte de Barcelona. Sé que esto te parece una traición." (I know you didn’t want to leave Barcelona. I know this feels like betrayal.)

Betrayal’s too strong a word. Abandonment fits better.

But you don’t say that because he already carries enough guilt for both of you.

"No pasa nada." (It’s fine.)

"Sí que pasa." (It’s not fine.) His voice gains edge, that firmness he uses with players who claim they’re not injured when they’re obviously limping. "Pero era necesario. Y a lo mejor… a lo mejor es bueno. Cambio de aires. Nuevas perspectivas." (But it was necessary. And maybe… maybe it’s good. Change of air. New perspectives.)

New perspectives. Right. Because what you really needed was exposure to Madrid’s particular brand of arrogance and entitlement.

Hari shifts against your shoulder, tiny claws pricking through your shirt.

Even he’s unconvinced.

"¿Y los jugadores?" (And the players?) The question comes out careful, as if he were asking about your opinion on the weather rather than your thoughts on his new colleagues. "¿Qué te parecen?" (What do you think of them?)

You consider lying. Consider diplomacy. Consider all the ways you could soften the truth to make it easier for him to swallow.

Instead, you shrug.

"Pues qué voy a pensar, papá. Son gilipollas." (What would I think, dad? They’re jerks.)

He barks out a laugh—sharp, surprised. The first genuine one you’ve heard from him since you got here.

"Joder, hija." But he’s grinning now, shaking his head. "No te cortes." (Shit, sweetie. Tell me how you really feel.)

"Me has preguntado." (You asked.)

"Es verdad." (That’s true.) He sobers slightly. "¿Todos?" (All of them?)

You think about it. Really think about it.

Xavi seems decent enough—quiet, professional, treats staff like humans rather than furniture. Diego’s got that aggressive competence thing going on, but he’s respectful. Even Marco, for all his obvious fuckboy tendencies, at least has the decency to say please when he wants extra ice.

Then there’s… him.

Taehyung.

With his lazy smirks and designer everything and complete inability to understand that the world doesn’t revolve around his stupid abs.

"La mayoría." (Most of them.) The admission feels like charity. "Algunos son simplemente… más gilipollas que otros." (Some are just… bigger jerks than others.)

Your phone buzzes against the nightstand. Face still down, but the vibration makes both you and Hari jump slightly.

Ignore it.

It’s probably Instagram telling you Dani posted another story, or your university group chat discussing assignment due dates, or some other notification designed to pull you back into a world you’re trying to navigate without drowning.

It buzzes again.

"¿No vas a mirar?" (Won’t check?)

"No es nada." (It’s nothing.)

But your dad’s looking at you with that expression. The one that says he knows you better than you know yourself, and lying to him is like lying to a mirror.

You flip the phone over.

@𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐨: BOMBAZO: 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚎 𝚢 𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚂𝚌𝚘𝚝𝚝, ¿𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚟𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚓𝚊? 𝙻𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚊́𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 (BOMBSHELL: BarcaBarbie and Blake Scott, new couple? The pictures that confirm the romance)

The thumbnail is grainy, paparazzi-quality garbage, but unmistakably them. Blake’s hand around Barbie’s waist, pulling her close. Her face is hidden by her hair, falling between them and the camera.

They’re close. Too close.

The kind of close that could be a kiss or could be an almost-kiss or could be nothing at all, but the angle makes it impossible to tell and that’s exactly what sells magazines.

You stare at the screen longer than necessary. Feel something twist in your chest that you refuse to name.

It’s not jealousy. It’s not longing. It’s just… surprise.

Because Blake is a Barcelona player, and Barbie is Dani’s sister—and the implications are already enough without you having to explicitly connect the dots.

Your thumb hovers over Dani’s contact. The urge to text him hits like muscle memory—does he know about this? how’s he taking it? is he okay?—but then your heart does that thing. That stupid, treacherous thing where it speeds up just thinking about typing his name.

Because he has a girlfriend now.

Carla. Sweet, pretty Carla who met him with a press badge slung around her neck and a voice recorder in hand. Who writes match reports and profile pieces that are perfect and looks genuinely happy in her soft-filtered couple photos.

Of course he would fall for her. 

Of course she’s the kind of girl who gets the story and the guy.  

Carla who never had to compete with a dead woman’s memory or a teenage crush that should have died years ago.

You swallow the impulse. Bury it under three layers of rationalization and practical thinking.

Instead, you open Jungkook’s chat.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍? 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙱𝚊𝚛?

You wait 2 seconds max before the response makes its way through the chat. Well, of fucking course. It’s no secret Jungkook's always been surgically attached to his phone.

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚗𝚊𝚑𝚑𝚑 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚜

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚜

Relief floods your system before you can stop it.

Which is stupid.

Why should you care if Barbie and Blake are together? It’s not like their relationship status affects your life in Madrid.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚘𝚠’𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚒? 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕?

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕

The response comes quick. Too quick. Like he’s trying to move past the topic before you can dig deeper.

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚋𝚝𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠’𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚍?

And there it is. The subject change.

Jungkook’s always been good at reading minefields and stepping around them.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚍?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚘𝚘𝚏

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, because…

You could tell him about Taehyung. About the smirk and the shameless showing off and the way he looked genuinely confused when you didn’t fall over yourself to talk to him.

But that would require admitting you noticed him at all.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛? 🤔

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐉𝐊💙❤️: 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚜

Despite everything, you smile.

Because he’s not wrong.

Barcelona players at least have the decency to look good while being insufferable.

"¿Todo bien?" (All good?) Your dad’s voice pulls you back to the room, to Hari’s warm weight against your shoulder, to the conversation you abandoned to spiral over Barcelona gossip.

"Sí. Solo… amigos siendo amigos." (Yeah. Just… Friends being friends.)

"¿Amigos de Barcelona?" (Barcelona friends?)

The question lands heavier than it should.

Because yes, Barcelona friends. The ones you left behind.

The ones who are moving on and coupling up and living their lives while you’re stuck in Madrid petting ferrets and avoiding eye contact with shirtless footballers.

"Sí." (Yes.)

He nods, understanding more than you wish he did.

"Está bien echarlos de menos. Es normal." (It’s okay to miss them. It’s normal.)

"Lo sé." (I know.)

"Y está bien… hacer nuevos amigos aquí. Aunque sean gilipollas." (And it’s okay to… to make new friends here. Even if they’re jerks.)

You look at him then, see the worry lines around his eyes, the way his shoulders carry tension like a physical weight.

He’s trying so hard to make this work. To make this place feel like home instead of just a house where you happen to sleep.

It’s not fair to him, to make it feel like it’s all his fault.

"Tal vez algunos sean menos gilipollas que otros," you concede. (Maybe some are lesser jerks than others.)

He smiles. "Sí, tal vez." (Yeah, maybe.)

Your phone buzzes again.

More Barcelona updates, probably.

More reminders of the life you’re not living anymore.

You let it buzz.

Because right now, in this sterile Madrid bedroom with your stress-thieving ferrets and your guilt-ridden father, you’re exactly where you need to be. Even if it feels like exile.

Even if every instinct tells you that Madrid players are trouble, and certain shirtless right-backs are the worst kind of trouble.

Even if your heart still does stupid things when you think about blue and red jerseys and boys who used to treat you like family.

"¿Cena?" (Dinner?) Your dad stands, stretching joints that probably ache from years of fixing other people’s bodies. "Estaba pensando en pedir de ese sitio argentino de la calle." (I was thinking of ordering from that argentinian place down the street.)

"¿El de las empanadas?" (The one with the empanadas?)

"Ese mismo." (The very one.)

Hari chirps at the mention of food, because ferrets are basically tiny, furry garbage disposals with boundary issues.

"Vale. Pero mañana cocinas tú. Esto de la comida a domicilio se está poniendo caro." (Okay. But you’re cooking tomorrow. This takeout thing is getting expensive.)

"Trato hecho." (Deal.) He pauses at the door, hand on the frame. "Y cielo…" (And sweetheart…)

"¿Qué?" (What?)

"Dale una oportunidad a Madrid. Solo… una pequeñita." (Give Madrid a chance. Just… a small one.)

You scratch Hari’s head, feel him purr against your palm. Outside your window, the sun’s setting over a city that still feels foreign, painting everything in shades of gold and possibility.

"Ya veremos." (We’ll see.)

It’s not a yes. But it’s not a no either.

And for now, that’s enough.

Twenty-two minutes and she hasn't cum yet.

Not that he's counting. Except he is, because Marco's got a thousand euros riding on twenty minutes max, and Taehyung doesn't lose bets. Especially not when the evidence is currently wrapped around his cock, lips stretched wide, dark eyes looking up at him through thick lashes like she knows exactly what she's doing to him.

Fuck.

Her tongue does this thing—this swirl around the head that makes his thighs tense—and he threads his fingers through her curls. Not pulling. Guiding. There's a difference, and he's not an amateur. The curls are soft, springy, wrapping around his fingers like they belong there.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand. Screen lights up with Marco's name and some emoji combination that probably means he's balls deep in his own conquest downstairs.

Good for him. Great. Love that for him. Now fuck off.

He swipes at the notification with his free hand, types back without looking. Whatever he sends, it's probably not words. Doesn't matter. Marco speaks fluent 'leave me the fuck alone' by now.

She hums around him and his hips jerk. Shit. He tosses the phone somewhere—bed, floor, shadow realm, who gives a fuck—and gets his other hand in her hair. Both hands now, cradling her head like she's precious cargo. Which she is. Absolutely fucking is when she's doing that thing with her tongue again.

"That's it," he breathes, helping her with shallow thrusts.

Nothing too deep. He's not trying to choke her. Not unless she asks, and even then—

The phone buzzes again.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He ignores it. Focuses on the wet heat, the way her nails dig into his thighs when he hits the back of her throat.

She's good at this. Really good.

Like, 'might actually get her number after this' good. The kind of good that makes him forget about—

Another buzz. Another. The screen keeps lighting up like a fucking disco.

She pulls off with an obscene pop, lips swollen and shiny.

"Popular tonight?"

"Always am."

He guides her back down before she can respond, and she goes willingly. Eager, even. Takes him deeper this time, nose almost touching his pelvis, and he has to close his eyes.

Close, close, close—

The orgasm hits like a penalty kick to the gut. He spills down her throat with a grunt that's probably too loud for a hotel room with thin walls, but that's what they get for booking cheap venues for these sponsor parties.

He wipes it away with his thumb (gentle, see? he's a gentleman), and she catches his wrist, sucks the digit clean.

Yeah. Definitely round two with this one.

The phone starts actually ringing this time. Marco's ringtone—some reggaeton bullshit that makes him want to throw the device out the window.

"You need to get that?"

She's already climbing onto his lap, straddling his thighs like she owns them. Her dress rode up during the festivities, bunched around her waist.

No underwear. Smart girl.

"Nah."

He grabs her hips, pulls her closer. She's warm and soft and smells like coconut oil and that floral perfume every girl in Spain seems to own.

"Got better things to do."

She grins, reaching between them to wrap her fingers around his cock. Still sensitive, but already showing interest again. Twenty-four years old and blessed with the recovery time of a teenager.

Thank fuck for good genetics.

"Another round already?" She strokes him slowly, base to tip, twisting her wrist on the upstroke.

He smirks up at her, lazy and satisfied. She's gorgeous like this—dark skin gleaming with a light sheen of sweat, curls wild from his hands, lips still swollen.

The belly dancing show earlier didn't do her justice. All that hip movement on stage was just advertising for this, for the way she rolls her body like water.

"Hmm." He nips at her shoulder, tastes salt and coconut. "Think you can handle it?"

She laughs, breathy and confident, already reaching for the condoms on the nightstand. His mouth finds her shoulder, teeth grazing the skin as she rolls the latex down his half-hard cock. Already getting there. Give him two minutes and—

The phone buzzes again. Then again. Then—

"Jesus fucking Christ." He snatches it up, ready to block Marco's number permanently.

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝙲𝙾𝙳𝙴 𝚁𝙴𝙳

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝙲𝙰𝚁𝙻𝙾𝚂 𝙸𝚂 𝙿𝙸𝚂𝚂𝙴𝙳

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

She's positioning herself over him, one hand braced on his shoulder, the other guiding him to her entrance. Wet. Ready.

Twenty-three minutes and counting, but who's keeping track?

"Ignore it," he mutters, tossing the phone aside again.

His hands find her waist, her lower back, steadying her as she sinks down.

Tight. Fuck, she's tight. Or maybe he's just bigger than her usual.

Either way, the way she gasps and digs her nails into his shoulders suggests this is working for both of them.

"Fuck," she breathes, bottoming out. "You're—"

"I know." He rolls his hips up, cutting off whatever compliment she was about to give.

Doesn't need to hear it. Knows exactly what he's working with.

She starts moving, slow at first, finding her rhythm. He lets her set the pace initially, hands roaming her back, her ass, her thighs. Cataloging reactions.

She likes it when he grips her hips. Loves it when he scrapes his teeth across her nipple.

Mental notes. He's nothing if not a student of the game.

The phone won't stop buzzing.

Fuck Marco, fuck Carlos and fuck the universe, honestly.

Change of plans.

"Gotta make it quick."

He grabs her hips, flips them in one smooth motion. Her back hits the mattress with a soft gasp, legs automatically wrapping around his waist. Better angle anyway.

He braces one forearm next to her head, uses the other hand to push her thigh back toward the mattress. Opens her up just right. Deep. The way he likes it.

"Oh fuck—"

She arches under him as he starts moving. None of that gentle buildup shit. They're twenty-four minutes in and he's got places to be, apparently.

He finds his rhythm quick. Hard, deep thrusts that have her gasping with each one. The headboard's probably banging against the wall but that's what happens when you book the cheap rooms for overflow guests.

Should've sprung for the suite.

One of his hands slides between them, finds her clit. Circles it with his thumb in time with his thrusts.

"Come on," he mutters against her neck. "Come on, come on, come on—"

She's close. Can feel it in the way her pussy flutters around him, the way her breathing goes ragged. Her nails rake down his back, probably leaving marks his physio will question tomorrow.

Whatever. Battle scars.

"Tae—" She can't even finish his name, too busy falling apart underneath him. Her whole body goes taut, cunt clenching around him like a vice.

Twenty-five minutes.

He'll tell Marco nineteen.

He fucks her through it, chasing his own release. Three more thrusts and he's done, spilling into the condom with a groan that's mostly relief.

Mission accomplished. Everybody wins.

No time to bask in it. He pulls out, ties off the condom, and makes the perfect throw into the trash can across the room.

Three points. Still got it.

"I gotta—"

"Yeah, I figured," she says, already reaching for her dress.

No hurt feelings, no "will I see you again?" Just a woman who got what she came for and seems pretty satisfied with the transaction.

He loves Madrid.

He's dressed in record time. Shirt half buttoned but who's checking? Shoes untied. Wallet, phone, keycard. The holy trinity of hasty exits.

The elevator ride down is a lesson in personal grooming. He tries to fix his hair in the mirror, gives up. Checks his phone instead.

Fifteen texts from Marco. Three from Carlos. One from his brother asking if he's seen the news.

What news?

The elevator dings at the lobby and Xavi's right there, still in his training kit because he's Xavi and probably sleeps in it.

"Bro." His teammate's eyes go wide. "Carlos is pissed. Like, nuclear pissed."

"Yeah, I got that from the fifty fucking texts." He's already moving toward the conference room Carlos commandeered for these lectures. "What's his problem now?"

"Check your Instagram."

"What?"

"Just check it."

He pulls up the app while walking.

A ferret account pops up on his discovery page first—weird? Then he checks his last IG story—mirror selfie, hair slightly wet at the tips after showering, navy sweater, gold and white make-shift belt around the loops as a wink to his team—has blown up.

Then his notifications, DMs…

@𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞: 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝙸𝚖𝚊𝚘𝚘

Taehyung flicks his eyes upwards, seeing the story attached in the group chat he has with Marco and Leo in their private accounts.

Some girl from the party, video of him in the background. He's clearly drunk, clearly has his hands on C-something's ass, and clearly doesn't give a fuck who sees.

But that's not the worst part.

The worst part is the red lipstick mark on his neck that's visible in HD clarity. The same one he's sporting right now. The same one that makes it very fucking obvious what he's been doing while Carlos texts and calls and slowly loses his mind.

He swipes at his neck, fingers coming away red.

"Fuck's sake."

"Yeah, it's not looking too good, disappearing from your own sponsor event to—" Xavi gestures vaguely at Taehyung's everything. "—whatever this is?"

"It's called having a good time." He spots the hotel bar, makes a beeline. "Maybe you should try it sometime."

"I have a good time. With my fiancée. Singular. Who I've been with for eight years."

"Boring."

"Stable."

"Same thing."

Marco appears from nowhere, blonde still attached to his arm like a designer handbag. His best friend takes one look at him and whistles low.

"You're fucked."

"Thanks for the insight." He nods at Marco's companion. "Mind if I borrow him?"

She pouts but detaches, wobbling away on heels that should require a license to operate. Marco watches her go with the satisfied expression of a man who's had a very good night.

"Isabella know about your extracurriculars?" Taehyung asks, still trying to rub the lipstick off his neck.

"Isabella knows what Isabella needs to know." Marco produces a tissue from somewhere—the man's always prepared. "Here. You look like you got mauled by a Sephora display."

"Fuck off."

"I'm serious. Carlos is going to have an aneurysm. Something about brand image and Nike and I stopped listening after he mentioned lawyers."

Great. Fantastic. Another lecture about representing the club and thinking about his future and all that shit that goes in one ear and out the other.

He's twenty-four, not forty. If he can't fuck random chicks at hotel parties, what's the point of being famous?

"How bad?"

"Scale of one to ten?" Marco grins. "Fifteen. He used your full name. Twice."

Shit.

"Did you at least win the bet?"

Taehyung grins. "Nineteen minutes."

"Bullshit."

"You don't know how to count."

"I have a fucking engineering degree."

"From where, clown college?"

The conference room door is closed but he can hear Carlos pacing inside, the aggressive click of designer shoes on marble.

Taehyung takes a breath, straightens his collar, and tries to look less like he just railed someone into a mattress.

"Good luck," Marco says, already backing away.

"Fuck you."

"Love you too, princess."

He pushes open the door to find Carlos mid-rant on his phone. His manager—all 5'9" of stress and designer suits—spins around and actually growls.

"Finally! Do you have any idea—" Carlos stops, takes in his appearance, and closes his eyes like he's praying for patience. "Is that lipstick?"

"No?"

"Kim Taehyung, I swear to God—"

"Okay, yes, but—"

"Sit. Down."

He sits. Carlos continues pacing, phone clutched like a weapon.

"Do you know what I've been doing for the past hour? Damage control. Do you know why? Because my client—my professional footballer client who makes seven figures a month—decided to get filmed grabbing ass at a party where half of Madrid's press was in attendance."

"It's not that bad—"

"Nike called." Carlos cuts him off. "They're concerned about your 'brand alignment.' Do you know what that means?"

"That they're uptight?"

"It means," Carlos says slowly, like he's explaining to a child, "that they pay you three and a half million euros a year to be a role model, not Madrid's most notorious fuckboy."

Fuckboy seems harsh. He prefers 'socially active'.

"I'll do an apology post," he offers. "Something about focusing on football and growth or whatever."

"No, you won't. Because that admits wrongdoing. We're going with 'private moment taken out of context.' Maria is drafting it now."

Of course she is. Carlos has contingencies for his contingencies.

"Fine. Can I go?"

"We're not done." Carlos finally stops pacing, fixing him with that look that means a PowerPoint presentation is coming. "This is the third incident this month. The referee thing, the Instagram live disaster, and now this."

"The referee deserved it."

"That's not the point!"

"Then what is the point?" He's getting irritated now, the post-orgasm calm evaporating. "I'm not breaking any laws. I'm not missing training. I'm playing the best football of my career—"

"The point," Carlos interrupts, "is that you're one scandal away from losing everything. Nike, TAG Heuer, the Korean skincare deal—they all have morality clauses. And you keep pushing boundaries like you're trying to find the limit."

He doesn't respond to that. Mainly because it's true.

"I need you to be smarter," Carlos continues, voice softer now. "I know you're young. I know you're having fun. But this isn't sustainable."

"Noted."

"I'm serious, Taehyung."

"So am I." He stands, ready to end this conversation. "I'll be more careful. Scout's honor."

Carlos doesn't look convinced, but he waves him off with a sigh that's more a cry for help than anything.

"Go. And for God's sake, wash your neck. You look like a crime scene."

He escapes before Carlos can launch into lecture phase two.

The hotel bar's still going strong—Madrid doesn't sleep, just shifts into different versions of awake.

He needs something to wash down the taste of Carlos's disappointment. Not whiskey though—that’s what old men drink when their wives leave them.

Vodka and tonic. Clean. Sharp. Doesn't linger.

The bartender's already pouring before he reaches the counter. Benefits of being recognized everywhere—people anticipate your needs, or at least pretend to.

He knocks back half of it in one go, ice cracking against his teeth.

There's a brunette at the end of the bar. Legs for days, red dress that he bets would look amazingly good on the floor of his bedroom.

She's been tracking him since he walked in—he can feel it without looking, the weight of female attention.

He's already mentally prepping—three minutes of conversation, five if she plays hard to get… His place or hers? Hers, probably. Easier to leave when—

"Tae!"

For fuck's sake.

Leo stumbles out of the elevator looking like someone killed his puppy. No, worse—like someone killed his puppy and posted it on TikTok. The kid's got his phone clutched in both hands, that specific brand of panic that only comes from relationship drama.

Why. Why can't the universe let him get his dick wet in peace? Just once. Just one fucking night without—

"Bro, I need your help." Leo shoves his phone in Taehyung's face. "Sofia saw—there was this brunette—someone posted—"

Instagram story. Leo with his tongue down some brunette's throat, hand up her skirt, zero subtlety. 47 views and counting.

He takes another sip of vodka, holds up a finger to the red dress at the bar—one second—and turns to Leo with what he hopes passes for sympathy.

"Breathe."

"I can't breathe! She posted a story. There's a hand. On her thigh. In a car. A man's hand!"

Leo shoves his phone in Taehyung’s face again.

Instagram story. Some girl’s thigh in a car, masculine hand placement that’s definitely not Leo’s. Caption: upgrade season 💋

"Okay."

"It's not okay! And the girl from tonight, she wants breakfast. Breakfast, Tae. Like, together. In public. She's talking about some place that does açaí bowls."

Christ. Açaí bowls. The official food of women who think one hookup equals a relationship contract.

"And Sofia's probably with that guy right now, and if she finds out I'm getting breakfast with—"

"You're not getting breakfast with anyone." He smiles to the brunette with gritted teeth. "Rule one: never do breakfast."

"But I already said—"

"Rule two: your word means nothing after 2 AM."

"That's fucked up."

"That's reality."

The brunette’s definitely listening now.

Great. Nothing kills the mood like babysitting a teammate through his first real fuckboy crisis.

He catches her eye, mouths "work emergency" with an apologetic shrug. She smiles. Understanding. Patient.

Fuck, she’s perfect, and he’s stuck playing guidance counselor to Spain’s most panicked midfielder.

The bartender slides him a fresh drink. Stronger pour this time. Bless.

"Where is she?"

"Room 412. She wants to leave at nine for this place in Malasaña that apparently has the best—"

"Stop." He's getting a headache. Or maybe that's just the vodka hitting an empty stomach. "You're going to go up there—"

"I can't, man. I can't face her. What if she cries?"

Jesus. Was he ever this young? This fucking soft?

"She texts asking where I am every five minutes." Leo shows him the screen—twelve messages, escalating from casual to concerned to the early stages of psycho. "What do I say?"

He looks at Leo—really looks at him. Sees himself at twenty, before he learned that feelings are just chemicals and breakfast is just carbs.

Before he figured out that the only way to win is to always play defense.

"Give me your room key."

"What?"

"Your key. I'll handle it."

"You'll—how?"

"Just trust me." He stands, checks his reflection in the bar mirror. Lipstick's gone but he still looks freshly fucked. Perfect. "What's her name?"

"Natalia."

Of course it is. It's always Natalia or Valentina or some other name that sounds like a telenovela character.

"You owe me." He grabs Leo's shoulders, makes sure the kid's paying attention. "You owe me so fucking big."

"Anything, man. Anything."

"In five minutes, you go wait in the lobby. And try to look heartbroken."

They need Marco. Marco’s good at this shit—turning disasters into comedy, making women laugh when they should be throwing drinks.

So he texts him.

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚋𝚊𝚛. 𝚗𝚘𝚠. 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏𝚏, 𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚕𝚎𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙. 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: …𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚊𝚍?

𝐓𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠: 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚍

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭👼: 𝚓𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚜. 𝟸 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜

Marco appears exactly 4 minutes later (see, he can’t count for shit)—shirt half-buttoned, hair suggesting recent activities.

He takes one look at Leo’s face and laughs.

"Breakfast? Really?"

"Her name’s Natalia," Leo defends weakly.

"They’re all named Natalia." Marco claps him on the shoulder. "Alright, wait in the lobby. Look heartbroken."

"That’s exactly what Taehyung said."

Marco lifts his eyebrows and then smiles at him.

"Great minds think alike."

Room 412 is four floors up.

They take the stairs because Marco insists—‘builds character’—but really it’s to workshop the lie.

By the third floor, they’ve got it sorted.

"Family emergency," Marco’s saying, taking the steps two at a time. "Classic. Timeless. Nobody questions sick grandmothers."

"Too heavy." He’s already winded. When was the last time he took stairs? "She’ll want to comfort him. Send flowers or some shit."

"Work emergency?"

"At 5 AM?"

"Good point." Marco pauses at the landing, finger to his lips like he’s contemplating world peace. "Ex-girlfriend."

"That’s what I was thinking."

"Specifically, ex-girlfriend in the lobby with new boyfriend. Leo sees them, gets emotional, can’t possibly do breakfast while having a mental breakdown."

Sometimes he forgets why he keeps Marco around, but then shit like this happens, and it all makes sense.

The knock on 412 is soft, nothing about it screams ‘your hookup sent his boys to break your heart.’

She answers in a hotel robe, hair already curled for this breakfast that’s never happening. Of course she’s exactly what he pictured—pretty in that forgettable way, hopeful in that dangerous way.

"Leo?"

Her face falls when she sees them.

"Where’s Leo?"

"Downstairs." Marco’s got his concerned friend face on. Oscar-worthy. "Having a bit of a moment."

"A moment?"

"His ex." Taehyung leans against the doorframe, lets exhaustion sell the story. "She’s here. With her new guy. Showed up right as we were leaving and just… yeah."

"Oh." Her expression shifts from confusion to sympathy.

Incredible, how women always want to fix broken men.

"Oh god, is he okay?"

"He’s…" Marco glances at him, perfect comedic timing. "Processing."

"He wanted to come up himself," Taehyung adds, "but he’s not really in a state to see anyone. You know how it is. First love and all that."

She nods like this makes perfect sense. Like Leo—sweet, fumbling Leo—is the type to have dramatic ex-girlfriend encounters at 5 AM.

Though, considering the whole Sofia bullshit, that might not be too far-fetched.

"Should I go down? Talk to him?"

"No." Too quick. Marco softens it with a sympathetic head tilt. "He’s embarrassed. Grown man crying in a hotel lobby isn’t exactly his finest moment."

"Tell him…" She’s twisting the belt of her robe, searching for words. "Tell him I understand. And last night was really special."

Special. What a powerful word. One that turns hookups into expectations.

"We’ll make sure he gets the message," Marco promises, already backing away. "So sorry about this."

They maintain the bullshit until the elevator doors close.

Then Marco breaks, laughing so hard he has to brace himself against the wall.

"Did you see her face? ‘Last night was special.’" He wipes his eyes. "Fucking hell, Leo really stepped in it."

"He owes us."

"He owes us his firstborn. His kidney. His—" Marco stops. "Is that brunette from the bar still down there?"

"Probably." He checks his phone. 5:23 AM. The night’s officially crossed into morning, that grey area where bad decisions start looking like destiny. "Why?"

"Because you’ve got that look."

"What look?"

"The ‘I’m going to salvage this night if it kills me’ look."

Is he that predictable?

Don’t answer that.

The lobby’s thinned out—just the diehards and the professionals now. Leo’s slumped on a couch, still clutching his phone.

"Natalia?" Leo jumps up when he sees them.

"Sorted," Marco says. "Told her you’re emotionally compromised. She sends her understanding."

"You’re both lifesavers." Leo looks between them like they’ve just cured cancer. "I don’t know how to thank—"

"Learn from this." He claps Leo on the shoulder, harder than necessary. "Next time, no names. No promises. And definitely no fucking breakfast."

"But what if I actually like—"

"Then you’re in the wrong profession."

He can see the exact moment Leo’s moral compass realigns. The kid straightens up, nods like he’s just learned something profound.

Another one corrupted. Madrid’s finest at work.

"Thanks, guys. I mean it."

"Don’t thank us." Marco’s already eyeing the exit. "Thank Sofia for posting that thigh pic. Girl did you a favor."

Leo’s face falls. "Shit. Sofia."

"Tomorrow’s problem," Taehyung says firmly. "Tonight, you go home. Alone. Post nothing. Like nothing. Become invisible."

"But—"

"Go." He sighs. "Now."

Leo goes. Thank fuck. One crisis managed, one brunette to salvage—

She’s gone.

The barstool’s empty except for lipstick traces on her glass. When the fuck did she leave? He was watching her the whole—

No. He was playing mentor to Madrid’s most incompetent Romeo.

"Brutal." Marco murmurs at his shoulder. "She was hot too."

"There’ll be others."

"Always are." Marco stretches, joints popping. "I’m out. Got a hot thing waiting who thinks I’m getting ice."

"It’s been thirty minutes."

"I’m a very thorough ice-getter." He winks and disappears, leaving Taehyung alone with the growing certainty that tonight’s cursed.

But he’s Kim fucking Taehyung. He doesn’t accept defeat.

He spots her immediately—the blonde from earlier? No. Different blonde. Taller. Legs for days in a silver dress that catches light like a disco ball.

She’s typing on her phone, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

He doesn’t think. Just moves.

"Lost?"

She looks up. Blue eyes, the kind that photograph well. Her smile’s immediate, recognition flooding her features.

"Just waiting for my Uber." American accent. Of course.

They always love the accent combo—Korean face, Spanish lifestyle, English to make promises he won’t keep.

"Cancel it."

"Bold assumption."

"Safe bet." He leans against the pillar beside her, close enough to smell her perfume. That floral thing again. "Unless you’ve got somewhere better to be?"

She studies him for a long moment. He knows what she sees—designer clothes, professional athlete build, trouble written in every line. Her thumb hovers over her phone screen.

"I don’t even know your name."

Lie. She knows exactly who he is.

But he plays along because that’s part of it. The dance. The pretense that this is spontaneous rather than inevitable.

"Taehyung."

"Sarah." She cancels the Uber. "So what now?"

"Now?" He grins, the one that usually seals deals. "Now we get better drinks than whatever shit they were serving upstairs."

By 7 AM, he’s learned three things: Sarah’s flexible, she’s got a tongue piercing, and she looks fantastic in his sheets.

He’s also confirmed what he already knew—he’s still the best at this. Even when the universe tries to keep him in line, he finds a way.

She’s tracing patterns on his chest, already talking about breakfast, when he deploys the usual.

"Early training. Coach will kill me if I’m late."

"On a Sunday?"

"Every day during season." He kisses her forehead. Gentle. Final. "I’ll call you."

He won’t. They both know it.

But she gets dressed anyway, calls her own Uber, leaves with the kind of dignity that makes him almost respect her.

The sun’s coming up, painting his bedroom gold.

Two hours until he has to be human again. Two hours to sleep off whatever tonight was.

He’s already drifting when his phone buzzes.

𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨🍗: 𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛

𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨🍗: 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚎𝚜?

He doesn’t respond. Leo will figure it out. Or he won’t.

Either way, that’s tomorrow’s problem. Tonight—this morning—whatever the fuck this is—he’s done.

Won a black girl, played mentor, lost a brunette, found a blonde, maintained his record.

The universe tried to knock him off his game and failed.

Because he’s Kim Taehyung.

And he’s simply the best at everything.

next | index

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© jungkoode 2025

"Kalo's nowhere to be seen," Maya says, leaning against your car's hood, arms crossed. "Dipped hard."

You don't bother looking at her, just shift the lollipop to the other side of your mouth with your tongue. The neon from nearby signs reflects off the polished black and white paint of your 86.

"What?" Maya catches your expression. "I'm just saying. Word is he's been avoiding this spot since you embarrassed him."

"While still flashing cash at that club in Roppongi," you add, voice flat. "Buying drinks for anyone who'll listen to his bullshit version of what happened on the mountain."

You tug at one of the layered chains around your neck, watching the crowd that's gathered tonight.

The usual suspects are here—wannabes with more money than skill taking photos of each other's cars, veterans huddled around hoods talking suspension setups, scouts looking for the next race.

Everyone except the one person who should be here with your money.

"So what's the plan?" Maya nudges your shoulder. "Just gonna sit here looking pretty until he magically appears?"

You roll your eyes. "Since when do I just sit and wait for anything?"

"Fair point." She grins that wolfish grin of hers. "So?"

"So I track his ass down." You twist the lollipop stick between your fingers. "He owes me fifty thousand yen. But more than that, he owes me the respect of paying up and admitting I smoked him fair and square."

Maya snorts, exactly as you expected. "Called it. Knew you wouldn't let this slide."

"It's not about the money." You straighten up, adjusting your cropped leather jacket. "It's about the principle. You lose a race, you pay your debts. That's how this works. You don't just disappear like some amateur who can't handle defeat."

"Especially not when he talked all that shit beforehand," Maya adds, picking at her black nail polish. "What was it he said again? Something about how no girl could ever handle his—"

"'No girl could handle my power on the downhill,'" you quote dryly. "Right before I passed him on the outside of that corner everyone brakes for."

The memory brings a slight smile to your face.

The shock in his eyes when you appeared in his side mirror where no car should have been able to fit.

The desperate overcorrection that sent him nearly scraping the guardrail while you smoothly accelerated away.

"Exactly." Maya pushes off your hood. "So what's the first move? Hit his usual spots?"

You pull the lollipop from your mouth with a pop. "Already did. Club Seventh in Roppongi. The garage where his uncle works in Setagaya. That ramen shop he's always at in Shibuya."

"Stalker much?" Maya raises an eyebrow.

"Thorough," you correct her. "There's a difference."

A brief silence falls between you as you both watch a metallic blue GT-R roll into the lot, bass thumping hard enough to vibrate the pavement.

Not Kalo's crowd—these guys run with the Yokohama crew.

"Kenji might know," you say finally, referring to your mutual friend who somehow knows everyone's business in Tokyo's racing scene. "He mentioned Kalo's been hanging around some new spot in Meguro the past week."

Maya pulls out her phone. "Want me to text him now?"

"Already did." You tap your boot against the bumper of your car. "He's supposed to meet us here in—" you check the time on your wrist "—fifteen minutes ago."

"Typical." Maya rolls her eyes. "That guy couldn't be on time if his life depended on it."

You're about to respond when you spot a familiar face weaving through the crowd. Kenji, with his signature sunglasses despite it being well past midnight, making his way toward you.

You straighten up slightly, not wanting to appear too eager for information.

"Ladies," he greets with that irritating smirk of his, adjusting his sunglasses even though there's absolutely no need. "Looking dangerous tonight, Y/N. Someone's not here to race."

"Just tell me what you know about Kalo," you say, cutting through his bullshit.

Kenji leans against your car without asking—a liberty you allow only because he's useful.

"Direct as always. That's what I like about you."

"Kenji," you warn, patience already wearing thin.

"Fine, fine." He holds up his hands in surrender. "Your boy's been hanging at this new garage in Meguro. Place called Midnight Rush. Trying to get in with that crew that runs the Wangan on weekends."

You raise an eyebrow. "The twins' territory? That's desperate even for him."

"After what you did to his reputation?" Kenji shrugs. "Man's gotta find somewhere to start over."

Maya laughs. "Not how this works. You don't just reset when you lose."

"Exactly." You shift your weight, boot heels clicking against the pavement. "So he's there tonight?"

"Should be. They're prepping for some big run tomorrow. Word is there's serious money changing hands. He's trying to buy his way in."

The conversation halts as the distinctive growl of an approaching engine cuts through the night.

Not just any engine—something with a tune you've never heard before.

Sharp. Aggressive. Perfectly balanced.

Heads turn as a midnight purple Skyline R34 GT-R glides into the parking area, before coming to a stop under the harsh parking lot lights.

"Who the hell is that?" Maya straightens up, suddenly alert.

Kenji's expression shifts from boredom to interest in an instant—a rare change for him. "New player. Goes by Jaque."

You study the car, assessing rather than admiring.

Aftermarket body kit, but tasteful. Custom wheels. The stance is aggressive but functional.

Whoever built this wasn't just throwing money at it—they knew exactly what they were doing.

"Jaque?" you repeat, keeping your voice neutral despite your curiosity. "What kind of name is that?"

"Latino guy. Showed up about a month ago." Kenji lowers his voice, shifting into the gossip mode he lives for. "Been cleaning up. Undefeated so far."

Your eyebrow rises slightly at that.

Undefeated is a bold claim in this scene.

"Never heard of him," Maya says, voicing what you're thinking.

"That's because he's been running mostly on the Wangan line. Outrunning cops, taking stupid risks. The kind of shit that gets you noticed fast." Kenji's eyes remain fixed on the car. "Word is he beat Hayato's record on the C1 loop last week."

That gets your attention, though you're careful not to show it.

Hayato's record has stood for three years.

This guy has broken it in a month.

Who the fuck is this?

Your question is answered when the driver's door opens, and the crowd's murmur intensifies. A figure emerges, oozing the confidence of someone who knows they belong anywhere they choose to be.

Not tall, but with a presence that fills the space around him. Dark hair, sharp jawline, and a smirk that suggests he's already three steps ahead of everyone else.

"He drives like he's got nothing to lose," Kenji adds, a note of genuine respect in his voice that you rarely hear. "Like he doesn't care if he crashes or dies. It's... I don’t know man. Something else."

You watch as the driver—Jaque, apparently—leans back against his Skyline, surveying the crowd like he's taking inventory.

His gaze sweeps across the parking lot, until it lands on your group.

Or more specifically, on you.

He gives you a small nod, as if acknowledging territory.

"Looks like you've got an admirer," Maya mutters, nudging your ribs.

You shrug, unimpressed. "Looks like another ego with a nice car."

But you don't look away, and neither does he. It's a standoff of sorts, neither willing to be the first to break eye contact.

You've played this game before with countless racers who thought they were hot shit.

You've never been the first to look away.

"Don't dismiss him so quickly," Kenji warns, surprising you. "I've seen him drive. I’m dead serious, it’s not normal."

"Nobody's unbeatable," you say, finally breaking the staring contest to look back at Kenji.

Just because you had to look back at Kenji.

"Maybe." Kenji shifts uncomfortably. "But this guy... he doesn't race like a normal person. It's like he's got some kind of death wish, but with the skill to back it up."

You scoff, though something about Kenji's tone—the genuine concern beneath his usual bullshit—gives you pause.

"Death wish or not, a car's a car, and physics is physics. There are rules to this game that nobody breaks."

Maya's watching you with that knowing look she gets when she can tell someone's gotten under your skin, even just a little.

"You want to find out, don't you?"

"I want to find Kalo and get my money," you correct her, though your eyes drift back to the Skyline against your will. "That's why we're here."

You scoff at Maya's knowing smirk, about to tell her to shut it when fragments of conversation float over from where the newcomer stands. One word cuts through the ambient noise of engines and chatter.

Kalo.

Your head snaps toward the source.

The Skyline guy—Jaque—leans against his car, talking to a small circle of racers. His hands move expressively as he speaks, gold bracelet catching the neon light.

"Kenji." You cut him off mid-sentence. "Who exactly is this guy talking to?"

Kenji follows your gaze. "Nobody important. Some Yokohama kids trying to get noticed." He adjusts those stupid sunglasses. "Why?"

"He just mentioned Kalo."

Maya straightens beside you. "You sure?"

No mistaking it. Not when you've been hunting that name for two weeks.

"Excuse me," you say, already moving.

Maya sighs behind you. "Here she goes again."

You don't look back. Your boots click purposefully across the pavement, moving slowly. Not rushing—you never rush. But determined.

Three guys surrounding Jaque glance up as you approach, their expressions shifting from interest to wariness. They know who you are.

He doesn't turn immediately. Keeps talking, voice carrying a rhythm unlike anything you've heard in Tokyo. An accent that doesn't belong here.

Only when you're close enough to count the stitches on his leather jacket does he acknowledge your presence.

And even then, it's just a partial turn. Forty-five degrees. Neck cradling slightly to look at you sideways.

Performative, if anything. Like he knew you were coming before you did.

You cross your arms, weight shifting to one hip. His mouth twitches upward at the corner, eyes traveling from your face down to your boots and back up again.

Not subtle about it at all.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this sight?" Velvet slides from his lips.

One eyebrow quirks upward, the slightest movement. His Japanese is fluent but different—consonants softened, vowels stretched in places they shouldn't be.

You narrow your eyes. "You mentioned Kalo. What do you know about him? What's your relationship?"

He studies you for two full seconds. Not answering. Just looking. Like he's trying to read something written in small print.

Then he chuckles, using two fingers to move a thin strand of dark hair that's fallen across his view. The movement is unnecessary. Theatrical. Done for effect.

"Why so serious, princesa?"

It’s Spanish, the last word. You know that much, know from the way the word rolls off his tongue, deliberate, inserted where it doesn't belong. Like he’s testing boundaries, hoping for a reaction.

"I asked you a question." You keep your voice unimpressed.

"And I asked you one too."

He turns to face you fully now, leaning back against his car with the casualness of someone who's never been afraid of anything.

"But since you came all this way... Kalo. The Supra guy, right? The one who races like he learned driving from a video game?"

The description is so accurate you almost smile.

Almost.

"I hear he owes someone money," he continues, watching your reaction carefully. "Someone who smoked him on the mountain course two weeks back. Embarrassed him so badly he's been hiding like a scared rabbit."

His three companions take subtle steps backward, no longer interested in being part of this conversation.

Smart.

Maya appears beside you, silent backup. Though her presence changes nothing in his demeanor.

"And how would you know about that?" you ask.

He shrugs one shoulder.

"People talk. I listen." His accent thickens when he adds, "Es lo que hago." (It’s what I do)

"Is that right?" You don't react to the Spanish. "Interesting that someone who just showed up knows so much about other people's business."

"I'm observant."

His eyes lock with yours.

"For example, I observe that you're not here to race tonight. That outfit? Those heels?" He clicks his tongue. "You're here to collect. To make a point."

Something cold slides down your spine. Not fear—you don't do fear. Something else.

Being read so easily isn't a sensation you're familiar with.

"What's your name again?" You ask it like you've already forgotten, though you haven't.

"Jaque." He says it with a slight emphasis on the second syllable. "And you're Y/N. The 86 driver who hasn't lost a mountain race in what, two years?"

"Nineteen months," Maya corrects automatically.

You shoot her a look.

Jaque's smile widens. "Nineteen months. Impressive."

"If you're done wasting my time," you say, turning slightly, "I have a debt to collect."

"From a guy who isn't here."

He pushes off his car, closing the distance between you by half a step. Not enough to be threatening. Just enough to make his presence unavoidable.

"And won't be. Not tonight," he adds.

"And you know that how?"

"Because I passed him on the expressway heading in the opposite direction. About twenty minutes ago." He taps his wrist where a watch would be. "Running scared, looked like."

You clench your jaw. If he's telling the truth, you've wasted your night. Another dead end in your hunt for the coward who owes you.

"So you just happened to recognize a stranger's car?" Maya asks, skepticism heavy in her voice.

"A white Supra with that terrible aftermarket body kit and the Rising Sun decal on the hood?" He makes a dismissive gesture. "Hard to miss. Hard to forget, unfortunately."

That description matches Kalo's car exactly; and the sick feeling in your stomach tells you he's not lying, as much as you'd like him to be.

"Well," you say, voice cooling by several degrees, "thanks for the information."

You turn to leave, disgusted at having your time wasted. First by Kalo's absence, now by this newcomer who clearly just wanted to get your attention. Another night, another waste.

"I'll pay you double what he owes you."

The words stop you mid-step.

You turn back slowly, measuring every movement.

"Excuse me?"

Jaque's expression hasn't changed, but something in his eyes has.

They’re gleaning.

"Fifty thousand yen, right? I'll make it a hundred." He says casually, like offering to buy a coffee. "If you beat me."

Maya makes a small sound beside you, something between a scoff and a laugh.

"And why would I race someone I don't know for money I don't need?"

You almost laugh. As if this is about the money. You were born into more yen than he’s ever seen—this is about respect. About principle. About owning your loss when someone beats you clean. No excuses. No saving face. Just bow your head and pay what you owe.

But he’s not done.

"Because you're curious." He says it like it's obvious. "Because you've been the best for nineteen months and you're bored. Because you want to know if I'm as good as they say."

"As good as who says?" You roll your eyes. "I've never heard of you before tonight."

"Then I must be doing something right." His smile shifts, becomes syrupy. "But if money doesn't motivate you, how about this—I win, I get to run with your crew. Race in your territory."

You can't help it—you laugh. Short and dismissive.

"That's not how this works. You don't just buy your way in." Your eyes flick to his car. "No matter how pretty your GT-R is."

"I'm not buying," he corrects, that accent slipping into his Japanese again. "I'm earning. Difference."

You narrow your eyes.

Maya leans close to your ear. "You're not seriously considering this?"

You should walk away. This guy is nobody. A newcomer with a nice car and too much confidence. The racing scene sees them every month. They come, they crash, they disappear.

But.

Something about the way he stands there, utterly certain of himself, gets under your skin.

Like he already knows your answer before you do.

And maybe it's the wasted night. Maybe it's two weeks of hunting Kalo with nothing to show for it. Maybe it's just the need to put someone in their place.

"One race," you hear yourself say.

Maya's head whips toward you in surprise.

"One race," you continue, "and when I win, you pay double what Kalo owes me, and you don't bother me again."

"And when I win," he counters, not missing a beat, "I race with your crew. Simple."

"If," you correct.

"When." He doesn't back down.

One calculated step closer brings his scent into focus. Leather, naturally, but beneath it something that doesn't compute. A scent that belongs to ryokan inns and meditation halls, not this arrogant foreigner.

Hinoki.

"You're awfully confident for someone who knows nothing about me or how I drive."

"And you're awfully defensive for someone who's supposedly unbeatable." His voice drops lower, meant for your ears only. "What are you afraid of, princesa?"

The Spanish word again. A barb. Challenging.

"Afraid?" You match his tone. "I'm trying to save you the embarrassment. And the money."

He laughs, so genuine that it catches you off guard. "So it's settled then. You and me. Tonight."

From the corner of your eye, you see Kenji approaching, drawn by the developing scene. Others are watching too.

Word travels fast in this world.

"Fine." You extend your hand, a formality in this world of verbal contracts. "My terms. My course."

He takes your hand. His grip is firm but not aggressive. Just right. His palm warm against yours.

"Your course," he agrees. "But I pick when."

You raise an eyebrow. "When, then?"

His smile widens, showing teeth. "Now."

Death has a rhythm.

Tonight, it sounds like Daddy Yankee.

The mountain is yours—every curve, every shadow, every inch of guardrail. You've memorized each crack in the asphalt like the lines on your palm.

Yet as you sit at the starting line, engine purring, the midnight purple Skyline beside you blasts "Gasolina" loud enough to vibrate your windows.

He's not even looking at the road.

Jaque's got hand on the wheel, the other tapping the window frame in rhythm.

Kenji stands between the cars, arms raised.

You grip your steering wheel tighter.

Focus. Calculate. This is your mountain. Your rules.

"Ready!" Kenji shouts.

You check your gauges, settle into position, drop your breath rate. Your 86 is an extension of your body.

"Set!"

Jaque turns to you—actually turns his head away from the road—and winks.

Winks.

What the fuck is his problem?

Your jaw clenches so hard you hear teeth grinding.

"GO!"

You snap into the first gear immediately, launching forward as your tires bite into asphalt. Perfect traction. Perfect release. Your 86 shoots ahead exactly as calculated, exactly as it always does.

The Skyline stays even.

First corner approaches—tight right-hander with a nasty camber that catches amateurs by surprise. You brake at the perfect moment, downshift, feel the weight transfer as you clip the apex.

Textbook. Flawless. The corner you've taken hundreds of times.

The Skyline mirrors you exactly, staying in your blind spot. The bass from his music is still thumping through the night air.

Second corner. Third. Fourth. Each attack perfect, each line immaculate. And still, he's there. Not gaining, not falling behind. Just... present. Like a shadow you can't shake.

"What the hell is this guy playing at?" You mutter, taking the next hairpin with a controlled aggression that should give you an advantage.

Should.

Doesn't.

The Skyline follows, its midnight paint swallowing the moonlight instead of reflecting it. Through the next three corners, it continues—you lead, he follows, neither gaining ground.

Until the straightaway.

The road opens up, and you floor it. The 86 responds instantly, pushing you back into your seat. This is where your lighter weight should shine.

But the Skyline surges forward, twin-turbo engine unleashing a growl that slices the night.

He passes you.

Not aggressively. Not dangerously.

Just... efficiently.

Like it's the most natural thing in the world.

For the first time in nineteen months, you're staring at someone else's taillights.

"No fucking way."

You push harder, finding speed you rarely tap into. The gap closes slightly on the approach to the next corner—a sharp left with a cliff drop on the outside.

No guardrail. No room for error.

Normal people brake early here.

Jaque, as it turns out, is not normal people.

You don't brake until the last possible microsecond, throwing the 86 into the corner. The tires scream, traction at its absolute limit. You can feel them searching for grip, dancing on the edge of adhesion.

You exit the corner a car length behind him.

"Come on!" You slam the gearshift, pushing for more.

The next section is technical—five corners in quick succession. Your territory.

It's where precision matters more than power.

You close the gap. Corner by corner, inch by inch. Three more and you're on his bumper. Close enough to see his fingers still tapping against the frame slightly to the rhythm.

The next hairpin is your chance. The inside line is risky—there's barely enough room—but it's your mountain.

You know exactly how much space you need.

You dive for the gap.

For one beautiful moment, you're alongside him. Equal. Your front bumper inches past his door.

Then he does something impossible.

Instead of defending the line—instead of doing what any rational driver would do—Jaque throws his car into a drift so aggressive it sends the back end swinging wide, nearly touching the guardrail.

The move creates an arc that cuts you off, forces you to brake or crash.

You brake.

The maneuver costs him speed, should give you another chance to pass on exit.

But before you can capitalize, he's already accelerating out of the drift, the Skyline's all-wheel drive finding traction where none should exist.

"What the actual—"

The move was insane. Suicidal. The kind of thing that ends with twisted metal and sirens.

And he pulled it off like he was parallel parking.

For the final stretch—three corners and the last straightaway—you throw caution aside. Push beyond limits you usually respect. The 86 responds, giving everything it has.

It's not enough.

The Skyline crosses the finish line two car lengths ahead. You slam your palm against the steering wheel.

The taste of defeat is metallic in your mouth, foreign and despised.

You bring the 86 to a hard stop, tires protesting at the sudden deceleration.

The music still pounds from his car. That same goddamn song.

You throw open your door, adrenaline and anger propelling you forward. The cool mountain air hits your flushed face as you storm toward his car.

Because that last move? It wasn't just reckless—it was deadly. The kind of stunt that gets people killed on these mountains.

Words build in your throat. Sharp words. Words about respect for the mountain and death wishes and arrogance.

His door swings open as you approach. The music blasts louder without the barrier of glass and metal. He slides out with that same casual grace you saw when he called you princesa, when he winked before accelerating.

And something stops the words in your throat.

He shakes his head slightly, dark hair falling across his eyes before he pushes it back with one smooth motion. His other hand remains on the Skyline's roof, some golden ring catching the moonlight.

When he turns to face you, there's no triumph in his expression. No arrogance.

Just... satisfaction.

Like he's found something he's been looking for.

His eyes meet yours across the short distance. That smile appears again—not the cocky smirk from earlier, but something more genuine. Lips curved just slightly at the corners.

"Thanks for the adrenaline rush, mami," he says, voice carrying over the pounding beat of Daddy Yankee.

You've never hated Spanish music more in your life.

next | index

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The atmosphere in the ostentatious hotel suite is positively buzzing with anticipation.

Yoongi walks into the room in a crisp suit, sporting snake monograms on his cufflinks, pure elegance dripping off of him not unlike any given day. You gaze at his sexiness from the accent chair you’re reading a magazine on with your legs crossed, trying not to crassly drool, and in return, he gawks at the mesmerizing sight of his girl that massively overshadows the neon nightscape behind her. He gallantly reaches for your hand and places a kiss on it as if this is your special day.

He is very appreciative that you have generously indulged his requests for the night—wore his handpicked selection of attire all the way down to your shoes, put on the jewelry he had specially flown in, painted your nails in his preferred color…

You look so fucking gorgeous that if he can’t get a hold of himself, he’s going to ruin his appetite before dinner. 

“Like what you see, birthday boy?” you throw your arms around his neck, discreetly rubbing yourself against his crotch.

“Don’t tempt me or I’ll fuck you right in front of them,” he heavily exhales and nods towards the security detail by the door. “I’m barely holding it together.”

“You’ve wanted this that much?” you chuckle into his ear, gently biting his earlobe. “You seem more… enthusiastic than usual.”

“It’s you,” he gropes your ass with one hand while the other brings your fingers to his lips for a bite, opting for a kiss at the last second. “It’s always you.”

There is a reason he has dolled you up like a luxuriously packaged gift tonight. Although it is his birthday, the present is for someone else to open. 

And he’s never looked forward to something this much.

A knock interrupts the sultry melodies playing over the speakers. Yoongi glances at the door, then at you, and smiles.

“It’s showtime, baby,” he slaps your ass as you disappear to wait for your cue.

Jungkook enters the room flanked by two of his men looking like loyal hounds, cocky swagger of owning half the city dripping off of him. 

“Happy birthday, my liege,” he dips his head with the respect he reserves for less than a handful of people in the universe, then immediately cracks up once he absorbs the opulence cradling the room. “Jesus, you’d fucking die if you weren’t obnoxiously extravagant for once, wouldn’t you?”

The boss and his right-hand man slam their hands against each other for a firm shake and pull each other into a brief hug. They sit down by the gargantuan windows and engage in empty chitchat as they sip on the most expensive scotch money can buy. The weather. The game last night. Whether they should branch into solicitation for murder or not.

“What is this good news you kept teasing the entire week?” Jungkook taps his index finger on the glass resting on one leg folded over the other. “If it’s not a sizeable increase in my cut, I’ll be very upset. You hit fifty million thanks to me.” 

“Funny you should say that,” Yoongi presses two fingers on his temple. “It is about a reward I feel like giving you.” 

“Is the first digit finally a two?” Jungkook smirks with contentment.

“Even better,” Yoongi grins wider. 

“Gentlemen.” 

You make your entrance like the main character you are, hips swaying with radioactive temptation, and when he looks to his right, Jungkook confirms it’s not an auditory hallucination. He visibly falters, not expecting to see you tonight at all, and he is doing a terrible job of hiding the fact that he is mentally undressing you, jaw dropped, poise in shambles. He watches the way your heels kiss the rug with every step you take, and he realizes he is fucking jealous of the floor you walk on. 

It’s a miracle he manages to snap out of it.

“Is this a fucking prank or something?” he creases his brows at his boss. 

“I’m just showing hospitality,” Yoongi gracefully brings his scotch glass to his lips. 

Jungkook starts fighting for his life when you sit right on his lap, your arm flung over his wide shoulders inducing the kind of panic that can easily send him to the ER. He is sure he is no longer the man he was before your ass made contact with his thighs.

“You know, I hear everything that goes on under my roof. Tell me if this quote seems familiar to you:” Yoongi lounges back, his smile faint but amused to the high heavens, “I’d fuck her so good she would make me her side bitch on the first thrust.” 

Jungkook chokes on air. It doesn’t help that you are also chuckling into his ear.

“Look, I can explain…” 

“No need,” Yoongi shakes his head without an ounce of his usual tranquil fury. “Here’s your chance.”

That just CANNOT be possible. 

It’s a loyalty test, isn’t it? It’s not like he’s going to offer him his princess on a silver platter on his goddamn birthday or anything…

“You want me to fuck your girl?” he arches his brows in genuine surprise.

“If you’re interested, of course.” 

IN

TE

RES

TED?!

It’s not even remotely enough to describe his willingness levels. If he were any more interested, he would have to check himself into a psych ward for lust-induced psychosis. He lives for this. He eats, sleeps, and thinks this. If you knew how many times he jerked off to you in the past three days alone, you would issue a restraining order against him in the blink of an eye. 

The first time because you wore his favorite sundress, the second time because you touched his arm while laughing at one of his jokes, the third time because you moaned through a yawn, the fourth time because he imagined what you’d look like pregnant, and fifth time to exorcise himself for the fourth time…

He is your self-proclaimed number one fan, entirely obsessed with you, and you getting even more comfortable on his lap, playing with his curls, watching him crumble under you has to be the biggest fanservice in the history of everything.

“What? You’re scared he’s gonna shoot you?” you purr into his ear. 

“You don’t just hand things out,” Jungkook turns to Yoongi. “What’s the catch?” 

“There isn’t one,” he shrugs, perfectly serious. “Unless you call me being present a catch.” 

Years he has spent jerking off to you in shameful silence, and you are being offered to him just like that? This is a trap. It has to be a trap. Or a once-in-five-lifetimes miracle. 

Possibly both.

“That’s… That’s it?” 

“Well, there is one more thing, and I can’t stress how important it is,” Yoongi adds, letting the moment linger in the air to drag on the suspense. “You have to act like you’re doing this against my will.” 

Jungkook is bewildered out of his mind, utterly incredulous of the words coming out of this man’s mouth. 

Okay.

Fuck, okay.

God, okay, fuck, jesus!

He is already half-hard under you. He might last four minutes, six if he can force himself to imagine the unsexiest things his mind can possibly render. He’s desperately thinking of ways to sustain himself longer so he doesn’t wake up from the horniest wet dream of his life extremely prematurely.

“What are my limits?” he asks as he clears his throat.

“Nothing’s off limits. The worse, the better,” Yoongi answers. “Anything she accepts, you can do.” 

“How long do I have?” 

“However long you can last, but the second you cum, it’s over.” 

“Aren’t you supposed to be, like, crazy loyal to your man?” Jungkook turns to you, his on-brand cockiness slowly waking up from the chokehold.

“Who says I’m not?” you answer leisurely. “Loyalty isn’t about what I put inside me.” 

He charmingly smiles, stealing the briefest glance from Yoongi’s way in the meantime. 

“Then here’s what we’re going to do.” 

Your neck is right there for him to kiss, but he needs to break his five-year record and wait for five more minutes. He whispers his scheme into your ear, doing his best not to fucking pass out because of your perfume in his nose. Then he stands up to bring a chair for his boss to sit, changes the song to one of his favorite bedroom jams, and orders you.

“Dance for your man, beautiful.”

To every other person on the planet, Yoongi is an unreadable enigma, the embodiment of calm control and velveteen menace, but you can tell from the glint in his hooded eyes when something starts awakening within him. You climb onto the birthday boy’s lap and slowly roll your hips to the rhythm, every curve of your body wrapping around him as you move. The drag of his tongue across his lips devolves into a bite as he admires the tattoo between your tits. He has half a mind to say fuck it to everything and bend you over to fuck your wits out of you until he fully decimates you.

He is so hypnotized by the devil’s slutty bride grinding on cock that he doesn’t even realize his hands are cuffed behind his back until he hears a click.

“Honors?” Jungkook gives you two more pairs to tie Yoongi’s ankles to the legs of the chair.

“Just how many pairs of cuffs do you walk around with?” you chuckle. 

“There is always an opportunity if you know where to look,” he nods towards the door and points at the security detail, “and yours is right over there.” 

The man of the hour is properly pinned to his place. Jungkook sprawls on the couch right across him, then takes your hand and pulls you closer.

“Now, where were we?” he smiles at you like a man in possession of the uppest of hands.

Because he did.

Credit where credit is due, he fakes the most convincing composure of all time as he fights the raging urge to grope you everywhere, treating you like the queen you are with the sublest of touches. Hands coarse from handling guns become a pair of feathers tickling your body, gently sliding from your back down to your waist. He is so lost in the sheer sight of you that he can’t even register Yoongi’s presence in the room. 

“You have a rep among us lowlifes, you know,” he softly kisses your shoulder. 

“How so?” 

“Call me crazy, but every time I keep post outside, you suddenly feel this need to fuck your man for some reason. Then you scream so loud that one would think you’re doing it on purpose to get me horny,” his hands reach your ass and he gives it a firm squeeze, “which you do by the way.” 

“Yeah, you’re fucking crazy,” you chuckle.

“Damn straight,” he responds, dead serious, not smiling at all. “I’m fucking crazy about you.” 

He heaves a deep sigh, lips parted, devouring you with his eyes. The warmth of his breath tickles you, and you feel the first drops of your slick starting to pool between your legs.

“He has an army of guys at his disposal,” he brushes your cheek with a single knuckle. “Why do you think he asked for me?” 

His hands keep exploring your body. With each curve he feels under his touch, he turns a little more feral, grows a little bigger, and breathes a little heavier, biting his lips not because he is turned on, but to tame himself.

“Because he knows you get me weak as fuck,” he whispers against your skin.

“I get you weak?” you chortle. “How come I’ve never known this?” 

“When it’s a cartel boss’s princess in question, you can’t really declare that shit out in the open on account of wanting to live,” he says matter of factly, “but since I have a free pass tonight, I can say whatever the fuck I want.” 

His mouth ghosts on your collarbones, but he fails to practice restraint. His lips are momentarily pressed on them, drawing a wet trail from one side to the other. He leaves his own body and watches himself from afar as he slowly drags the bust of your dress down. Not all the way, just enough to tease himself with the sight of your cleavage. He can’t help himself and licks a stripe between your tits. When he makes you moan for the first time, he immediately thinks he’s not built for this. You’re too much temptation, and he is too weak for you, willing to collapse this entire cartel if it means you’ll ride him for five more seconds.

“Fuck being a princess,” his rampant jealousy morphs into a desperate plea as he pulls your face closer. “Come be my queen instead.”

You take his lips between yours, and he loses all control.

What was meant as a teasing peck instantly turns into a very heavy makeout session. Messy. Wet. Pornographically loud. Your hands in his hair, his fingertips sunk into your thighs, his cock throbbing harder under you every time your teeth tugs at his lips. You remember that hunger from somewhere.

The creak of the chair and the sound of metal clinking steal your attention. You break the kiss and turn around to witness a very tense Yoongi, the only other man who kisses you like this.

“If you’re flinching just with a kiss, we’re gonna have a fucking problem later on, boss. This is going to get a lot worse,” Jungkook warns him, then grins like a maniac. “I’m about to go all the way with your girl.”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything, but there’s an equally deranged smile on his lips. 

“Nervous?” you coo at Jungkook. 

“Wouldn’t you be if your favorite pornstar was perched on your lap like this?” he licks his lips. “I’m a huge fan.” 

He reaches into the inside pocket of his blazer and takes out a miniature vial filled with white powder, then draws a line across your tits. He snorts the coke so deeply like it’s his backup supply of oxygen, and when he looks up at you again, his blown pupils almost completely eclipse his irises. You are pleased. You are aroused. You are loving this, and you want to see how much more feral he can get over you.

“Which one of my movies do you like the best?” you cradle his face. 

“Prison guard,” he answers without a beat. “By a landslide.” 

“It’s the latex, isn’t it?” 

“It’s everything about you,” he growls, jaw clenched with animalistic desire. “Fucking step on me.”

His fingers brush against the blackletter S tattoo right between your tits, and his face contorts upon the mental image he created for himself.

“It’s okay. I know a guy,” he kisses your chest. “It’ll be a J in no time.” 

He pulls you into another kiss, this time a lot deeper, messier. You moan into each other’s mouths, and the slurping sounds echo in the suite. You grind faster on his lap, stuck between wanting to tease him and making him cum untouched for you. 

“I always imagine it’s you when I get my dick sucked. I can’t help it,” he confesses into your ear, voice almost like a whimper as he sneaks one hand between your legs to caress your supple thighs. “I don’t care if it’s for one night, you’re finally mine.” 

He finally starts unpacking you, dragging down the straps of your dress first. Slowly, still teasing himself as if he’s not gonna die if you so much as kiss his cock. Then he yanks your bust down and reveals your breasts, almost passing out at the sight.

“I can be your side bitch. That could be my new job,” he fondles them, falling in love with the way they feel in his palms. “Now that would be the promotion I fucking deserve.” 

“Being his right-hand man doesn’t cut it?” you sneer. 

“No, but you being my wife would.” 

He traps your nipple in between his lips and starts sucking on it, his tongue stealing a couple of licks every now and then. He stays latched to you as you undress him. Blazer off, shirt off, belt off. Before you take his pants off, he trades places with you and makes you sit on the couch, then kneels before you like a faithful servant. Your thighs make a sticky sound as he spreads your legs, and he gulps way too thickly when he sees just how wet you are. 

“You’re not gonna cry, are you?” you tease, tangling your fingers into his locks again.

“I might, actually. You into ruining hot men?” he asks, face way too serious for it to be a joke. “No worries if not. I’ll just get my tear glands removed.”

He wraps his arms around your thighs and gets into position, staring at your folds just like a predator looks at its prey. 

“Look into his eyes when I eat your pussy,” he instructs. “Show off your new fucktoy.”

He licks one stripe across your cunt, and the sound that rips from your throat is unholy. 

He starts giving you the deepest, sloppiest, and loudest head of your goddamn life like he is trying to prove something. Your eyes meet Yoongi’s, and it thrills the shit out of you to watch him watch you. His eyes are all hooded, snitching on how he’s dying of arousal as his spoiled princess gets pleasured out of her mind by a total simp, his cock straining his pants. It’s almost art, the way it goes down. No sight in the world can be this fucking sublime. 

“Look at him. He fucking hates how much he loves this, but he can’t do anything about it,” Jungkook chuckles into your pussy. “He can’t go anywhere. He acts all tough, but we both know what a fucking simp he is for you.” 

Two fingers curl into you as he licks a slow drag from your slit to your clit, giving it a strong suck at the end. You spit on your fingers and play with your nipples, riding his face faster for as much friction as you can get. He pins you in your place and spreads your lips, then starts flicking his tongue on your clit so fast that a buzzing sensation sets in.

“D–Deeper… Fuck me deepe— Yes. Now suck harder. Spit on it, baby, get it slipp— God, yes. Yes. YES, HARDER!!!”

You fall apart on his tongue, getting sucked hard and fingered deep just like you’ve ordered. He doesn’t let go until he reaches that sweet spot of overstimulation, enjoying the sight of you squirming for him just for a little while. 

“But if he wants to be with you, he’s gonna have to watch me wreck you,” he rises on his knees, chin covered with your slick, and pulls you close to let you taste yourself. “Now sit on my cock, beautiful.”

He stands for you to undo his pants first, and you swallow hard when you face his crotch, fully salivating when his cock springs free. Leaking. Flushed. Huge. Raging erection staring at you to devour it. You lean in and steal a taste from his tip. Low, almost quiet sounds of pleasure escape his lips as you tease his slit, but when you lose control and choke on his girth, he full-on growls. 

“God, you’re fucking killing me,” he throws his head back, eyes fluttering shut like your lips were rimmed with morphine.

He wants to fuck your throat and your cunt, and it’s driving him crazy that he can’t do both at the same time. If he lets you blow him any longer, he’s gonna grab a fistful of your hair, and god knows what will follow afterwards. He barely manages to peel himself away and sits back down, pulling you onto his lap again. 

“Into me,” he pulls your body closer, your back flush against his chest. “Spread wide so your man sees everything perfectly.” 

You gasp when his tip prods your entrance, and it turns into a drawn-out moan when he starts sinking into you, inch by thick, delicious inch. As Yoongi watches another man take what’s his, he makes the kind of sound grown men are not supposed to make. He is so fucking into it, leaking at the sight of Jungkook’s thick cock stretching you, wet squelch of your pussy complete music to his ears. A part of him is riddled with jealousy, but the part that is infested with fatal amounts of lust consumes it at record speed like flesh-eating bacteria. 

It doesn’t matter how much time Jungkook takes to disappear into you; he is still actively losing a piece of his mind permanently. His lips are latched to your neck, your arm is thrown back behind his nape, his hands are fondling your tits, and his cock is buried six feet under you, fucking you so hard like he’s going to die within the next ten minutes. He can’t believe you’re actually falling apart on his lap, screaming horrendous profanities with eyes squeezed shut. A sight he’s dreamed of, drooled over, jerked off to, now in technicolor, rushing in his veins worse than the coke he snorted and getting him twice as high. 

“You’re gonna kill me. God, you’re gonna fucking kill me,” he keeps repeating, voice faded as fuck as he licks into your ear. “Should I call over one of my boys to eat your pussy, too, huh? Do you wanna be a proper slut for me?” 

He shoves his fingers inside your mouth and collects your spit, then starts rubbing your clit, swollen and sticky, desperately fast like a starved animal. Nothing else exists in this moment. It’s just him and you, and this is all about how he’s the one you’re crumbling over, how he’s the one making you drool with your eyes rolling back, and how you’re moaning his name. 

RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOUR MAN!

“That’s it. Let go. Show him who’s really the boss. Show him who you really want,” he orders, laughing more deliriously as his arousal peaks, seconds away from snapping. “I love you. God, I fucking love you. I’ll fill you up so good, then I’m gonna watch him eat it. Milk me. Milk it out of me, baby, you’re fucking KILLING ME WITH THIS!!!” 

Jungkook assumed it would be you, but it’s Yoongi who reaches the finish line first, cumming untouched simply by watching this beautiful disaster. You can’t believe what has just unraveld before you, and he looks so fucking good, all fucked out without a single touch, that it pushes you over the edge. Jungkook senses the danger when you clench too hard around him and forces himself to his absolute limit to hold it. Until he makes sure those rhythmic pulses around him are fully involuntary. When he finally lets go, an inhumane sound rips from his throat, so guttural it could be a scream of agony. His orgasm gives him a terrible instant headache like a brain freeze, and you can feel the warm wetness gushing out of you, making you wonder just how large that load was.

A dense hush of pure satiation falls over the room, and your faded chuckles and heavy breathing are the only thing that echoes for a while. This is bliss. Utter and unmitigated bliss. You rest in Jungkook’s embrace until your limbs are loaded with some strength again, then you carefully pull him out of you. You stand up, thick strings of cum dripping down your thighs, and undo Yoongi’s restraints, soothing his cuffburns with soft kisses. 

“You got a bit carried away there with the confessions, Jeon,” he smirks at Jungkook. 

“Hey, what happens in the scene, stays in the scene, man,” Jungkook answers, one arm draped over his eyes, still trying to catch his breath. 

“So if I asked you to tag team her with me right now, you wouldn’t do it. Is that what you’re saying?” 

Jungkook removes his arm and looks at him, trying to assess how serious he really is, but all he can see is yet another enigmatic smile. Yoongi rises to his feet, reclaims your lips for himself again, then gallantly reaches for your hand and places a kiss on it as if this is your special day. As if you’re not all disheveled, covered in cum and spit. 

“I’ll take over the pussy worship duties for a while,” he declares. “Join us if you can manage to recover.” 

You cross the threshold to the bedroom hand in hand, and Jungkook watches you kiss Yoongi while removing his blazer. Then undo his belt. Then he watches Yoongi wrap the belt around your wrists and lay you down on the bed. Even though he just came, his cock faintly throbs. He might have accidentally picked up an addiction worse than cocaine tonight. 

Sometimes it feels like the correct word to describe Jeon Jungkook hasn’t entered the language yet. Enigmatic? Charming? Egomaniacal asshole? Whatever you can think of somewhat does the job, but none is quite it. 

Maybe that’s why you were immediately drawn to him when you first met all those years ago. 

He blurts out all his intrusive thoughts whenever he damn pleases as if he doesn’t have the correct operating system to install a filter on his tongue. You have waited and waited for the big reveal as to why he’s like this, but it has never arrived. Born into a loving family, no underlying tragic trauma, nothing like that. He just loves himself, but like LOVES himself, sometimes to an off-putting degree, and that’s it. If you think about it, it’s quite admirable, actually.  

Self-loathing comes a lot easier to most than shaking hands with themselves, let alone full-on loving. 

It’s fascinating how stacks of polar opposites can coexist within the same body. The man argues million-dollar cases for a living, but is the most tactless person you’ve ever seen. Drops TMI bombs on the most trivial matters, but is extremely secretive about anything with juicy gossip potential. The socialest butterfly, but has no one to call a “friend”.

Well, except for you.

One would expect this kind of volatility from a confused teenager at the peak of their angst phase, but to think that this is a grown-ass man who is a well-respected attorney makes it even funnier. To this day, he looooves bragging about being the youngest associate that ever made partner at his firm. He has a ginormous set of accolades under his belt, but that one he refuses to let go for some reason. It reminds you of a smug jock opening party conversations with “Have I ever told you how we won the championship game, beautiful?” to impress the girls he wants to bed. And the story somehow gets more dramatic with each retelling. 

How would you define Jeon Jungkook? Contradictory? An anomaly? Plain lonely?

If he ever heard that you were occasionally hosting self-debates to come up with an all-encompassing adjective, he would directly address your brain like, “Objection, Your Honor, hearsay. Also get a life.”

He is a charming egomaniacal asshole, but he is also… there. He always has been. No matter what happens in your lives, no matter how swept up you get in work—and frankly not much else—you just know he’s always there. But just knowing isn’t enough sometimes. You feel the need to see him. 

Thus the reason you’ve forced Destressfest on him.

It’s exactly what it sounds like—just a promise to meet once a month and do something to destress. No requirements, anything goes. A nice dinner, boxing class, playing pool, slot machines… It’s not like you’re severely derailing his life, but whenever it’s his turn to “host”, he keeps bitching about what a needless idea this is. Every time without exception. Oh, he will need to carve out time just to come up with an idea now when he could be drafting a deposition instead. Oh, he will need to find just the right venue because he is a man of excellent standards and blah and blah and blibbity blah. 

Yet for so much bitching, he always crafts unforgettable experiences, and rather than unamused, he looks proud when he sees your reaction. 

The only problem is this man doesn’t know how to do normal, so whenever you’re the “guest”, you mentally prepare yourself for something WAYYY over the top, and hope you don’t end up in a) a hospital, b) jail, or c) some remote corner of the world as hostages to warlords.

The last time he said, “Meh, we’re just gonna get pizza”, he had chartered a fucking jet to Rome, so you never know. 

Which is why it’s strange that he just wants to go to a concert this time. No world-class act in a huge stadium, no private performance in an obscenely expensive villa, it’s literally a no-name band at a small club downtown. It’s not the expectation of a costly gesture that makes the choice odd; normal just isn’t the way he operates. If he gathered trash from the street and said, “We’re gonna make soap bombs at a public park,” it would be a lot more on brand for him.

Can litigators sue themselves for illicit activity? Like, is that a thing? 

“Considering your itinerary for tonight, I am required to do a mental health check,” you lean against the bar counter and tilt your head. “You good, bro?”

“The audacity just because I didn’t take you skydiving,” he tsks. “Rude.”

“Well, at least the crowd is very attractive here tonight, but I thought you said this was a rock concert,” you examine the room, then face him again with increased embarrassment. “So my follow-up questions are, one—we look super out of place with our biker gang-adjacent fits, so what the hell were you thinking? And two—what kinda band plays a damn Michelin restaurant?”

“The show is obviously someplace else,” he deadpans. “We’re just grabbing a few drinks here.”

“Oh… Well, in that case,” you scan the cocktail menu, “I feel like vodka cranberry is a mandatory accessory to the OOTD right now.”

“Well, I think limoncello will be a more refreshing choice, but we can have those after if you want,” he raises his hand to signal someone at the far corner of the bar, and the man promptly arrives with an ice-cold yellow bottle as if he had an epiphany about what Jungkook’s order was going to be.

“The D’Amalfi Supreme you requested, Mr. Jeon,” he pours the drinks with utmost respect. “Enjoy.”

The scandalized gasp you let out thankfully suppresses your originally planned reaction—a roaring “SHUT THE ABSOLUTE FUCK UP!”—which would be a bit too pedestrian for such an upscale venue.

“Um… Mr. Jeon,” you imitate the bartender, forcing a smile only a raging psychopath would flash. “What are you doing?”

“Ordering drinks?” he states the obvious.

“No, no. No, no, no, no. No. You’re laundering money.” Your smile fades in an instant, and you open hellfire from your eyes, hissing at him through a loud whisper. “That bottle is worth fucking 44 MILLION, man, what the hell is the matter with you?!”

“Now you know why we’re going to a hole-in-the-wall club after this,” he raises his glass with an ultra amused smile. “Cheers, baby.”

Thoroughly aghast, your jaw drops because this kinda money demands a chalant reaction. Yup, he’s lost it. He is going through something he’s not telling you and trying to make up for it with impulse purchases, but his income bracket is so damn high that he doesn’t fucking know what would attract the FBI’s attention! 

If you wake up to frozen assets tomorrow, you’re gonna kill him. At least then you won’t feel sorry about jail. 

“Relax, I won the defamation case for that bitch of an idol, so the firm came into some goooood money,” he gloats, genuinely expecting a gold star from you. “So what if I wanted to splurge a bit?”

“Then get a goddamn Rolex!” you howl. “Or a girlfriend with a shopping addiction. Still a much cheaper alternative.”

“Why? Don’t I already have you?”

Your heart must be playing hopscotch with the beats, the way it skips so many at once.

You know it doesn’t mean anything; he says shit like this all the time, that charming egomaniacal asshole rizz machine. It’s just that your heart doesn’t understand what nuance is, and your unwavering, bane-of-existence levels stupid crush on one Jeon Jungkook, Esq. has no intention of dying down anytime soon.

You’ve lost count of how many years it’s been by now.

“I meant it as in… Retail therapy is just bootleg dopamine epipen. If you had someone to have regular sex with, you wouldn’t spend a small country’s external debt on fucking limoncello,” you attempt a weak explanation, somehow managing to sound convincingly sassy. “It’s not even scotch, man, come on. You’re better than this.”

“So you’re saying I should get a girlfriend because you won’t have sex with me?”

You’re so flustered, your mind momentarily halts all activity. No banter material all of a sudden. Not one good comeback candidate. You so wish you were in a mockumentary so you could get out of the scene to yell, “DOES HE KNOW HOW WET I AM?!” at the camera.

“I’m kidding,” he breaks into a giggle fit upon your silence, but his tone quickly turns serious as if he’s stating a grim fact. “Though your argument is flawed since it’s based on the assumption that the existence of a girlfriend equals having sex.”

“Thanks, counselor. Now please switch to layman’s terms on the grounds that this ain’t your courtroom,” you deride with a saccharine smile. “And yeah, I figured two plus two would equal four. What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s Catch-69,” he continues seriously. “I allegedly need to be in a committed relationship to have regular sex, but anyone who is sexually active would not go for a guy who doesn’t have sex.”

“Doesn’t hav—? I’m sorry, what?” you knit your brows, leaning in closer to make sure you didn’t go temporarily deaf. “We went to the same college, motherfucker. I know your body count.”

“I didn’t say I don’t know how to have sex,” he corrects. “I just haven’t had any in like three years.” 

“THREE YEARS?!”

Well, that did it. The shock is so real that you can’t help that scream, and now the entire dining room is staring at the shrieking batgirl by the bar.

“Goddamn, your jaw didn’t drop this hard when I showed you my tattoo sleeve the first time,” Jungkook turns his gaze to the space between you, face contorted in absolute judgement. “That hole on the floor is at least halfway to China.”

“How the fuck is this even possible?!” you look at him like he has told you the earth is not only flat but also rectangular. “I’ve seen a woman walk into a streetlight because she couldn’t stop staring at you.”

“My dick prefers lips over eyes, baby,” he smiles into his drink. 

“Why don’t you say it louder so a lucky listener can have the chance to volunteer as tribute?” you quip. “Which you could use, it feels like.”

“Nah, I’m good,” he purses his lips in sheer disinterest.

Now you’re even more confused. The sex god among mortals has been celibate for three whole years for reasons unknown, and he doesn’t seem the least bit interested in revving the horny engine again. Which makes NO goddamn sense because back in college, during the two weeks you had to share an apartment, you were inadvertently subjected to A LOT OF TMI regarding what this man did with his dick on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, seven days a week. 

With seven different people.

“What is this really about? You’re literally the only guy I know who’d refuse getting his soul sucked out of him,” you press further. “Oh, god, wait, it’s not health-related, is it?”

“Would you be sad if it was?” he grins at you.

“DON’T EVEN JOKE ABOUT THAT!” you punch his arm as hard as you can.

“Niiice jab. Aim lower next time,” he proudly compliments the hit with feedback attached. “I’m healthier than a pure-bred stallion in its prime, don’t worry.”

“Then?”

“The kinda head game that’s up to my standards just can’t be found in the wild anymore,” he nonchalantly shrugs, pushing your annoyance to dangerous heights.

“How many ways can there possibly be to suck dick?” 

“Infinity if you’re creative enough,” he proclaims. “Can we drop this now?”

No, you absolutely can’t because you just can’t wrap your head around it, pun fully intended. What does creative enough even mean? You literally try to think of ways that’s beyond putting a dick in your mouth and bobbing your head, but your imagination can’t render anything. Does this mean you are not creative enough? Are you a closeted prude? Should you be offended by this?

Why does it suddenly feel like you are… not good enough?

“That’s like saying there are infinity ways to eat soup,” you continue to pry, now squinting. “So, what, like, is it about what you can use instead of a spoon?”

“Or not using anything at all,” he responds in an unusually deeper voice. “Straight from the bowl. No hands.”

No hands.

Your sponge of an imagination immediately absorbs the words and starts to paint a brand new scene for you in crisp detail. 

A cozy room. Maybe even a fireplace. Lights dimmed to a sultry lumen. Jungkook in a suit. Jungkook in slacks and nothing else. You in a dress. You in a torn dress. Tied to a chair. Hands cuffed behind your back. Blindfolded. Jungkook holding his belt. Jungkook holding all control. Jungkook holding your life in a chokehold. Jungkook smearing his precum all over your lips. Jungkook ordering you to open wide. Jungkook fucking your face as hard as he wants. Jungkook drenching you in his cum… Jungkook. 

Jungkook. 

Jungkook.

Oh… GOD!!!

IS THIS GODFORSAKEN LIMONCELLO 150 PROOF OR SOMETHING? 

“Refreshing”, my ass… Not only is it doing a terrible job of keeping you chill, but it seems to fuel the fire that has just broken out on your face. You HOPE the heat is at least contained within your body and Jungkook can’t feel it from where he’s sitting.

“So what if you can’t find it in the wild? You know the red light district exists, right?” you casually comment as if you’re not having the horniest mental breakdown.

“I don’t pay for sex,” he sternly counters.

“Don’t you have like five different porn subscriptions?” you sneer. 

“Along with six other streaming platforms, yeah, what’s your point?”

“Fine, smartass, why not hookup apps then?”

“No one really swipes right with the kinda shit I put on my profile,” he heaves a bored sigh. “I mean, if they did, I’d probably have to call the cops to report a raging lunatic at large.”

“Doesn’t that also make you a raging lunatic?”

“Precisely. One is enough.”

“Puh—lease! You so have the pretty privilege,” you snort loudly. “Bitches would swipe right today just to climb your hot ass body even if your bio said ‘There’s a true crime documentary about me on Netflix’.”

“Which is why my avatar picture is a stoic capybara. Showing the goods up front is amateur hour minute one,” he declares matter-of-factly, then annoyingly smirks. “So you think my body is ‘hot ass’, huh?”

“So you are on digital brothels, huh? Which means you are actively searching,” you immediately block the door so the topic wouldn’t even dare to change. “How come you’re not hitting that every lunch break?”

“Why would I do that when I can just get high and rub one out instead?” he scoffs. “Did you know weed makes lunch break feel like three hours?”

“Why are you being so evasive?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“This. I’m asking a very simple question,” you draw a circle around his stupid gorgeous figure, your voice swelling with your patience running thin fast. “I know you’ve calmed down a lot over the years, which is suspicious as fuck by the way, but just what the hell kinda ‘standards’ do you have that no one in the universe seems to meet them?”

Jungkook’s lips faintly curl as he swirls his drink in his hand. You’re the only person in this world he feels something akin to trust for, yet he could never bring himself to talk about any of this even with you, not that he never came close  to on particularly drunk nights. He is immune to strangers getting scandalized now, calling him names, borderline running away screaming as if he put a gun to their heads, but just the thought of you being nauseated by him, being disappointed in him in whatever capacity fucking kills him inside. He can’t afford to lose you. He’s never been able to.

But something about you insisting on squeezing this out of him is doing things to him because god fucking knows he wants you to squeeze a lot more things out. Things that have been forced into dormancy for years. Things he couldn’t say, things he couldn’t feel, things that physically hurt him because of how heavy they have grown inside him. So heavy that sometimes it feels like if you touch him the right way just once, it will induce such an intense release that he will cry with unbearable relief. 

Why don’t you squeeze some bodily fluids out of him while you’re at it? Preferably aim it at your ridiculously beautiful face that haunts his every waking minute so he can reach nirvana.

He doesn’t know why he’s getting such a kick out of it; maybe it’s the pregame drinks he’s rolled too fast, but it’s dangerous. It’s so damn dangerous that he can feel the control he always holds in a death grip slipping through his fingers like butter on sizzling iron. There’s a reason he never talks about these things with you because every time you’re around, the angel and the devil on his shoulders start making out heavily out of nowhere instead of giving him any sage advice. 

“Maybe it’s better if I just showed you,” he knowingly smiles, then finishes his million-dollar drink in one go and leaves the stool. “Come on, we’re gonna be late for the show.”

When Jungkook said hole-in-the-wall, you didn’t expect an actual hole in the wall. Not only is that literally the name of the venue, but the entrance has also been designed like a cave carved into a brick wall. Once you are admitted inside, your biker gang-adjacent fits suddenly make a lot more sense since no one in the audience wears any color. The closest thing to a pigment is the mid-shades of grayscale, which look like the official color of morals in the room. 

Or the lack thereof. 

The first notes of the opener blast from the gargantuan speakers, and this already feels less like a concert and more like an orgy lite with background music. The trio on the stage riles up the crowd with a setlist that only gets more and more obscene, faster rhythm, harder kicks, louder screams. With each song, the sweaty bodies surrounding you seem to wrap tighter around each other under the guise of dancing, kissing, touching, damn near fucking with clothes on. Their attempt to hide behind deafening decibels is a complete failure because your ringing ears still pick up moaning around you. You wonder if Jungkook is noticing these people, too, or if this is a violent lust-induced hallucination on your part. Everywhere you turn your head, it’s like you’re looking at what you and Jungkook could be doing right now. Should be doing right now.

You’re about to go insane. 

Jungkook moves from standing next to you to behind you, and soon you feel a pair of thick arms wrapped around your waist. The closer you feel his body, the more you want to risk it all. You’re a bit buzzed and slightly high thanks to the heavy smoke in the air—if there’s any chance for you to sneak a kiss, it’s right now. If it backfires, you can always blame your lowered inhibitions like “Haha, I know, right? I don’t know what I was thinking.”

You know exactly what you’re thinking. 

You want that wet-dream fuel nest of sin he calls a mouth pressed on your skin. You want it on your lips. You want it on your neck. You want it on your pussy. In some way. You don’t care if it’s a brush, a peck, a kiss, or a throat culture swab performed by his tongue. Anything goes as long as you get to taste him. Once. Just once. Just to see it in 3D if his lips really feel like what you always imagined them to be. To find out if you’ll really cum if he kisses you once. Once. Just once!!!

But Jungkook doesn’t make a move.

You’ve been waiting for a sign, the vaguest allusion to a green light, but it never comes. He is behind you, but there is still this space between you even if it’s maybe only a few inches. You don’t feel his chest on your back. You don’t feel his crotch on your hips. Despite the lowered inhibitions you were banking on, you can’t find it in you to jump the gun. Maybe you’ve spectacularly misread the whole vibe and were indeed seeing things. 

Fuck your life if you make the first move. 

Before you know it, the band’s short set comes to an end, and after thanking the crowd for their passionate enthusiasm, they disappear backstage. When the lights change, Jungkook moves away, and you can’t think of what to do next. Do you say something? Do you suggest something? Do you ask his hand in marriage?

What?

He doesn’t ask for it, but he does grab your hand and drag you towards the bar for some post-game drinks this time. No million-dollar limoncello, just regular beer. The little lamp on the bar counter illuminates his face just enough to show you how he has magnificently sweated, and it’s absolutely infuriating that he still looks this good while this disheveled.

You’re not gonna attempt a kiss, but he’s still given you some ammunition tonight to open fire.

“So,” you initiate the conversation, hoping your embarrassing thirst isn’t showing that much. “Are you gonna show me yet?”

“Show you what?” he takes a huge sip from his beer.

“The playing dumb thing is getting a bit tiring, just saying,” you press your tongue inside your cheek.

“I’m not playing dumb,” he says, but with a smile so vexing that you get a violent urge to pinch his cheeks.

“I asked you what your unattainable standards were, remember? And you said it’d be better if you just showed me,” you jog his memory.

“I said maybe it’s better, and I didn’t say anything about showing you things tonight,” he responds triumphantly, thinking he has the perfect loophole to refute you.

Oh, you fucking snap.

You grab him by his collar and yank him close, only a single inch away from your face, your eyes seeing nothing but red. It’s like watching yourself from afar—even as you move, you can’t fully grasp what you’re doing. 

Meanwhile, Jungkook is so taken aback that he almost loses his balance on the stool he’s perched on.

“Do not treat me like I’m one of your bimbo clients, Jeon, I’m fucking warning you,” you threaten, your jaw clenched so hard that it’s about to break. “Piss me off some more, and I swear to fucking god I’ll tie you to an MRI table with all your piercings still intact.”  

Jungkook’s life starts flashing before his eyes.

He gulps, eyes wide open, suddenly breathing way heavier. The little lamp on the bar counter illuminates his face just enough to show you his pupils are dilated so much that it looks like his eyes are actually black. Did you actually manage to scare a man who once had a pet tarantula into a panic fit? Or…? 

Or does this mean…?

“S–Sorry, I’m…” you take a step back, raising your voice to banter levels again to shoo the awkwardness away. “You’ve made me really mad, okay?!”

He shakes his head to snap out of it because if he stays in that headspace for five seconds too long, he doesn’t know what will come out of him, either. He closes his eyes, exhales heavily through his nose, and the long-awaited TMI bomb finally makes landfall.

“I have trouble getting hard, and if I do, I can’t sustain it for too long. There, happy?” he confesses, hints of embarrassment still audible through his aggravation. 

You look at him blankly, thoroughly unable to process the information you’ve just received. You can’t be sure if you’ve heard correctly because you were totally expecting something utterly radical like, “I’m training to be a monk.” 

NOT dick no get big.

“That’s–That’s it?” you keep blinking through your confusion, almost disappointed at how anticlimactic that was. “Having erectile dysfunction was your hush-hush secret?”

“I’d say it’s more of an affectile dysfunction. It’s not that my body doesn’t react at all; it’s what it reacts to,” he offers an unsuccessful alternative explanation, his voice waning into a barely audible volume by the end of it. “Or doesn’t anymore, for that matter.”

“Which is?”

He gives up. You’re not gonna let this go, he knows, and there is only so much verbal account he can give. He told you he would show you, so he will show you. He chugs his drink and slams his glass on the counter. 

“Come with me.”

You follow after him with furrowed brows, having absolutely no idea what to expect. Jungkook pushes through the crowd and makes it to the backstage area. The bodyguards flanking the door seem to know him; they greet him with big smiles and friendly hugs. When they open the door, the faded neon blue light hits your retinas first. You cross the threshold and turn right, and that’s when you feel a falling sensation in the pit of your stomach. Your lips part, but not because you’re shocked, per se; your body just doesn’t know how to react to a stimulant this foreign.

You have never seen a real-life orgy before.

There must be about fifteen people inside, and nobody in the room gives a fuck. Everybody acts like this is just standard party decorum, and all they do is drink, eat, and have fun. Well, there are things being eaten here and there, but it feels… unfamiliar. Your mind can’t process a scenario where sex is a social activity. 

You turn to Jungkook, and an uneasy feeling settles in your chest seeing him like that, completely devoid of emotion. He seems so used to this—too used to this to the point of jaded, actually—that there isn’t a shred of excitement in his blank eyes. Words can always lie, but the body seldom can; you can’t fake that kind of numbness in front of something like this unless you actually can’t feel anything. 

“It wasn’t a transition from 0 to 100; I started at 100,” he divulges in the flattest voice you’ve ever heard him use. “Most of my early twenties were spent in places like this.”

“So… things like this don’t excite you anymore,” you paraphrase. “You don’t find them novel.”

“The first few times were of course memorable. I remember where I was, what I was wearing, even the people in the room, even though it was quite crowded. After some time, it just turned into another Tuesday night,” he reminisces, minus the delight. “When this is your vanilla threshold, the things you crave start becoming—”

“JEON!”

A man that has honey for skin approaches with a big albeit faded as fuck smile. You recognize him as one of the performers, and he wears sunglasses in a room that’s already way too dim. You wonder if he and his entourage were getting a room full of people that horny earlier as an audition method for the raunchfest in progress.

“Long time, no see, man! We miss you around here,” he gives Jungkook a big hug, then lowers his glasses to make direct eye contact with you as he greets you. “Well, hello ther—”

“Paws off, we’re not here for that. Just saying hi before we leave,” Jungkook slaps the man’s hand away, doing a quick introduction. “This is Namjoon.”

“Damn, all about that monogamous life now, are we?” Namjoon knowingly grins, his eyes still on you.

“You could say that,” Jungkook responds.

That’s COMPLETELY false information, yet Jungkook does not correct it. You don’t know what to do with yourself. The fire on your face thing from earlier tonight returns again, and this is the WORST place it can happen. If Jungkook feels it, he will totally get the wrong idea.

The wrong idea being your willingness to participate in group sex right now, not your devastatingly strong feelings for him.

“Actually, so am I,” Namjoon’s sleazy grin unexpectedly melts into the wholesomest dimples. “I’m getting married.”

“FUCK, SERIOUSLY? CONGRA—! Wait…” Jungkook’s elation suddenly crashes into a wall and breaks into rage. “If you’re creeping behind Rina here, I swear to fucking god—”

He points towards the back of the room at who you assume to be his bride, currently getting her pussy eaten by both his bandmates and another girl riding her face. You have looked as a total knee-jerk reaction, but you immediately avert your eyes. Despite being welcomed in here, it still feels like you’re intruding. 

“Yeah, we fuck around, but we only love each other,” he lovingly looks at her as if the scene depicts her picking fresh spring flowers. “She’s the one, man.”

“Then I’m very happy for you both,” Jungkook pats his shoulder.

“Which is WHY you guys are obligated to be present for this legendary day we never thought would come,” Namjoon declares with amped up enthusiasm. “Bachelor party in two weeks, ceremony in six. If you wanna bail on the reception, you totally can, but you are required to get me multiple items from the registry.”

“I’ll get you the whole list, just don’t bring me to a family function where I’ll have to converse,” Jungkook grimaces. “Talk to you next week, then?”

“You got it.” 

“Congratulations,” you celebrate the groom-to-be, and after politely nodding in acknowledgement, he returns to hosting his guests.

Once you walk out from the back door into the alley, Jungkook lights up a joint and leans against a wall. You smoke in silence for a while, passing the cigarette back and forth. You can’t be sure if you just hallucinated. What even was that? What even was this whole night?

“So um…” you hesitantly begin. “If one wants to… say, surpass a Tuesday night…” 

Jungkook looks at you and waits for you to finish your sentence, but you don’t. The faintest smile appears on his lips, and he answers you based on the pretty accurate sophisticated guess he makes.

“They aren’t things found in your average romance book; I can tell you that much,” he puffs out the smoke and hands you the cigarette again.

“Not commenting on the cringe levels, but dark romance books also exist, you know,” you respond before your big inhale. 

“Yeah? And what are they about?” he chuckles somewhat derisively. “Missionary while holding hands with the fuckboy CEO?”

“I’ve read one where the main character could only cum when threatened with a gun,” you submit the most apt example you have in your repertoire. “A fake one, of course.”

“WHAT?!”

It seems to be Jungkook’s turn to clutch his pearls now, and you’re the one being weirdly nonchalant. A gun? You read books that have people cumming to guns in them?

Are you fucking HEARING yourself?!

“I’m sorry, were you under the impression that you were the only person in the world who had unconventional fantasies?” you stare at him stoically. “Go on Reddit sometime.”

“You don’t find that… uncomfortable?” he asks with deep creases forming between his brows.

“Why would I? Cum to the thought of sandpaper for all I care,” you shrug. “In my experience, as long as you don’t spring it on someone, anything your partner greenlights goes.”

“In your experience?” 

“Why are you acting like I’m citing blasphemies back to back?”

Because you are, and it sends him reeling. What do you mean in your experience? What do you mean why would I? Are you even AWARE what this is doing to him? 

Not necessarily the what, but you are aware something is making him short-circuit. 

“I’m going to ask you a question, but don’t give me that law school bullshit again. I want a direct, to-the-point answer from you,” you earnestly request. “Are you really not having sex because everything feels too vanilla for you now?”

“It’s part of it,” he replies.

“What did I just say about being dir—?”

“It’s not that easy, okay?!”

Jungkook never raises his voice at you unless it’s in a heated debate context, but this time he does. Because you’re pushing it. You’re pushing it too much. He can’t say it exactly as it is, just why can’t you get it?

Why can’t you just figure it out already?

“Then help me understand it,” you take one step closer. “Whatever you might be into, I’m sure there are like whole ass communities around it. Rule 34, you know.”

He inadvertently bursts out laughing. This is exactly why a part of him hates you. Because you know exactly what to say to make him laugh when he’s in the middle of a full-on spiral. You know exactly what to do to make him forget everything that happened five seconds ago, and he hates you for that. Because hating you is the only way it doesn’t hurt. 

Hating you is the only way he can accept there is no chance of you ever waking up together.

“So what is it that makes you step away from it all completely?” you softly ask.

“Just because you’re into something doesn’t mean you want to do it with anyone willing,” he answers, staring at the pebbles on the ground.

“How come?”

“A lot of things are at play. Attraction…” he explains, then pauses before his next item. “Trust.”

“Or,” you emphasize the word, “maybe you’re looking at this all wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know that cliché, It’s not what you say, but how you say it?”

“Yeah?”

“Then maybe it’s also not what you do, but how you do it.” 

Your high has permeated all corners of your body by now. You feel lighter, but your mind feels weirdly clearer, and you definitely feel more courageous. It was just weed, not speed, yet it still feels like you can do everything, all the time, and achieve great results.

“Maybe you’re dismissing it because it’s so simple,” you put your hands on his chest, then start playing with his collar. “You’re so convinced you can only sate your hunger with complex, expensive dishes with the rarest ingredients that you can’t see what’s right in front of you.”

“And… w–what would that be?” he stammers.

“Soup,” you whisper into his lips. “But straight from the bowl. No hands.”

You finally press your lips on his, and your entire world gets rocked. You can’t fucking believe you’re kissing Jungkook. The Jeon Jungkook. It doesn’t seem likely that you’ll cum from kissing once, but you do feel the texture of his lips in 3D.

Oh, it’s everything you always imagined it to be. 

Bootleg or not, Jungkook feels like he’s been injected with hundreds of adrenaline shots all at once. It’s your lips within his. Your lips that he’s kissing, and he can’t control how rapidly it’s escalating. He feels so good. He feels so high. He feels so thrilled. He remembers this feeling. 

It’s lust.

“We… We could have done this inside,” he pants into your mouth when he manages to stop to catch his breath.

“But everyone’s doing it inside. We’re not supposed to do it outside,” you oppose. “Public indecency is against the law, you know.”

Your attention sways towards the main street when you hear a quick siren, and a cop car stops in front of a coffee shop. So many lightbulbs go off in your head that your brain looks like a Christmas tree visible from outer space. 

“So is sex trafficking,” you mumble to yourself with a smile growing on your lips as you stare at the officers having coffee, then turn to Jungkook again. “Do you have any cash on you?

“Huh?”

“Don’t think. Just check it.”

He reaches for his wallet and opens it. You pull out a single hundred dollar bill and lean against the wall behind the dumpster. Your whole demeanor changes all of a sudden. You look unimpressed. Bored even.

“Fine, I guess. This buys ten minutes of my time. What do you want?” you look at him with blank eyes, then tap at your wrist impatiently. “Hurry up, I don’t have all day.”

Mr. I-Can’t-Get-Hard looks so fucking feral, you should call animal control.

He slowly approaches you, trying to regulate his breathing but failing, and checks you out from head to toe. He’s eating you alive with his eyes. He’s licking every corner of your body with his gaze, and you can feel it. 

“How many clients did you see before this?” he asks in that unusually deeper voice again.

“I was at a bachelor party,” you smirk at him. “Do the math.”

“Did anyone cum inside?”

“I don’t know, did they?”

He rests one hand on the cold brick wall behind you, and runs the other up your bare thighs excruciatingly slowly. When he hits a warm dead end, he slides your underwear to the side and swipes a finger on your folds. It’s so wet that his eyes flutter close on their own in delight, and he licks his lips just imagining that taste.

“How… many?” he slowly asks again, somewhat threateningly. 

“All… of them,” you reply in the same rhythm.

He hooks his fingers to the sides of your underwear, but instead of dragging it down, he rips it off of you completely. The loud sound of tearing makes you gasp. He curls the fabric into a ball and puts it in your mouth. 

“Bite on it,” he orders.

So you do. 

Eyes glued to yours, he kneels before you, trying to brace himself for what he’s about to witness, knowing damn well he won’t be able to. He has thought about this, dreamed about this, driven himself to the brink of insanity about this for so long that it doesn’t feel real. He spreads your sticky thighs apart with unrushed movements, and it takes every drop of his willpower not to swallow you whole.

Not even his most vivid fantasies compare to the real thing.

The sheer sight of your soaking wet pussy fills his entire mouth with saliva, and he thickly gulps, instinctively wiping the corners of his mouth. Such a feast spread before him, and he can’t decide which course to start his meal with. Maybe just a taste from your swollen clit. Maybe just a few licks from your slick folds. Maybe nothing whatsoever and just tease you to death until you snap and shove his face into your cunt.

All… of them.

Your voice suddenly echoes in his head again, and he buries his tongue into your oozing hole like an intrusive thought. 

You immediately grab fistfuls of his hair to keep yourself in place because you are severely weak at the knees. You can’t believe it’s real. Jungkook is actually between your legs, going at it like a starved animal, tongue hard at work with flicks so fast that at this rate, he is going to end you within seconds. 

“You told them to use you as a cumdump, didn’t you? You told them to breed your cunt, and you fucking liked it,” he growls into your pussy. “Look how creamy you are, fucking cumslut. You’re the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

No one has ever kissed your lips the way Jungkook makes out with your clit. It’s obscenely wet, dangerously vehement, yet the pressure is just right. He is being strangely soft when he wraps his lips around it, gently sucking on it, so damn happy just to be able to cover his chin with your arousal, but when he goes back to your dripping hole, it’s a different story. He slurps with all his might like he’s actually trying to taste a bachelor party’s worth of cum in there. You understand exactly why he wanted to put a silencer on your mouth because the more he moans into your cunt, the harder you scream. You can’t help rolling your hips into him, seeking as much friction as you can possibly get before you go certifiably insane. He sticks his tongue out and flattens it, hands firmly on your ass, and makes you ride his tongue. It’s warm. It’s slippery. It’s addictive, and it feels so fucking good. 

“Now you’re gonna cream for me,” he demands. “You’re gonna give me everything.” 

He puts one leg on his shoulder and sucks on his fingers, sliding them inside you with eager ease. He hooks his fingers upwards and moves with beguiling care, slow, calculated, alert like he’s searching for something. He must have found it because even though he looks up at you with blank eyes, you can clearly hear the curls on the corner of his lips going, “Oh, it’s over for you now.” 

Then he closes his mouth on your clit and starts fingering you so fervently that pressure rapidly builds inside you, albeit in uncharted territory. It’s nowhere near the surface like it always is; it’s charging at you from somewhere too deep, a spot you didn’t even know existed. He beckons. He beckons as he licks your pulse on your clit. He beckons as he hums years’ worth of shameful confessions into your core. He beckons your demise closer when he clings to your hand and intertwines his fingers with yours, jarringly contrasting the rawness of his animalistic grunts. Everything that happened tonight, the lemon drinks, the sex playlist, the dancing, the backstage orgy, the grassy high, the ravenous lust he devours you with, everything, everything morphs into a ball of pure fire and scorches your sanity away as he makes you squirt in his mouth.

You can’t tell if you’re falling apart or falling deeper in love.

Without giving you a moment’s respite, Jungkook springs back on his feet, quickly unbuckles his belt, and takes his cock out. You’re fucking drooling at his size, and just imagining that looming stretch makes your pussy throb. You want him. You want him. You’ve never wanted something this much in your life, and now you know how creative you can get. No hands, with hands, sideways, upside down…

Turns out you just needed the right… muse. 

“I still got two minutes,” he checks his watch. “Now give me my money’s worth.”

He rams himself into you with such force that you’re seeing stars with every thrust. His face twists with unbearable amounts of pleasure, and he’s trying really hard not to go off the rails. Not yet. Not right now. But you’re making it almost impossible for him. The way your eyes are rolling back, the way your moans come so deep from your throat, the way you cling to him, groping him, scratching him.

He fucking loses it.

“Don’t be gentle,” he urges you as he takes your hand and puts it around his throat. “Go for it, you can’t hurt me. Harder.”

You start closing your fingers around his throat, and the magnitude of his moans suddenly triples. He starts fucking you with afresh fervor like he wants to pass through you, and you get the weirdest thrill out of being trapped between him and the cold wall. He reaches for your makeshift gag out of nowhere and removes it from your mouth, and gives you your final order to end his life.

“Bite my lips.”

You sink your teeth so deep into his flesh that you taste a hint of iron on your tongue, and he cums so hard that you watch his soul leave his body. You instantly backtrack and take his lips within yours as if to soothe him, letting him ride his high for as long as he wants with his forehead pressed against yours. You don’t know how long it takes for him to come back, but even when he calms down, every breath he takes still comes out as a faint moan. With every breath he takes, something swells bigger in your chest.

And your little euphoric bubble loudly pops when a scream approaches closer.

“HEY! WHAT’S GOING ON IN THERE?”

When you turn to the source of the voice, the flashlights aimed at you almost turn both of you blind, and the officers activate your fight or flight mode. Jungkook grabs your hand, and you start booking it, laughing your asses off for who knows how many blocks.

“This is exactly why I don’t pay for sex!” he roars when you finally stop in another alley. “Fucking christ, my life literally flashed before my eyes just now.”

“Relax, will you? This is not in their juris–dick–tion.” 

The reaction comes out as quiet wheezes. You’re both so tired that you can’t even laugh anymore. You take a minute to fully recover, now at least sober thanks to the adrenaline jumpstart, then hail a cab to head home.

“Maybe instead of a bunch of activities, we should just have sex from now on,” you suggest, trying to pass it as a super chill remark.

“Yeah, I’ve heard somewhere that it regulates dopamine and whatever, right?” he casually comments. “Not to mention fiscally responsible.”

“I said regular sex; I didn’t say anything about regulate,” you snort. “Your dopamine levels are likely permanently fucked up because of your workaholism.”

“Wanna permanently fuck me up, too?”

HE LITERALLY NEEDS TO SHUT THE FUCK UP BECAUSE, YES, YOU VERY MUCH DO!

“Wait, are you…?” he squints. It’s only dawning on him right now that you might not be joking at all. “Are you serious?”

“I mean, yeah… I had a lot of fun tonight,” you answer, but your face starts falling upon his lack of reaction. “Unless… you didn’t. Then we don—”

“I DID! God, I so did, it’s…” he raises his voice in panic. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

How to properly word this? Well, maybe it’s not that bad—you’re the one who reads gun smut after all. But reading is something, doing is something else. What if you think there is something fundamentally wrong with him? What if this damages your perception of him so bad that you don’t want anything to do with him anymore? What if this permanently fucks up your friendship instead, IF it hasn’t already, and he will have to drift through this life all by himself again? He can’t imagine a life without you, and nothing is worth taking that risk, but it feels like the window has long closed on the “Never mind” grace period. 

When his urges only lived in his fantasies, they weren’t this maddeningly itchy, but he knows what you taste like now.

“Remember what I said at the club?” he fidgets with his fingers. “When I said if this is your vanilla threshold…”

“You didn’t,” you counter. “You said, ‘the things you crave start becoming—’ then got interrupted by that dimpled Squirtle.”

“That’s Joon’s actual nickname, you know. Rina gave it to him after their squirtathon,” Jungkook shares with a super straight face, making you giggle.

“Then complete your sentence right now,” you encourage him. “The things you crave start becoming…?”

He has backed himself into a corner. There is no turning back from this now. If he senses that this is going to massively blow up in his face, he will deploy everything at his disposal to erase this conversation from your mind, this whole night, all of it, and will never ever talk about anything even remotely reminiscent of it. He will forever keep your taste at the back of his palate as the one souvenir from tonight, though.

He takes a few seconds, then finally lets it rip.

“Sicker,” he confesses through a heavy sigh. “This is progressively gonna get worse.”

“Define worse,” you start an impromptu deposition, appealing to his “Objection!”-loving Phoenix Wright side. “Does it involve anything other than consenting adults? 

“No.”

“Does it involve coercion of any kind?”

“No.”

“Does it involve anything illegal at all?”

“Except for my dealer whom you call more than I do, no.”

“Does it involve anything that can only be found on the dark web?”

“GOD no, what?!”

“Had to ask. Since you have a particular fascination with loopholes,” you shrug. “The rest is negotiable.”

“So you’re fine with this?”

“Again, go on Reddit sometime,” you advise as a cure for his extreme caution. “If it’s going to benefit my pleasure also, then yes.”

No.

No, you’re bullshitting.

There is no way you meant it. You’re just saying things because you feel bad for him. It will maybe be fine for like three times, and then he’s going to hear the inevitable, “Yeah, listen, I don’t think I can do this”, and then it’s going to be unsalvageably awkward between you.

He has to stress test it.

“In that case, I regret to inform you that once a month is NOT enough,” he firmly declares. “My opening offer is five times a week.”

“Five–Five times?” 

“Well, I was actually gonna say every day, but figured your pussy needs some downtime, too.”

“EVERY DAY?!”

“I have three years to catch up on, and you’re surprised I wanna fuck 25/8 now? You’re the one who poked the bear,” he protests. “Fine, I’m willing to negotiate. Four times a week.”

“ONCE IS FINE!” you shriek. “I can’t come up with a production like this four times a week.”

“Three times then.”

“Once.”

“Twice?”

“I said once!”

Jungkook wheezes his lungs out, and it’s such a pleasant sound to your ears that you’re actively thinking of ways to stay mad at him. He has no business being this endeared, but he loves it when you’re ticked. He can’t help it. 

And even though he doesn’t want to load too much meaning into it, he does notice you insist on “once” instead of rescinding your offer altogether on the grounds of “This is sus af.”

“What’s so damn funny?!” you snap.

“Granted, it would depend on the agenda, but even once a week is pushing it,” he answers rather seriously. “We can just get together once a month like we always do. Any time you wanna pass up on sex, just say it, and I’ll blow like 100k on some golden hotdog or something instead.” 

“Why did you stress me the fuck out then?!”

“I wanted to see if you really knew the difference between caring and caving,” he tucks your hair behind your ear. “You don’t owe me anything just because we’re close.”

You want to keep yelling at him, but something in your chest sizzles all of a sudden. Not only are you not used to him being solemn like this, but also… Of course you don’t owe anything to him, it’s just that… It’s just that you…

Ugh, fucking charming egomaniacal asshole.

“That’s manipulation,” you scorn, a lot more calmly than you intended to.

“I believe the correct term is occupational deformation,” he quips. 

“I mean… we can do like twice a month at least,” you purse your lips. “You have three whole years to catch up on after all.”

His lips slightly part in surprise, but the façade only lasts for like two seconds.

“Wow, dick so good you can’t wait to get back on it, huh?” he slowly nods with narrowed eyes, exasperatingly proud of himself. “Or was it my insane pussy eating skills?”

“Oh, fuck you, Jeon!” you groan and punch his arm, a lot lower this time. 

He bursts out laughing and pulls you close entirely instinctively. In a momentary lapse of sanity, he has completely forgotten what he is and is not to you. His body seems to have gotten used to your skin so scarily fast that, for a second there, it actually made him think he has the liberty to kiss you whenever he wants. If he didn’t stop himself at the very last minute with a panic-ridden “WHAT AM I DOING?!” who the fuck knows what would follow that? 

You, on the other hand, get heart palpitations, butterflies in your stomach, and a headrush all at the same time simply because you’re this close to him.

This motherfucker is going to kill you before you can eat soup with no hands even once.

“I’m dying to,” he quietly speaks into your lips as the cab comes to a halt. “Keep it wet for me until I come to collect.”

thank you for reading! if you've enjoyed this, your reblogs and feedback would motivate me very much to keep going ♡

There’s no time for you to ask questions before the chief opens the dark wooden door located at the back of the room and motions for you to enter his personal office first.

You do, but the sight of what’s inside nearly causes you to stop and the chief to bump into you from behind. The sight of who’s inside.

Jeon.

“Are you kidding,” you hear him mutter under his breath, and it’s obviously not because he’s so elated that his detective is you. No, it’s because he despises you.

Disgusted eyes burn holes in the side of your face as you follow the chief's command and sit down next to your colleague from another division.

The tension definitely doesn't go unnoticed, but Jeon Jeongguk isn't an exception; you know that all male officers feel more or less the same way about you. It's the reason that the tension goes unmentioned and why you’d hoped for your usual female detective partner to sit there.

"Where's Jihyo? I assumed we'd work together as usual," you question, ignoring your own annoyance and the immature man next to you, who you know is doing his best to let you know just how much you appall him purely by facial expression. 

"She's been moved to another operation to help out. This pairing is necessary because you'll be undercover as spouses. I know you two can be professional about this."

"What?!" It's Jeongguk's upset voice that sounds, and for once, you share his displeased opinion.

Spouses. Not only has the chief dismissed a really important case that you’ve been trying to get flying for a long time, but you’re supposed to play… spouses? Unfortunately, you know better than to anger the chief more than necessary, so you focus on suffocating the most urgent fire.

"I'm sure that's not needed," you argue calmly, attempting to sound like the more mature one in the room. "One of us could go alone, or I could go with Sana? People are much more accepting of same-sex couples nowadays."

"Of course, you man-hating lesbian."

"Oh, grow up, you fucking child,” you bite in Jeon’s direction before returning your hopeful (and desperate) eyes to the chief. “She and I could be roommates? Cousins?"

"Stop it," the chief warns half a second before you can suggest acquaintances, and it’s easy to see that the slightly above middle-aged man feels like he's talking to two preschoolers. 

"Look, I'm not going to argue about this. We don't send anyone out alone, you know that,” he berates lazily from behind his desk with a pen pointed in your direction.Rumor has it that he’s set to retire in a few months, and you’re sure he’s looking forward to it more than ever at that moment.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen. You two are newly-weds, moving in basically across from the Jungs. It's a bit of a religious neighborhood, but like, weirdly so, so you'll be a housewife and Jeon a lawyer. It allows you to stay home during the days to get to know the neighbors, and Jeon can say he's taken a week or two off to help settle in."

Your jaw clenches as the details keep coming, and you know, without even looking, that even if he’s just as upset as you are, at least your "professions" are amusing to Jeongguk. He’s probably even smirking.

“What about him then?” you question, nodding toward Jeongguk while keeping eye contact with the chief, “He’s got his whole arm covered in tattoos, won’t that be a problem?”

“No, a lot of the suspects have them too, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, so it’s only a trip back in time for women, got it,” you seethe. It can't get any worse than this.

The chief ignores your comment, "Look, this is what we've deemed the most inconspicuous; a young, married, heterosexual couple. You'll blend right in, and being recently married, it'll give you an excuse to seem a little… distant."

You understand perfectly well what he’s implying, but you can't help but question it. "And what does that mean?"

The chief sighs and lowers his head a little, "It means that you two need to put on your happy faces and act like you're madly in love and like keeping your hands off each other is harder than the donuts Officer Kim brings on Tuesdays. That way, sneaking off together and whispering in each other’s ears, as well as a missed neighborhood barbeque or two, might go unnoticed. Or at least seem… well, inconspicuous."

A scoff sounds from beside you. "I don't get why I have to be the one to go with her? Isn't there another detective to do all that pretend lovey-dovey shit with her?"

Apparently, that's the thing that really upsets Jeongguk, and even though you find him self-centered and immature, it still hurts a little to know that even fake being in love with you is unmentionable.

"No. Like I said, I won't argue. Time is of the essence here; I need a man and a woman that can pass as a couple and work together. You're a great officer, and she's a great detective."

"You sure about that? And what about my safety, then? I don't want to "accidentally" get shot because I'm a man and she feels inferior to me!"

Ah, there it is. The reason you're so insanely disliked. A mission ends with a gunshot wound to the thigh of your former detective partner–now officer and Jeon’s best friend–and suddenly everything’s your fault and everyone’s turned against you. It wasn’t your fault, and it’s not like you ever wanted or planned for it to end that way!

For the first time, you turn your head to really look at the man beside you, your glare powered by years of anger and frustration. His face is flushed, revealing just how irritated this whole ordeal is making him.

In another universe, one in which men don't have personalities, you'd for sure want him. There's no denying the attractiveness that oozes from him, but masculinity is both a blessing and a curse.

He's gorgeous, raven hair parted to expose his just as dark eyebrows and his forehead. He’s got cheekbones and a jaw from another world, and it looks like he's wearing the black pants of his uniform but has foregone the shirt in favor of a dark blue sweatshirt with the police academy's print on it. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his veiny forearms–one of which tattooed– and hands are on display, and it's hot.

He's hot. Intimidating and hot. 

But he's also so… mean. So spoiled and entitled and just such a man. It’s been less than a year, maybe eight months or so, since he transferred from another district, and during those months, you've never spoken more than a few sentences to each other.

Still, you’ve known of him since before he even put his foot in the building, his reputation preceding him. Unfortunately, he's one of the best officers to grace this part of the country in a long time; his accomplishments piling up like golden trophies.

It's harder to measure for a field officer, still, the dude has an unbelievable rate of cleared and successful cases, surprisingly few complaints made against him, and the fitness competitions held every year among the officers are just another opportunity for him to improve his previous impressive record. He could probably bench five times your bodyweight and kick in whichever steel-reinforced door he wants. Everything turns to gold underneath his skilled fingertips, and it makes it all exponentially worse.

Perhaps he deserves some of the praise, but you still stand by the fact that Jeongguk is spoiled and entitled and just such a man. Almost all the males inside this building are. Pumped full of the worst kind of drug, produced by their own body—testosterone—and you're so fucking tired of it. 

Before you can defend yourself, bite back that he needs to shut the fuck up, you're interrupted.

"She's still not allowed to carry,” the chief clarifies calmly. “You've done mostly field, and she's done investigating. You'll work together, combine your strengths and eliminate your weaknesses. Okay?"

"Fine," you huff, "but I'm bringing my dog."

When you leave the room—Jeongguk exiting behind you only to be greeted by another male officer—you hear it.

“You’ll put her in her place, right, Jeon? Put an end to all of this and show her it’s a man’s world she’s living in?”

“Of course,” he replies just as confidently, “I’ll show her.”

And you know you might as well start writing your will.

Three days later, you’re sulking in the passenger seat of a sleek black car, being driven by none other than Jeon Jeongguk himself. It’s not his personal car, and it for sure doesn’t belong to you; yours is still at the repair shop where it’s been for faulty brakes three times in the last six months. 

You wanted to drive, but apparently, your fake new neighbors are so sexist that you can’t be seen stepping out of a car after driving your “husband” around. Because everyone knows driving is a man’s job, right?

Jeongguk has a big suitcase in the backseat. You have two, one containing clothes and whatever you need for your stay and another that holds food and other dog stuff. In the actual trunk, inside a crate–because you value his safety over everything–your Doberman sits.

You don’t know much about the house except that it’s big and mostly empty. The basic furniture has apparently already been moved there yesterday, but the rest of “your” furniture and possessions are scheduled to arrive within the next few days.

Ideally, you’ll manage to solve the case before the moving trucks pull up, sparing you the work of hauling heavy objects inside when you know it’s just for show and that someone’s gonna want them back eventually. If that happens anyway, you’re already contemplating leaving it to Jeongguk since he wants to be the man so badly. He’s obviously not happy about being partnered with you, but it at least brings him joy to see you have it worse. Except for having to be around you, he’s living the dream, getting to be a lawyer and have a housewife to be serviced by.

Among the chief's instructions is a dress code, and so today, Jeongguk is wearing black slacks and a white, crispy button-up shirt while you’re wearing a dark blue off-the-shoulder sundress. Unsurprisingly, you need to look put-together at all times which makes you hate your new fake neighbors even before meeting them. Well, a few of them are suspected to be some of the most successful bank robbers in the country’s history, but besides that.

The thought makes you huff quietly, and even with your gaze out the windshield, you see from the corner of your eye how Jeongguk glances at you. Probably giving you more of a glare, if you’re being honest.

There hasn’t been much going on conversation-wise either. The arguing of who was to drive happened an hour ago, and after that, you’ve laid a few comments on his choice of roads, and he’s answered them with just as much attitude as you’ve muttered them. You see this adventure ending in one or two ways–you and Jeongguk becoming friends isn’t one of them.

At five p.m., you pull up in front of your new house, and at first glance, it’s lovely. The entire neighborhood is. Big, pristine houses painted in white with green, mowed lawns and backyards, and white Picket fences. Your house is no different.

When the engine’s silenced and the key in Jeongguk’s right palm, you start feeling nervous. But you can’t let him know, so you focus on the task at hand. 

Your hands are a little sweaty, and to lessen the tremors, your fingers play with the diamond on your ring finger. It’s fake, but they’re done so well these days that even a professional would have a hard time differentiating. There’s a ring decorating Jeongguk’s finger too, a gold wedding band that you have to admit really suits his brand. 

Another thing he has with him is a gun, something you’re not allowed. But joke’s on anyone who thinks you’d willingly go unarmed. You have razor blades with you, sometimes a blade lies in your bra, protected in a plastic case. Other times, it’s strapped to your thigh. Like now.

As soon as you open the car door and step out with a fake smile on your face, you head to the trunk to get Fenrir. It’s unnerving how you can see your closest neighbors peeking out through their windows already, and you know instantly what kind of neighborhood this is. The brown Doberman jumps out, wagging his undocked tail and stretching after the drive.

“Since people are watching,” you hear Jeongguk from behind you. When you turn around, you almost lose your breath.

As he’s grabbing your bags to carry them inside, he’s wearing a smile that looks so incredibly genuine you’re almost left speechless. But of course, you can tell by his gritted words that he’d gladly let you carry them yourself if there weren’t witnesses. Actually, if no one was around to see, he’d probably just deck you with one of them.

“Fuck you, I can bring them myself,” you mutter through a sweet smile of your own, head tilted slightly.

“Just go inside before anyone can come here and start interrogating us, we still have things to go through.”

“Fine,” you snap, and together with Fenrir, you walk toward the entrance, unlocking it.

Jeongguk isn’t far behind, dumping your bags by the door that he closes behind him before turning to you.

You’ve gone through a few things regarding your disguise, but a lot of details still need to be agreed on.

Jeongguk is Kim Jaehyun and you’re Kim Yeji, high school sweethearts that married just a few months ago. The honeymoon was set in Paris at Jeongguk’s request, making you roll your eyes at the laziness. Jaehyun is just such a romantic.

But only a few minutes after the door is closed, a gentle but firm knock is placed on it. You exchange somewhat panicked looks with Jeongguk before inhaling and exhaling deeply and reaching for the door.

On the other side, dressed in colorful blouses and flowy skirts and with a plastic container each, two women stand.

“Hi,” you start, trying to channel your shy but polite inner housewife.

“Hello! Welcome to the neighborhood!” one exclaims happily, nudging the other subtly with her elbow.

“Yes, hello! Such a surprise to see new neighbors already! I’m Jung Eunha and this is Min Hyeji, we live just across the street. Or at least I do, Hyeji is your next door neighbor!” she nods toward the other woman.

“Oh, uh, nice to meet you,” you greet, hoping that the discomfort behind your smile isn’t visible. “I’m Kim Yeji, and this is my husband Jaehyun.”

Improvising, you turn around hastily and go to… well, touch him somehow, but he’s closer than you expected and so your hand bumps into his shoulder, and you just… keep it there somewhat awkwardly before slowly dropping it.

“Nice to meet you,” Jeongguk starts, his focus laying beyond you. “Yeah, we’ve been looking for a new home for a while, and when we saw this, we just fell in love immediately. Such potential and with a really nice neighborhood.”

“Yes,” Hyeji smiles proudly, “Perfect for when you get little ones!”

You feel yourself hurling on the inside, disgusted by the thought of having kids with someone as vile as Jeongguk, but he manages to keep his cool even though you assume he’s taken by surprise as well. How can they already know that you don’t have children? Unless they really supervised your entire arrival?

“Yeah, we’re not really there yet, but I agree; it’ll be perfect for our future kids, right, honey?”

He looks down at you. They all look at you.

Honey.

“Oh, yeah, absolutely!” you smile, trying to blink away the image of your archnemesis gazing at you so fondly. You would’ve never guessed it, but when they’re not overflowing with murderous disgust, Jeon Jeongguk has the prettiest brown eyes. Soft, brown eyes.

“Well, it’s so nice to meet you, but we gotta run. Here are some cookies,” Eunha excuses, taking a step closer to push her container in your hands. Hyeji follows, stacking hers on top. “We’ll see you around soon!”

And then, they’re gone, and the door’s closed.

You remain silent for a moment, just to make sure no one’s lingering and hearing stuff they’re not supposed to.

“Dude, what was that?” Jeongguk asks, and when you meet his eyes this time, the softness is gone, traded back for that familiar hatred.

“What?” you question with an irritated whisper, still paranoid the women might stand with their ears pressed against the door.

“I thought you were supposed to be a good actress?! Yet you touched me like I was your new colleague? ‘H-hi, I’m K-kim Y-yeji and th-this is m-my husband J-Jaehyun.’”

“Shut the fuck up,” you grit, walking away to place the containers on the kitchen counter.

“Maybe you don’t understand, I wouldn’t expect you to, but we need them to believe us. Either you touch me like you love me or you don’t touch me at all.”

After a few more digs at each other, you split up. Jeongguk disappears somewhere further into the house while you unpack Fenrir’s bowls, the gifted containers left on the counter. The big dog follows you closely to the kitchen sink, propping his snout in between you and the counter and hoping you’ll fill his bowl with something tasty.

“No food now,” you explain, setting the water-filled bowl down in an appropriate spot in the kitchen. “There you go, you must be thirsty.”

Although surely disappointed, Fenrir sniffs at the bowl before lapping at the water. You take a step back, watching him with a crease of worry between your eyebrows.

This whole arrangement has you incredibly nervous. You’re used to spying on people and such, but it’s usually just... observing. Many times, you’re seated inside a car with binoculars, or you’re tailing someone through the mall. Rarely, you even have to talk to the suspects, and now? You’re living next door to them, trying to get to know them.

You don’t even know what’s worse; living in the house next to your enemy, or living with your enemy. For all you know, Jeongguk might suffocate you in your sleep with a pillow over your face before the armed robbers even get the chance at taking you out.

“You’re the only man I can trust,” you coo, scratching Fenrir behind his ear when he approaches, a few leftover water drops making it onto your dress.

But with a sigh, you accept the fact that you’re stranded in the house for the coming days, and so you might as well follow your partner’s lead and look around.

It’s a nice house, you conclude. Not the very biggest, but still spacious enough. On the ground floor, there’s the kitchen, a dining area, and living room, all equipped with the basic necessities.

The dining area has a large dining table and eight chairs surrounding it, and the living room harbors a huge, gray couch and a very nice wooden coffee table. A wooly blanket hangs over one of the armrests, and a huge tv is mounted on the wall opposite the couch. 

What you don’t necessarily like is the fact that it’s... open. There aren’t really any separating walls except for around the kitchen, which means that if you need to hide from someone, you can’t. Well, maybe you can lock yourself in the bathroom, and hopefully, the bedrooms also have doors with locks.

The stairs creak a little under your feet, and you definitely take notice of it as you climb them to check out what’s upstairs.

To your surprise, the first thing you see is Jeongguk’s back. Confusion sets in as you watch him. He’s looking inside one of the two bedrooms, frozen with his hand on the handle.

You approach carefully, not sure you want to one; be so close to him, and two; know what’s gotten him so... confused? Confounded? Surprised?

Maintaining as much distance as possible, you peek inside. But it’s just a room? You can’t see the entirety of it since you’re not about to squeeze yourself through the doorway with Jeongguk still in it, but it looks… normal? Nice, actually.

There’s a queen-sized bed placed against the cream colored wall, drowned in beige linen bedding with an oak nightstand on each side. On the opposite side, to your left, there are doors leading to a built-in closet, an oak dresser, and a gray, empty plant pot, standing in the corner.

“You... like this one, or…?” you turn your head to glance toward the other door, leading to the other, unexplored, bedroom. 

You don’t want to let him choose before you’ve seen both because you know he’d rather die than give you the better one without a fight, and you’re not about to sleep in a bed covered in rat shit or something.

But before you can even walk toward that other door, Jeongguk opens his mouth.

“Yeah, well I have to, since this is the only room with a bed.”

At his surprisingly casual words, your heart drops. No. That can’t be true. Your steps are quick, and when you glide the door open, you curse to yourself. The room is empty, completely barren.

With your hand still on the handle, you turn your head toward Jeongguk, horrified. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

“And you think I’d wanna fuck that?” he snaps, eyeing your body with disgust. 

You hate him, you really fucking hate him, and you wish his words didn’t mean anything to you, but they do. The dress you’re wearing makes you uncomfortable, it makes you feel vulnerable under his gaze, and you wish you were allowed to wear your own comfortable clothes and not the ones given to you.

It’s beautiful, it really is, but you loathe that it leaves your shoulders, arms, and lower legs exposed. You hate that you’re supposed to be pretty for your ‘husband’ and even other men, and you hate that they always have to look, that they have to judge. Your value as a woman lies in the way you look, you learned that at a young age just like everyone else, and you hate it. You just don’t wanna be perceived.

Despite already being well aware that the number of men willing to date you would be close to zero—if you’d even want to date, that is—you feel like he’s stabbed you right through the heart.

It especially hurts because he’s so goddamn beautiful, so of course, you respond with the usual anger. “I didn’t mean it like that, you fucking idiot, but yeah, the feeling’s mutual.”

Briefly, you see how Jeongguk rolls his eyes before he lets go of the door and steps back. “So what do we do? I’m not sleeping next to you; I heard you carry a knife wherever you go.”

Well, it’s not technically a knife, but he might as well continue believing that. “Yeah, well there are men everywhere I go? And don’t tell me you’re stupid enough to believe I’d come here unarmed?” you question. How many brain cells does he have? One? “And there’s a couch, so I suggest one of us just takes that.”

You glare at each other. He knows, just as well as you do, that no one is going to volunteer. “Fine. We’ll take turns.”

Sleeping on a couch isn’t necessarily the worst thing that could happen, you just don’t want to sleep out in the living room and feel so exposed and vulnerable. But you’re also tired, fighting with Jeongguk has taken so much of your energy already, and by the looks of it—of him—he’s not gonna give in very easily.

You sigh and roll your eyes, “Fine, you can take the first night.”

He smirks victoriously, immediately going downstairs to retrieve his suitcase to unpack his clothes. Since a neighbor could visit literally any second, you need to be able to keep the act up inside the house as well, and so, as soon as Jeongguk is finished unpacking his clothes, you bring yours. And you hate seeing them hang next to his in the closet, just like you hate him.

Just a few hours after your arrival, there are more knocks on your front door. You’re upstairs when you hear it, descending the stairs to see Jeongguk at the door, talking to one of the women from earlier with a small bouquet in his hand. Eunha.

“We’d love it if—oh, hello again!” she greets when you come to stand next to him. “I was just telling your husband about the barbeque we’re throwing on Saturday! You’re more than welcome to join us if you want. Get to know your neighbors and all that,” she smiles excitedly.

“Well, we can’t pass up an opportunity like that,” Jeongguk chuckles, “Right, honey?”

You’ll never get used to it. The way he looks down at you so fondly, with warm brown eyes and a sweet smile. It both melts your heart and sends an ice cold shiver down your spine.

“Yeah, no, of course,” you smile, looking forward as you try to ignore Jeongguk wrapping his arm around your waist.

Meanwhile Eunha just watches the two of you with heart eyes, smiling when you meet her gaze. “We’ll bring meat of some kind, some... chicken? Maybe?”

“Great idea, and some beer,” Jeongguk adds, finally tearing his eyes from the side of your face. You breathe out. He’s just so intimidating, no less when he’s as close as he is, his disguised scrutinizing gaze on your face and his warm hand on your waist.

“Great, see you then!” she nods, taking a few steps back.

“See you, and thanks again for the flowers,” Jeongguk grins before closing the door and thrusting the bouquet in your hands.

“Excuse me?”

“Be of use and trim the stems and put them in water.”

“There are few people ruder than you, Jeon Jeongguk,” you hiss quietly. “Very few people I hate more.”

“It’s not as if you’re very liked, so go ahead,” he scoffs.

Asshole, you think, but still move toward the kitchen with the flowers in hand. They’re actually very pretty, and you turn the bouquet around to admire them. You’re not very familiar with the different sorts of flowers, and the only kind you can identify are daisies. They’re  blended together with other kinds in a variety of colors and sizes. There are light yellow ones, pink ones, and a few tall, blue ones. You especially like those blue ones.

Trim the stems and put them in water, Jeongguk said. You open a drawer in search of some scissors and find a pair that looks like they could get the job done.

Then you start cutting. It’s harder than you thought; the stems are much thicker and the scissors aren’t sharp enough.

What you don’t notice is Jeongguk, standing behind you and peering down over your shoulder.

“Oh my God, step aside,” he exclaims in annoyance, making you jump. Before you know it, he’s grabbed a knife from a drawer and pushed you to the side. “Have you never gotten flowers or what?”

You back away, scissors lowered uselessly. “Shut the fuck up, you idiot.”

“So, you haven’t?” he taunts, “I don’t know why I’m surprised, flowers are for pretty girls after all.”

Lips pressed together in frustration and humiliation, you watch his back as he finishes the job, clearly happy with his remarks.

You hate it so much, how there’s nothing for you to retort with. Jeon Jeongguk is gorgeous, he’s smart, and he’s talented. He learns a new skill in the blink of an eye, and can get anyone to like him. And the worst part is that he’s very aware of it. He knows he’s unmatched, and there’s nothing you can say that would hurt him.

“I hope you get kicked so hard in the balls that they rupture.”

Jeongguk winces slightly at your words, not long before he rummages through another cupboard and produces a glass vase to store the flowers in. “Rough,” he comments, and you roll your eyes.

“By the way, you know that dress looks horrible on you? You don’t have the tits for it.”

You swallow, feeling your heart break further and your confidence that’s already ninety percent anger, crumble. You feel even uglier around him than usual, humiliated to have to be perceived.

More than anything, you wish that you could just rip your clothes out of that closet, stuff them into your suitcase, take Fenrir, and go the fuck home, but you can’t. You know you’re one misstep away from being fired, and you wouldn’t exactly get the best of recommendation letters with as much shit as you’ve accidentally stirred up. Not that it was your fault. Still, no one in your field is going to hire you, so it’s better to stay, even if that means Jeon Jeongguk will be the death of you.

“We need to plan,” you mutter, subconsciously folding your arms over your chest to hide yourself. “The barbeque is in two days.”

Jeongguk carries the vase to the dining table and sets it down in the middle before turning to you. You make sure to maintain enough distance and focus your eyes on his face and not the way he’s leaning back against the table–his weight supported by his arms–or the way his shirt strains over his chest. Ridiculous how he can be so pretty but so vile.

At least you’re relieved that he seemingly turns his professional mode on as he bites his lip, thinking.

“Well, we know the ultimate goal is to—”

“—Get inside the Jungs’ house.”

“Yes,” Jeongguk agrees. “We need to figure out a way to get inside the house so we can bug it. That’s gonna be the best chance, and hopefully, we’ll get some kind of confession. Maybe they’ll even lead us to the money.”

It takes you ten minutes to plan for the next two days. It’s a bit rough, mostly open to let you see what happens and adjust accordingly, but it’s a good start.

In forty-eight hours, give or take, you’ll show up at the Jungs’ house for the barbeque. You have a feeling Jung Eunha isn’t that involved in her husband’s criminal adventures, but she could be sitting on valuable information. If not about the heists or money, then at least on how to get inside their house. 

So, your focus lies on her and the other wives, while Jeongguk will try to get close to the men, and thus, Jung Hoseok, himself.

You pack away the blue dress.

<previous | next>

“You owe me!” Taehyung flails, feet stomping underneath the dining table like a tempered toddler.

Wedding season peaked in the fall — both a blessing and a curse. Hence, you only liked two things after being bombarded with back to back bookings: 1. a sweet treat 2. spending time with your friends. After weeks of tearful vows and hours of rigorous editing, seeing Taehyung, one of your closest friends since college, should be a blessing. 

Should be.

“When have we ever kept tally on owing shit? And for the last time, Tae,” you rub your temples, “I'm not helping you film. Can't you just cancel or reschedule with one of your directors?” 

In any other circumstance, you would have taken up this project.

You and Taehyung have a long-standing history starting as bright-eyed film students in the same cohort. You’d eventually discover his innate skills and very (heavy emphasis on the very) eccentric visions in film. He was different — highly cherished and praised by the university's faculty. You, on the other hand, put in extra hours only to barely skim the baseline.

You were just … good. Which isn’t a bad thing, but in a room full of endless potential and creativity, you felt like you didn’t belong. 

Taehyung never saw an issue in your style and passion, stereotypical or not.

Even though your classmates awarded him with the title “Most Likely to Win an Oscars,” he did quite the opposite. Everyone, including yourself, expected greatness from Kim Taehyung — whether it be through starting his own production company or winning a Sundance Film competition. 

But … his passions took a turn. 

Of all the spaces he could’ve wound up in, he landed himself in the adult film industry.

Yes. Porn.

When he broke the news on his career switch, you smiled and nodded, praying you didn’t display a single ounce of disdain. He’s been nothing but supportive in your journey and career. The least you can do is swallow and hide your judgment in favor of supporting your best friend.

Minus this particular tall ask. 

He frowns. “Please? I really need your help. You’ll do just fine, I promise.”

“I’m literally a wedding videographer.” You deadpan. 

“And you’d be perfect for the job!”

You shake your head vehemently, choosing to redirect all the attention to your untouched plate of chicken wings. They're cold now, time wasted on Taehyung's bizarre request.

“Come on.” He pleads. “I never ask you for these types of favors …”

"What about the time you asked me to stick a thermometer up your ass?"

"That was a medical emergency!"

You both continue listing crazy requests you’ve done for each other, inevitably leading to the same response: no, you didn’t want to film porn on his behalf. 

Boundaries existed for a reason and Taehyung knew when to throw in the towel. The last thing he'd want to do is make you uncomfortable.

Still, his shoulders drop, eyes hung low in disappointment. “Alright, I’ll let the director know I’ll have to miss out on this project.”

Bam, case-closed, you both can resume the night as intended.

Utensils scrape and clatter against the plates among other tables in the restaurant, but the silence and tension rings louder between you and your best friend. He purses his lips and looks away, unwilling to meet your eyes or say what’s weighing on his mind. 

You sigh. “Can I ask you something?”

"Sure, whatever." 'Sure? Whatever?' Now, that's teetering close to fighting words …

“Why this field? Our professors always loved your work—”

His bitter laugh cuts through your words. He leans against his chair and tips his head back.

“Spare me the judgment. I expected this from other people, not from my best friend.”

“I’m not judging—”

“You are.”

This was supposed to be a carefree night. 

No drama.

Instead, it seems to be leading right to the dreaded Talk™. Which, unfortunately, is anything but carefree.

“You’re right.” You concede, catching a flash of his frown. "Only because we've always tip-toed around this topic."

“What do you want me to say?”

“The truth. Tell me why you decided on this route.”

“Dude, you can’t even say ‘sex work’ or ‘porn industry’ without looking like a deer in headlights. What makes you think I wanna talk to you about it?” Taehyung rolls his eyes. 

You grimace. Has your discomfort always been this apparent?

Hold on. Pause. 

“But you want me to help film?” You press.

“Well, I was wrong for trying to bring my friend out of their shell. There’s more out there besides weddings.”

Silence.

“W-wait.” He stammers. “That’s not what I meant. You know I respect–”

You hold a hand up. 

"I know.” You say, keeping your voice as leveled as possible. That was a talk for another time.

“Just tell me why you chose this route, Tae. I only ask because I genuinely care and want to know.”

You do.

Both you and Taehyung know that's all you do … too much sometimes, but that's what he loves about you.

“It’s just,” He starts, visibly uncomfortable and awkward, “I’m burnt out from all these expectations. You said it yourself ... ‘All the professors loved your work.’ I can’t fuckin’ keep up.”

“Filming porn is easy." He continues. "There’s no second-guessing. And … it's different. Makes me feel special.” He sniffs and wipes at his nose. “I'm happy there.”

You grab his hand, squeezing gently while he looks at you with a guilt stricken expression.

“I'm sorry for being short with you.” He apologizes. "You're right too. We keep dodging this topic."

Your thumb traces the top of his hand, “I think I’m just a little biased about that—the porn industry.” You correct yourself. “For the record, I'll always support you.”

Taehyung scoots closer to your chair and wraps his arms around you.

“I really did mean it when I said you’d be perfect for the job.”

You laugh. “I don’t think they need a wedding videographer’s touch for that sort of production, but thanks.”

The night continues as intended: lighthearted and free. Waitresses and nearby patrons stare in fascination (or in annoyance … you can't tell nor do you care) whenever a laugh rings a little louder at your table. You always feel fuller after being around your best friend.

“Proud of ya,” he drunkenly confesses after one too many drinks. “Love seeing you in your element.” 

Funnily enough, Taehyung had also dabbled into the wedding industry. Let's just say his clients didn't appreciate his … visions. Not everyone was keen on a Carrie themed wedding announcement, okay?

That's the difference between you and Taehyung. Tried and true versus abstract and risky. There's much to learn from each other, which is why the friendship works.

And you do have a thing or two to learn from Taehyung. 

Hell, you’ve always played it safe – never tested boundaries. You went to school, got decent grades, and now you run your own business. Everything was fine. Too fine.

The world was your oyster; yet, you’ve never made a quest to seek out for more. Point is, you’re comfortable and that’s what makes you uncomfortable.

Substituting for one of Taehyung’s gigs wouldn’t mean you’re forever locked in to that field … right? Makes you wonder, should you just do it? 

“Fuck it,” you mumble to yourself. 

“Hm?” Taehyung looks up from his phone after placing an order for a cab.

“I’ll do it. I’ll help you.”

“Huh? What are you—”

“Filming. Just this once.” You say, more definite in your words.

“Wait, uh, are you serious? You don’t have to, really. I was kidding when I said you owed me.” Taehyung waves his hands frantically.

“No shit.” You grin. “We’re friends. There’s no such thing as owing each other favors. I want to help you because I do. It’s important to you; therefore, important to me.” Self-growth, you tell yourself, because you needed that too.

He stares at you and shakes his head. 

“Let’s talk again when we’re both sober, okay?”

“But …”

“Sober.” He says, final and definite.

One week later

“Not too late to back out.” Taehyung’s voice blares through your phone speaker. 

Actually, it was too late and highly unprofessional if you were to back out the night before. 

“Why would I do that?”

He says your name sternly, “You don’t have to do something you’re uncomfortable with.” 

“Then why would you even ask me to do it?” You stare at your phone, hands slowing as you rub your moisturizer into your skin. 

“Honestly? Didn’t think you’d actually agree …” 

Hard to believe since he damn near dropped on his knees begging for your help.

“Well … surprise.”

“Okay, thank you. Seriously. You really are doing me a huge favor.” He sighs. “Let me know if you need any pointers.”

“Think I should be okay.” You lie. One way or another, you'll get through this project. Similar to your wedding bookings, you'll go in blindly. And similar to your bookings, everything has an opportunity to end beautifully … or not.

Again, you remind yourself to keep an open mind.

“I’m still shocked about this whole ordeal.” He confesses. 

“How so?” 

“You've never seen someone else's genitalia in the flesh.” He snorts.

“I know what a penis and vagina looks like, Tae.” You roll your eyes. 

“You know what I mean.” 

Celibacy at your age was nothing groundbreaking. Remaining a virgin at twenty-nine, however, was not something you accounted for. Your parents' strict dating policy as an adolescent residing under their roof had lots to do with it, but you had full reigns of your romantic life in college. Thanks to your fixation with school, dating never happened; consequently, sex never happened either.

Though, you had many close "fuck it" moments and contemplated randomly hooking up with a stranger to say you've at least experienced sex. Again, never happened. Your first time should be with someone you trusted and cared for. Plus, physical attraction played a huge role and there wasn’t anyone you felt particularly drawn to like that.

At the end of the day, virginity was a social construct. Life goes on. Who cares whether you've been sexually active with another person? 

Hint: you do. And secretly, so does the rest of society.

“So what?”

“Kind of poetic if you think about it.”

What was so poetic about filming porn as a virgin?

“Whatever you say, Shakespeare.” You scoff.

“That's a compliment." You don't have to see him to know he's got a prideful smirk plastered on his face. "But alright, I won’t keep you up any longer. Big day ahead of you tomorrow. Text me if anything comes up.”

“Mmkay, will do. G'night.”

Your clock reads a quarter after eleven. Too late to be doing any editing, but your mind buzzes with one too many thoughts to allow for respite. 

Settling into bed, you crack open your laptop. Might as well be productive and work out your inquiries and schedule for the upcoming month.

Emails? Replied.

Bookings? Confirmed.

Stomach? In knots.

You sink deeper into your mattress. Maybe this was all a mistake, but it's too late to back out now. 

Laptop still perched on your stomach, you groan before immediately clicking into your private browser tab to type in the infamous website you frequented in your early college years when curiosity got the best of you and hormones ran high. 

The first thing you saw were the flashing ads. ‘WANNA JERK OFF? YOU WON’T LAST FIVE SECONDS.’ Next came the tits. And by god, there were lots. You’ve never seen anything more perfect and round than the ones on your screen. A hand leaves your keyboard to grip your covered breast. Hm, yeah, definitely smaller than the ones you see — nipple far from perky like theirs.

More random thumbnails of lewd images pop up as you soak in the page. Your heart races and palms sweat, exhilaration coursing through you as you type in the production company’s name: RkivedShots.

“This is all for educational purposes. Like studying the night before an exam. Yep.” You reason.

Laying against your headboard, your knees prop up to steady your laptop. Hands reaching for your wired earphones, you lower the volume on your speakers in the event you accidentally clicked on something. 

You didn't live with any roommates, but this felt private. In the off chance your neighbors had super hearing powers, you preferred keeping all potentially explicit sounds to yourself.

'Director Kim is different. I like his vision. Totally my style.' Taehyung recounted during a coffee run last week.

Within ten seconds of being on the company’s channel, you concluded one thing: RkivedShots was … odd.

You hover over a thumbnail appearing as a clam, later transforming to a vagina. The title of the video read: reborn as a mussel like aphrodite spawning in sea foam [cum as sea foam].

What the hell.

‘we found god in each other’s genitals’

‘possessive possession — don’t worry, we have a shaman on site’

‘if you were clay, i’d mold you into the prettiest vase [hardcore bdsm]’

Your eyes widen at all the titles, which progressively worsens with the video’s preview containing trippy transitions and themes. Oh, you feel sick.

The idea of filming porn was no easy feat as is, let alone editing afterwards. But if you can’t even stand looking at RkivedShots’ thumbnails, how were you going to survive being on set tomorrow?

Fuck, you have to persevere.

‘fucking the patriarchy out of a conservative [not clickbait]’

Seems normal … ish.

You click on the video out of curiosity.

Big mistake.

Let's paint the scene: Two men at the Oval Office. One man, rather on the thinner side, dressed in hipster clothing with a matcha latte in one hand and a book in another while he had, what you presume, an older politician bent over a desk. 

“SAY YOU LOVE FEMINISM OR ELSE I WON’T FUCK YOU.”

“OH FUCK, I LOVE FEMINISM!!! PLEASE DON'T STOP!” The politician begs and fucks himself back.

Book tossed onto the desk, the hipster pours his iced matcha latte onto the politician’s back and begins going to pound town while the national anthem played in the background.

Your jaw drops.

With a grimace and a quick 'ew,' you frantically search for the back button to free yourself of whatever was playing. Says a lot when you feel more relief on the company's main channel than you had on that one video.

“God, what was that?” You mumble, finger swiping at your mousepad to sift through other videos. Your eyes land on another video titled ‘grapefruit.’ Short and simple. You’re not chancing it though and would rather edit a twenty hour long footage than watch someone potentially fuck a grapefruit … or whatever Director Kim came up with.

Finally, you reach a video appearing "normal" based on the title and thumbnail alone, only showcasing a half naked man in boxer briefs, face cut from view. His tattooed arm rests on his torso, hand cupping his groin area. 

‘relax with me after a long day [JK 🐰]’

You swallow. 

Thirty minutes long. A simple masturbation video. In comparison to all the hour long videos on this channel, this felt like an anomaly. Heart hammering in your chest, you click on the thumbnail.

You made a mental note to call it a night if you see even one crazy transition. You're hopeful though — hopeful the video would do exactly as the title suggested.

To relax — ease your mind a little after being exposed to nothing but oddities this evening.

Maybe, this one will be normal. 

But this begged another question: was porn normal?

Your breath hitches once the video begins, soft piano music playing in the background. The man on screen stirs something in the depths of your stomach. The piercings, sharp jawline, and angled brows paired with his round eyes? Every part of his face was a contradiction. And yet, you were undeniably captivated by his beauty. 

Eyes talk and his spoke to you without words. 

Unlike the video’s thumbnail, he’s completely clothed. The production style mirrored a vlog, except there's the looming knowledge of what's yet to come. Probably him. No, undoubtedly him. 

“Hey.” He greets with a lopsided grin. You increase the volume on your earphones a little higher, eager to hear more of him. 

The video cuts to him cooking a meal, eating, watching television, and working out. Mundane life stuff. Every segment was less than three seconds long. Short-lived. That is, until the next clip cuts to him showering.

The all-glass shower and camera angled modestly leave viewers with wandering thoughts. Even with the steam blurring the shower glass, there's urgency in his movements — longing to rejoin the camera.

The sight of him emerging from the shower stall has you clenching your thighs together. Camera still propped at the same angle, you're only able to make out his upper half. Which, honestly, was more than enough for your mind to dip into darker territories. And fuck … his dripping wet hair and body does things to your poor heart … among other parts of your body. 

As he dries his hair, you catch his eyes. 

Again, no actual words get exchanged. He keeps you entranced.

He’s on a light brown couch now, appearances matching the video’s thumbnail. 

Fumbling with the camera, he props it on the table. Not even one second after he backed away, the camera falls face down. He chuckles, rich and full of life. You bite back your own giggle having related to his struggle plenty of times in the past. 

“Whoops, sorry—dropped ya' on accident.” He says as he moves the camera upright. Seated back, that's when you see it. 

The outline of his hard cock. 

How’d he get like that? You’re not sure.

What you’re sure of, though, is how your body reacts as he smirks. Given any other man you've encountered online with this exact demeanor, you'd immediately rule them as overly confident, borderline cocky — only deserving of being ignored. Yet, you stay for him.

He knows he's hot.

And maybe for that reason, he needs no formal transition or introduction to what he does next. Your eyes follow the hand trailing down his torso and past the waistband of his boxers. Still covered, he wraps his hand around his hard length. The outline of his closed fist moves slowly, tugging until he releases a shaky breath.

“Fuck—ngh,” he tosses his head back, moans coming out sporadically — the slight lift in his voice damn near mimicked a whine.

Tongue heavier in your mouth, you watch him pull the front of his boxers down to expose his cock. It slaps against his abdomen. Thick. Hard. Flushed. 

He’s so beautiful. It’s only natural every part of him matched his perfection. The vein running on the underside of his cock matched with the ones on his hand.

You really should click out. 

Really. 

You shouldn’t dip your hand down your front.

Shouldn’t cup your still-covered pussy only to feel your arousal has seeped through your panties. 

Shouldn’t press your middle finger down your covered slit.

Shouldn’t whimper when he pauses to spit into his hand only to go back to jerking his length, legs spreading wider.

“Wish you were here with me.”

You’re not sure who he was referring to. Certainly not you, but the admission was enough coercion to give into your needs. 

For a moment, you forget why you're even on this site. "Research" purposes. Right. Yeah … and you're in the exploratory phase now, searching aimlessly for some form of relief.

You deserved it.

He wants you to.

Why else would the video be titled that way? 

The handsome man on your screen seems to contribute to your reasoning, giving you one more reason, one last go ahead. His honey voice resounds in your ears. “Want you to play with yourself too. Can you do that for me?”

The softly spoken request sends a shock wave down your spine, and if you weren’t already so aroused you would be ashamed at how fast your body reacted.

Your brows pull together at the bare contact of your middle finger and clit. 

You moan as you rub your clit in small circles, relieved from the motion. The occasional wet sounds reach your ears when you move a little quicker to match his pace.

You’re determined to do so, especially when he keeps voicing his praises. “Good. So good. Can you keep up with me?”

The laptop's fan whirs on your stomach, heat keeping you warm. Your forearm knocks and shakes the laptop. Still, you had the perfect view of him.

Another shaky breath slips past your lips.

His hips lift from the couch, hand paying extra attention to the top half of his shaft. He knows what he likes. What gets him shuddering — what gets him wanting more.

A clear, translucent liquid builds at his slit the more he jerks himself off. Doesn't touch it though — no, not yet. Lets it build until it dribbles down the edge of his length on its own, and he lets out a particularly raspy moan at the sight.

"Fuck." You choke, arm slipping down lower. Your middle finger stops just at your entrance.

Penetration was not your thing, but tonight, you entertain the fantasy of him inside you. Middle finger teasing your entrance, you push and prod, imagining his tip kissing your entrance. Would he beg to enter inside of you, whine and groan the same way he does while playing alone with himself? Smear and mark his precum all over your entrance to claim you as his?

Truthfully, the concept of something entering in you felt better than the actual act. You've tried fingering yourself in the past — hurt and burned like hell. Could never get the position right. And honestly? Who cared knowing the clit was right there?

But the thought of the man on screen pushing his length inside — stuffing you, fucking you, filling you up good … god, you needed to feel something, anything, inside you. 

Arousal trailing down your slit and ass, you wedge your arm down even lower. Your finger pushes against your entrance with a little more purpose, the first knuckle slipping in with little resistance.

Eyes shut, you bite the inside of your cheeks. You don't linger inside for long as a result of the stinging sensation.

A sigh of relief tumbles out as your finger goes back to its happy place.

Again, tried and true.

“Wanna cum with you so badly.” He breathes, jaw going slack before he wraps his lips around the digits of his other free hand. You watch with anticipation, teeth biting down your bottom lip at the sight of his wet, glistening fingers tracing around his nipple. 

T-shirt tucked underneath your chin, you shudder from the cold air, but copy what the man does. Imagine it’s his lips enclosed over your hardened nipples, the cold metal piercing making contact against your skin. He’d look up at you, smile prettily like he has in the video, and worship your body as he likes.

Fuck. 

There’s a certain numbness you feel at the bottom of your stomach signaling your end. You tense, fingers moving faster over your clit. 

His once pushed-back wet bangs are now dried and wavy on his forehead. If not for all the sinful acts he’s doing to himself neck down, he’d look like someone you could see hanging out with and talking to — a friend. Let’s be real … how good of a friend can you be to someone you’re about to cum with? 

He's not faring any better. His impatient whines grow louder, bleary eyes fighting to stay open as he jerks himself off faster. Everything tells you he’s going to cum: the blush on his chest, the tightness in his balls, the freshly bitten lips. 

Oh, you want every bit of it. Want, no, need to see how he finishes and how he loses control of his body in his climax. 

But just at the last second, he pulls away. Cock resting flushed and firm against his stomach, he laughs. Breathless, akin to a mock. Your hand comes to a halt as well, clit twitching against your fingers. There's no gratification in cumming if the experience was stolen and watered down.

“Sorry,” he breathes. “Still with me? Didn’t finish yet, right?”

A soft, yet frustrated whine leaves your lips. Technically, you didn't need him — could finish the job yourself. But you wanted this … wanted to end with him.

You wait patiently, body reeling in excitement as he wraps his hand around his length again. Your fingers remain stagnant, afraid one minor movement might lead to an unsatisfied orgasm.

“Want you to finish with me. Please?” His head falls back as he wanks himself again, speed ramping up. 

He does this multiple times. Gets himself all worked up. Teases himself—teases his viewer. Gets close. Stops. 

Rinse and repeat.

He edges himself near the point of punishment — excels at it like it’s his favorite sport.

And you follow after him every time because it feels good to be led like this. You’re so fucking wet, fingers coated with your slick. You're sure if you move from where you’re laying, there would be a damp spot on your bedsheets, a clear indicator of your arousal.

“You wanna cum with me so badly, huh?” He husks. “Been so good for me, yeah? Would be so nice to cum together, right baby? I’ll give you what you want.” 

His words earn another moan from you — and fuck, you don’t think you can last a minute longer. Quickly, your mouse hovers at the time bar again, eyes scanning for any indication of the most played segment. 

28:37. The video peaks right there — the finish line.

And you're deserving of every bit of this victory.

He wets his lips with his tongue and smiles. The glint of his lip piercings catches the light and then—

"Oh fuckfuckfuck, I'm gonna cum—"

You've been so good, so obedient. To hell with your goal of a timed orgasm to match his … you have to put yourself first. Toes curled, your body loses all control as you finish before him. 

It's enough, though. His whines, the stutter of his chest, the speed of his hand. And when his cum paints his abdomen and dribbles over his veiny fist, your hand flattens on your mound, four fingers rubbing vigorously to extend every second of your long-awaited orgasm. Back arching off your headboard, your body withers from the impact: gut-punching, velvety … practically soul-sucking.

You lay there shaking and sensitive from your earth-shattering orgasm for a couple seconds before pulling your hand out of your pants. It's then you realize how numb and achy your arm got from all the exertion. You raise your poor hand to your face, light catching and displaying a clear sheen of the aftermath of your intense orgasm. Before your mind could register what you had done, a breathy laugh cuts through the silence.

“Fuck. That was a good one.”

Whelp, there it is: post-nut clarity.

You’ve never ripped your earphones out and closed a browser faster than you have now. Shame heats up the back of your neck at the realization you had just beat off to a random stranger online. Sure, you’ve done so before in your early twenties, but you’ve grown since then (so you think). There were many alternatives to getting off without watching other people. 

You shake your head in embarrassment, forearm coming up to cover your eyes. 

Every part of your body feels weightless, tension no longer present in your muscles after finishing the way you did. As tempting as it was to just go to sleep, you know you’ll regret not cleaning up the mess between your legs and fingers in the morning. 

Another minute goes by before forcing yourself to look for a new pair of underwear and sleep shorts. The clean up and change in the bathroom is quick only because you can’t bear looking into the mirror. 

So afraid you’ll unearth and confront your true feelings of the time spent with the video: You liked it. Specifically, you liked how safe you felt behind the screen with that man. 

Sleep comes with little effort tonight … all thanks to a boy with eyes that spoke without words.

a/n: ty to my lovely betas @takeitawaykenny & @lovieku!! yall both saved my life with ur eagle eyes and big brains. this couldn’t have happened without your guys help and input 🥺 tytytytytyyyy

now.. gentle readers, thoughts/predictions? im editing ch1 atm, so any encouragement would be greatly appreciated ♡ i anticipate posting in a couple weeks. toodles!!

edit: no taglist for this series!

You pause. Not many clinics in your small town offer home visits, and even fewer do it on short notice. For your clinic, it’s usually about an old dog being put to rest at home—incredibly sad, but not an emergency. 

“Is it urgent?”

“Not on the minute, but needs done today.”

You glance at the patient chart on the table in front of you. “I think this’ll be quick. I’ll go after this one.”

“You sure?” Namjoon asks. “Technically, it’s my turn.”

“Yeah, it’s fine. You should see Oakley when he comes; he’s not very fond of me.”

Oakley, a returning patient with chronic stomach issues, has managed to spray paint you a yellowy brown on three different occasions. From both ends. It’s like he aims.

Namjoon snorts. He hasn’t been hit once.

Checking your watch again, you push the last bite of your sandwich into your mouth, chewing it while you grab the chart. Namjoon is already on his way to greet another patient and their owner, and you take a second to swallow and wipe any crumbs off your scrubs before you follow his lead, heading into the waiting area.

“Millie?” you call, smiling when a young woman rises from a chair, her red dachshund's nose practically glued to the clinic floor.

It’s two-thirty when you pull out of the clinic parking lot, the clinic’s old station wagon rattling faintly as you steer onto the main road. The address in the confirmation email is farther out than you expected but still technically within the town limits, and you watch the short apartment buildings give way to larger, more spaced-out houses as you drive.

You don’t often find yourself in this part of town these days, although you’re very familiar with at least one house here. Many Halloweens were spent here back in the day, kids dressed up as various creatures daring each other to fight through the overgrown lawn and peek inside the dark windows. Countless stories were told about the abandoned house, each one slightly more insane than the last. Of course, you were like… eight, and a large, seemingly empty white house with a big, black gable was doomed to be haunted.

Still, you’re very surprised when you stop at the red pin on your phone’s screen, and it’s outside that very house. Momo, who works the reception, must’ve forgotten to fill out the pet owner’s name on the confirmation form she sent you, so all you have is this address and a brief line of patient info.

Even though the sky is gray—fittingly enough threatening September rain—it’s not as scary as you remember. Probably because it’s not a dark Halloween night, and you’re not a kid anymore. It also doesn’t actually seem to be abandoned. To be fair, it was never really run-down aside from the lawn, but now there’s a big black SUV parked outside. 

Getting out of the car, you grab the rectangular veterinary kit bag, accidentally shutting the trunk a little too hard. The sound echoes down the quiet street, letting anyone who wasn’t already aware know of your arrival. A chilly breeze has you pulling your softshell jacket tighter over your light blue scrubs as you lock the car. When you turn back to the house, you pause to take it in once more. It’s a pretty house—two-story, painted white probably a long time ago but still holding up surprisingly well. Black shutters frame the dark windows, and the tall, black gabled roof reaches impressively toward the gray sky. The lawn has either been trimmed within the last few years, or your childhood imagination really exaggerated it because you can clearly recall it looking more like a thicket with tall grass than just… an overgrown lawn. You distinctly remember more... shrubs.

Climbing the shallow steps, you stop in front of the black-painted door and raise your hand to knock. As you wait, you tilt your head back, once again letting your gaze linger on the house. Who exactly are you here to meet? Maybe it’s some introverted old woman who rarely leaves her house? Or a grumpy old man? But then again, the SUV looked awfully modern. Maybe the ancient resident has a grandchild visiting?

A short moment later, the door opens with a slight creak.

It’s not an old lady; it’s a young man. A tall young man—probably the most attractive one you’ve ever seen—looking down at you. He’s broad-shouldered and lean, visibly fit even despite the thick, black hoodie and baggy jeans he wears. You try not to stare at the shadow created in the fabric between his pecs, or the way the oversized hoodie still somehow manages to cling to the top of his bicep as he keeps one hand on the door handle. His black, relatively straight hair doesn’t look styled, just like it naturally falls into its part, the sides of it a little shorter than the top. Everything about him screams effortless, like he just wakes up looking like that.

One thing’s for sure: he wasn’t who you expected to open the door.

“Uh, hi,” you introduce yourself, telling him your name, “Did you… call for a vet?”

For some reason, he looks almost as surprised as you. “Hey. I did, yeah. I’m Jeongguk.”

Though he smiles politely, he doesn’t offer his hand for you to shake. It’s not something you dwell on. Quite a few of the pet owners you meet prefer not to shake hands.

“Come in.”

You nod and step inside, having to almost squeeze past him in the narrow hallway as he shuts the door behind you. Like always when you enter a strange man’s home alone, you say a little prayer in your head. If it came to it, you’ve got a bunch of pointy things in your bag, but you’d still prefer it if he wasn’t crazy to begin with.

As you move past him, you’re almost surprised that you don’t… smell him. Men—at least in this town—are very fond of their colognes and sprays, but you don’t catch even the slightest whiff of him. You wouldn’t say that you particularly enjoy the strong… scents, but the total lack of one from a hunk like this is almost disappointing.

When you go to slip your shoes off, he stops you. 

“Keep them on,” he says, voice kept low due to the distance. Or rather, the lack thereof. “It’s… not very clean.” 

There’s something in the casual smile he gives you besides an attractiveness you’ve never seen before. Maybe it’s a tad of… sheepishness? It doesn’t matter; your skin still heats under his gaze

“Oh, okay,” you say, trying to remain unbothered and professional while waiting for him to take the lead. Luckily, you don’t think he notices.

Even with the heads-up, you’re not sure what surprises you more as you follow him into the house—the layers and layers of dust, or the Edwardian, neoclassical interior design. The faded, beige walls are paneled, and as he leads you toward a staircase, you catch a glimpse of what appears to be the living room through an open archway. In it, you spot a pale green velvet sofa and two upholstered armchairs, fitting right in. There’s also a rectangular fireplace, a gold-framed mirror above it, and what catches your interest the most: a chandelier. Its size is impressive, and so is the fact that it looks like it was made for real, live candles. The same goes for the brass wall sconces placed on either side of the fireplace. You’ve only ever seen those in movies.

“They’re up here,” he says, and you nod, reaching for the wooden railing as you follow him up the stairs.

The steps creak loudly beneath your weight—another reminder of just how old this house probably is. At the landing, he turns, leading you to a bedroom. It’s surprisingly small for a house this size, but it’s cozy and warm in a way you weren’t expecting. You guess the clouds outside have eased up a little because the smallest ray of sunlight filters through the practically sheer beige curtains and highlights the dust particles floating in the air.

The four-poster bed is made from dark wood, its canopy rails bare and the headboard curled softly. Like most things, the white sheets appear pretty much untouched, and the only real signs of life are the footsteps disturbing the dust on the floor. You've followed a path all the way from the door, and when you look closer, you see paw prints venturing outside it.

Noticing your lingering gaze, Jeongguk scratches the back of his neck.

“I haven’t been here in a while.”

You figured. It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here since… the late 1800s. Although it’s certainly a stylistic choice—and one you wouldn’t have expected from someone so young and otherwise modern-looking—it has its charm. Even if you’re not sure there’s even electricity or running water.

“I arrived earlier today and found them here,” Jeongguk continues, approaching a standalone wooden wardrobe placed against the wall. One door is already slightly ajar, but when he carefully opens it wider, you see them. The cat with kittens. “I read that you’re not supposed to move them.”

The mother cat, who looks to be all black, has made a little nest on top of a crisp white shirt that’s fallen from its hanger above.

“Oh,” you breathe, crouching slowly to get a better look. “They’re brand new.”

“Yeah. And I think one is smaller than the others.”

Your eyes travel over the small beings, each with varying patches of white to go with the black. None of them, from what you can tell, have even opened their eyes yet. The mother cat stops licking one of the kittens to give you a warning hiss. You listen, rising to your feet and turning away, a plan already in mind.

“Okay, I brought some food that might help lure her out,” you say, setting the bag down on the floor and crouching to reach into it. “This stuff’s usually pretty irresistible…”

But when you look back at the man—a jar gripped in your hand—he’s already holding the mother cat. Just straight around her middle, as if he’s never held a cat before. She doesn’t seem to mind very much, just hangs there, looking around.

Jeongguk looks at you, a little surprised too.

“Oh, okay. She seems to like you better,” you smile. You can’t help but think that he looks… sweet. A big, clearly very muscular and attractive man who’s liked by animals? It’s definitely both a green flag and a personal weakness for you.

The food goes back into the bag, and you reach for the equipment you’ll need instead. With a stethoscope around your neck, a small kitchen scale, and a thermometer, you kneel in front of the wardrobe. In the meantime, Jeongguk sits down on the bed, the cat perched on his lap. He keeps his large hands around her, gently keeping her in place in case she changes her mind.

Very gently, you reach for the smallest kitten first. It squirms in your hands, mouth open and paws sticking out in a silent protest. 

“Sex is notoriously tricky to tell on kittens, especially this small, so I’m not even gonna try,” you say with a smile, giving the kitten a general once-over before focusing on its face. It’s a sweet little thing, crying a little as you inspect it. This one is mostly black but with two white front paws.

“Well, I’d definitely say they’re only a day or two old. This one has a suckle reflex but hasn’t opened its eyes yet. That usually happens between day five and fourteen. The umbilical stump is still attached too, and that usually falls off around day two to four.”

“So that’s… good?” Jeongguk asks, and when you look at him, the mother cat is bumping her head against his abdomen. He peers down at her on his lap, extending his veiny hand in a wordless offer. She accepts it, rubbing her head against his palm and letting him pet her.

“Yeah. That’s normal.”

You return your focus to the little being in your hands, carefully looking into its mouth again to check its gums and palate. 

“Pink gums and no cleft. That’s good, too.”

With one hand, you grab the stethoscope from your neck, putting the earpieces in place. Getting a clear heart or lung reading on kittens this tiny isn’t easy. Their heart rate is fast, making it easy to miss abnormalities, and their small, wriggling bodies make it hard to even position the chestpiece properly in the first place.

Focusing, you hold the kitten still, placing the stethoscope on the left side of its chest just behind the elbow. Then you listen closely, trying to ignore the soft purring from the adult cat.

It sounds… good. Alright, at least. Shifting the stethoscope slightly, you first listen to one lung and then the other. You don’t notice anything abnormal there, either.

“Heart and lungs sound okay,” you declare, slipping the stethoscope back around your neck.

“What’s next?”

“Temperature,” you answer, reaching for the digital thermometer.

“What should their temperature be?”

“Somewhere between thirty-six and thirty-six point five degrees Celsius.”

“Isn’t that a little low? I mean, compared to a human?”

“Adult cats are more similar to humans, but kittens generally run a little colder,” you explain, focusing on getting the reading right. “They don’t have the ability to regulate their body temperature properly for the first couple of weeks.”

The thermometer beeps.

“Thirty-six point two,” you mumble. “So that’s within the range. A little low, but not necessarily dangerous.”

With one hand, you reach for the kitchen scale, setting it on the floor in front of you. It powers on, and once it’s ready, you place the kitten on it, keeping your hand floating above in case the little animal tries to wiggle off the tray.

The number settles, and you read it out loud. “Eighty-one grams.”

“Too small?” Jeongguk wonders.

“On the lower side, but not dangerously so. At least not yet.”

You take the kitten and carefully place it back in the makeshift nest for the moment. Before reaching for another kitten to examine in the same way, you grab a small notebook in your bag, quickly jotting down the numbers so you don’t forget them.

Jeongguk looks on as you inspect the rest of the four kittens, occasionally asking another question. It’s not unusual for pet owners to ask questions, but considering these aren’t even his cats—and from what you gathered, he only found them today—it makes your chest warm. Not everyone would go to such lengths for stray cats. It also doesn’t help your growing soft spot that you get to talk about animals and their anatomy to someone who seems to want to listen. After all, you’re a bit of a nerd, and this is your number one fascination.

One by one, the kittens get their clean bill of health and are placed back on the shirt, and then you shift your focus to their mother. She’s standing on Jeongguk’s lap, still headbutting his chest. While she’s preoccupied, you quietly reach into your bag for the microchip scanner, but the moment you try to get close, she notices and hisses. 

“Give it a try, please?” You hold the scanner out to Jeongguk, keeping as much distance as you can. “Press this button and move the scanner over her, focusing on her neck and back.”

Jeongguk takes the scanner from your outreached hand, doing as you instructed and pressing the button. It beeps, and he begins to move it over her.

“Like this?” he asks, his eyebrows furrowed almost angrily as he focuses.

You nod encouragingly. “Yeah.”

“Is it to see if she has an owner?”

“Yes. But sometimes, even if they are microchipped, there's not a registered owner. But we can hope.”

He continues to search for a chip, but when nothing happens, he looks at you with those dark eyes, silently asking what to do.

“Try her belly and even her legs. Sometimes, they migrate.”

Adjusting his grip on the scanner, he moves it lower.

“Doesn’t seem like it,” he says a moment later, handing the scanner back to you.

“Yeah,” you sigh, taking it to put it back in the bag. Although disappointed, you’re not surprised. “Would you mind helping me check her out? She seems to really like you. A whole lot better than she likes me, at least.”

He matches the soft smile you give him. “Sure.”

“Okay, well, she seems to be in okay condition, but I need to rule out any birth-related injuries. 

“What do I do?” he asks, scooting closer to the edge of the bed, the cat still happy to receive his attention. 

“Just… hold her like that… Yes, exactly. And with your other hand, move her tail away for me?”

A little awkwardly, he follows your instructions again, and while you don’t think the cat particularly enjoys it, she doesn’t fight it. You move closer, trying to get a better look while doing your best not to stare at his veiny hands instead. In any other setting, they’d be way too much of a distraction, but knowing that this cat depends on you to evaluate her health, you divert your gaze.

“Alright… I don’t see anything... unusual, no swelling, no blood, no discharge. If she were injured, you’d usually spot it, but she’s not thrilled with me, so I won’t push it,” you chuckle, leaning back.

Having animals dislike you is unfortunately part of the job. Sometimes, it hurts your heart a little, but when you remember that it’s easy for an animal to associate the scrubs or equipment with something unpleasant and maybe even painful, it makes more sense. Briefly, you wonder if this cat has ever been to a vet or if her dislike for you stems from something else. It’s definitely normal for new mothers to have a bit of an attitude, but you’d think that would include every human in the room. Or maybe she doesn’t dislike you in particular; maybe she just really likes Jeongguk. Which... you know, fair.

Almost as if sensing that the examination is over, the black cat jumps down from Jeongguk’s lap, leaping past you to get to her babies. 

“Alright,” you say, wiping your hands on your pants before you stand up. “It’s important not to disturb them too much, but they’ll still need some supervision—especially the small one—just to make sure they continue to eat and grow. And they’ll need a better place to nest, somewhere a little warmer, softer, and less… dusty. No offense.”

Jeongguk chuckles, standing up as well and brushing some cat hairs from his hoodie. “None taken.”

“So, if you want me to, I can take them with me. We have a foster program and a few great volunteers.”

Jeongguk looks down at you, his brows furrowed in confusion this time. “I thought they were too small to be moved?”

“Yeah,” you nod, bending down to quickly gather the rest of the used equipment and put it back in the bag. “Ideally, they wouldn’t need to be. But I understand if you can’t or don't want to look after a stray cat and her kittens.”

“No, it’s… uh… It’s fine,” he says, appearing to land in a decision and sticking by it, his eyes traveling to the little bodies nestled into the white shirt. “It’s not that hard, right? Just keep an eye on them? If you think I can do it, of course. I already have a litter box.”

You blink, a little surprised. “You just happened to have a litter box?”

“No, I asked some neighbors after I called you. I figured you'd have some tips about the other stuff. Like food and such.”

Your smile grows as you watch him. He is… oddly endearing. “Yeah. Of course,” you say, your voice softening. The fewer cats and kitten taking up the very limited space at the volunteers', the better. “Okay.”

You begin drafting an email to send to him. It includes everything you've talked about plus cat food recommendations for the mother cat and a link to a cat bed that’s cheap but comfortable enough for a nursing litter. While you write, you talk him through everything again, like what to watch for, when to weigh them, and what to do if anything seems off.

He asks a few questions, making it very clear—if it wasn’t already—that he doesn’t really have any experience with animals. While he’s never appeared scared or nervous during your visit, you can tell that he’s not quite sure what to do. He moves slowly, almost a little awkwardly around the cats, but it’s more like he doesn’t want to scare them.

“You really like animals,” he points out, watching you tuck your notebook back into the bag.

You glance up at him. His tone isn’t mocking but more... curious. Still, you nod, a little self-conscious of how nerdy you can be.

“Yeah, animals are incredible. Not only because they’re such good companions—some of them at least—but, they’re so fascinating? How they function and how they’ve evolved.”

But there’s something else in his curious gaze that you finally pick up on, and it dawns on you.

“You think I’m a freak too, don’t you?” you say with a smile, pulling the stethoscope you’d forgotten to pack from around your neck and tucking it into the bag as well.

“No, no,” he shakes his head.

You lift an eyebrow. “But you know about it? My paper?”

His eyes are so dark. “Yeah…”

You look away, trying not to let it affect your professionalism. Speaking about it brings up memories you’d rather not be reminded of. “I thought you said you hadn’t been here in forever?”

It’s weird, right? If he doesn’t live here and hasn’t been around in a long time, how would he know the gossip?

“Town called a few years ago. About the electrical wiring needing to be upgraded. So I came here to fix it.”

Oh. That makes sense, you guess. A few years ago was when it first happened. That’s probably also why the yard looked different from what you remembered.

“And you heard about it?”

He smiles apologetically. “Yeah. It’s a small town, I guess.”

“It’s not like I think Ariel is real. Or that dragons roam the sky or that Dracula lives in a dark castle somewhere, wearing a black cape over a white, frilly shirt,” you defend, slinging the bag over your shoulder. “I just wrote about how much we don’t actually know about the living organisms around us and how some of the 'supernatural' traits aren't really that crazy, anatomically speaking.”

“No, I get that,” he assures, sounding like he genuinely didn’t mean to upset you. “I found it very interesting.”

“So is that why you looked so surprised to see me? Because you recognized me?”

“No. Or… well, yeah. I spoke to the receptionist, and she told me a man’s name—Namjoon, I think—would come.”

“Oh.”

“But I did also vaguely recognize you, I think. From the image.”

Lifting your wrist, you glance at the watch. “I should start to head back. Lock the clinic up.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Jeongguk says, and when you meet his dark eyes again, he looks genuine. “I don’t think you’re a freak, I promise.”

“It’s alright,” you say, offering him a quick smile. “I’m not supposed to be out this long anyway. I have to get back and finish up the bill. I’ll email it to you along with the advice, is that okay?”

He nods, clearly accepting that he did in fact upset you to some degree. “Okay. Thank you for the help.”

You smile again, relaxing your shoulders and taking a deep breath. Maybe you should cut him some slack. Technically, he wasn’t even the one to bring your paper up; that was all you. And besides very, very handsome, you haven’t once thought of him as anything other than sweet.

"No problem."

The drive back to the clinic is quiet. You don’t even turn the prehistoric radio on. It doesn’t matter because your thoughts are loud enough anyway, circling back to one thing. One thing and one person.

The paper you wrote in vet school was a mistake. Not that it was bad per se—it was a perfectly science-based paper, focused on the more unusual biological traits found in the animal kingdom. 

Unfortunately, you made the grave mistake of connecting some of those traits to various mythical creatures and their ‘unbelievable’ biology. Some of your peers—predominantly men—found it absolutely ridiculous and teased you for it. The more you tried to defend yourself, the funnier they thought it was.

You’d think it at least would’ve stayed within whatever small circle vet med is, but when your small town happens to be known specifically for the vet med program, a surprisingly large chunk of the population has some connection to it. You’re lucky that not many wish to stay in town after graduating, or you would’ve been last on the list to get a job. You still remember your current boss’s inspecting eyes as she interviewed you, trying to make sure you weren’t actually batshit crazy. That was maybe five or so years ago, and you haven’t really had to think about the paper in probably at least a year. 

Until today. Again, it wasn’t Jeongguk’s fault, you don’t think he even meant for it to be brought up. It still caught you off guard, though, because even if you don’t know him, he didn’t give off the same vibe as the people who laughed at you. And now, you can’t stop thinking about him. About his build, and how the oversized clothes hung off his strong, muscular body. Or his large, veiny hands as he gently pet the mother cat. His dark eyes, sharp jaw, and strong eyebrows. Even his nose—with its straight bridge and softly rounded tip, creating such a striking, masculine profile—had a way of completely mesmerizing you.

Not only is he probably the most attractive man you’ve seen in a long time—maybe ever, but he seemed… warm. You wouldn’t expect a man like him to care for a stray cat and her newborn kittens, much less call a vet out to help, but he did.

Back at the clinic, you take a seat in front of the desktop computer, typing your notes into the chart and updating the bill. Besides the obviously tragic parts of dealing with sick and injured animals, the worst part is probably billing the owners. You need money to live just like everyone else, but you’ll always feel wrong charging worried owners to care for their family members. Even now, as you’re adding the services to… Jeon Jeongguk’s bill, you think about how the cats don’t even belong to him.

The cursor hovers over his name. Who is he? How did he come to be the owner of that house, and why own it if he’s not living there or at least visiting regularly? Why bother even fixing the electrical wiring if it’s just gonna stay empty? And just how long had it been empty?

The questions whirl in your head. Though it’s not really any of your business why he returned, maybe you could’ve at least asked him where he’s from? It would’ve been acceptable small talk, right? Could you also have asked why he felt the need to take care of the cats, even when you offered to take them off his hands, or would that have been rude? 

Realizing that you’re not getting anywhere, you bill him for a standard home visit of half an hour—even though you stayed closer to one—and for the gas just so you don’t lose money on the visit. You don’t add the same day fee or charge him for the used materials.

<previous | next>

“Gravity powering on in 3… 2… 1…” Namjoon’s voice wakes you on Thursday morning in your sleep pod. As the weight returns to your feet, the weight of the past few days returns to your mind. While your evening with Taehyung last night had been a welcome distraction, in the light of day, you feel a lot of your choices lately beginning to catch up to you: Namjoon’s chastising email about public spaces, Jimin’s jealousy and refusal to stick to the rules you’ve attempted to hold to, Jungkook’s disappointment at your unfinished date…

But the worst is the look in Hoseok’s eyes as he caught you with Jungkook’s head between your legs on the counter of your shared lab. And his refusal to talk to you afterward even as you begged outside his door. You still haven’t seen him since that moment, having spent all yesterday in the greenhouse. But you are all out of greenhouse chores today and are going to have to face up to him soon. 

A knock on the door interrupts your thoughts. For a moment, your heart hopes that it’s Hoseok. But it’s Jimin’s voice that calls your name. Oh right. It’s Thursday. Thursdays belong to Jimin. 

“Good morning, Jimin,” you groan as you open the door. He’s standing in the hallway with two cups of coffee in his hand. You grimace. While you appreciate the thoughtfulness, Jimin has yet to make you a cup of coffee in the way you actually prefer. He always makes it too sweet. “How can I help you?” you ask.

“It’s Thursday!” he announces cheerfully, pressing the coffee into your hands as he presses his way into your sleep pod. “Perhaps I should be asking how I can help you?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. 

For the first time in a long time though, you are genuinely not in the mood for him. 

“Ah, Jimin…” you sigh, “I’m really not sure I have it in me this morning.”

“Taehyung tired you out that much?” He smirks. “I had been hoping you’d come find me last night.” The echo of his “I’m gonna fuck every one of them out of you” plays in your mind and you sip your coffee to give yourself a second to think.

To your surprise, the coffee isn’t too sweet this time. It’s just right.

“This coffee is better,” you say, eager to dodge the question about Taehyung. “Why is the coffee better?”

Jimin shuffles his feet a little sheepishly. “I asked Yoongi how you liked it.”

“Oh.” You frown down at your cup. Yoongi really did always know what you like.

“Why didn’t you tell me I was making it wrong?” he asks. 

“I dunno…” You avoid his gaze and shrug. “Seemed ungrateful.”

“But how am I supposed to give you what you want if you never actually tell me what that is?” Suddenly this conversation seems to be about more than just coffee. 

You are so tired today, you can’t help yawning. “I’m sorry, Jimin. I’m doing my best.”

“Taehyung kept you up late?” He asks again, but this time there’s no smirk. His expression is actually much more hurt and vulnerable. 

“Taehyung was a perfect gentleman.” You reply defensively. 

“I see.” Jimin frowns. “More perfect than me.” 

“Ugh, Jimin…” you wave your arms in exasperation. “I can’t actually have sex with you and another man every single day. I don’t have the stamina.” As if to prove your point, your body chooses this moment to cripple you with a huge yawn. “I’m so tired.”

Jimin sighs, running a hand over his face. “Okay, okay. You enjoy the coffee. I’ll find you later.”

You nod and give him a quick kiss on the cheek before he leaves. 

_______

Jin, Jungkook, and Hoseok are at the breakfast table when you finally get enough caffeine in your system to leave your sleep pod. You contemplate fleeing, but maybe finding all of them together is better than alone. Maybe this way any contentious conversations will have to wait a little longer. 

Hoseok notices you first, but doesn’t say anything, just frowns and returns to his breakfast of rice porridge. Jungkook gives you a tight-lipped half smile. Jin, god bless him, gives an enthusiastic smile and wave, the only man who seems actually happy to see you this morning.  But no one leaps up to get you breakfast today. The only sounds are the scraping of spoons against bowls as you shuffle over to get yourself some cold cereal. 

The silent tension is soon too much for Jin. “Man, I would kill for a breakfast sandwich,” he says. You, Jungkook, and Hoseok all give him a half-hearted chuckle. “I really think a good breakfast sandwich is like the peak achievement of human civilization,” he continues. “An egg sandwich with ham and cheese? You have to domesticate like three different animals for that.”

You are very grateful for his attempts to break the silence, even if you have heard Jin’s breakfast sandwich rant before. “I will definitely buy you a breakfast sandwich when we get back home,” you say as you sit down next to him and pat his hand affectionately with yours. 

“And the toasted ones they make in Seoul, with the cabbage and carrots -  if you count the wheat, that’s like three more domesticated plants…” Jin continues before Jungkook cuts in.

“So you’re still going to be together when we get back home?” Jungkook asks, watching where your hand rests on top of Jin’s.

Hoseok looks up too and now all three of the men in the room are staring at you.

“Uh… umm…” you stammer, glancing between them. “Well, it’s hard to say, we’ve only been on one date.” You attempt to dodge the question with what you think is a playful tease.

“So you’re dating Jin?” Jungkook’s hand clenches more tightly around his spoon. “And Taehyung?”

“Uh…” you let go of Jin’s hand. “I guess… if you want to call it that.”

Jungkook slams his clenched fist and spoon down on the table. “Why will you date them and not me?”

“Hey, hey,” Jin laughs nervously. “I’m not really sure Monday counts as a date anyways…”

Hoseok scoffs. “Wasn’t that a date happening in my lab?” he asks.

“Stay out of this, both of you!” Jungkook snaps. 

“You stay out of it!” Hoseok retorts, standing up. “Why are you bringing this up at breakfast?” 

Jungkook leaps to his feet as well, but you stand up and place yourself between them. “Really, Jungkook… this isn’t an appropriate time to talk about this,” you chastise.

“Oh yeah,” Jungkook arches an eyebrow, chest heaving in agitation. “And when would be a convenient time for that conversation? Next Tuesday? After you’ve fucked him too?” He gestures at Hoseok and Hoseok flinches. 

“Get out!” You yell at Jungkook, pushing at his chest. “Get out until you’ve calmed down.”

“I’m not a child!” Jungkook bellows back. “I’m a man! A man who’s in love with you and you don’t give a fuck!”

“You’re not in love with me!” You shout, horrified that he is continuing to do this here in front of both Hoseok and Jin. “You don’t care about me! You didn’t choose me!” If he did care, he wouldn’t be doing this to you right now. “I’m just the only available vagina and you got tired of jerking off!” 

“You don’t care about me!” Jungkook yells back. “All you care about is collecting seven different cocks!”

“Get out!!” You yell, on the verge of tears. “Get out, get out, get out!” 

Jin stands up as well, moving to stand next to you.

“Yeah, yeah, okay, I’m leaving…” Jungkook puts his hands up in defeat, muttering to himself as he cleans up his breakfast dishes and throwing them into the sink with a loud clang before storming out of the kitchen.

You collapse into a chair, fighting hard with your breathing to keep from crying. 

Hoseok sighs, crossing his arms and turning to go. 

“Wait, Hoseok, please don’t go,” you plead. He pauses, back still to you. “I… I need a friend,” you say softly.

He turns back toward you, but his arms stay crossed. “Look, I’m sorry you’re having a hard time with whatever that was…” He gestures in the direction that Jungkook left in. “But we’re not friends. I don’t feel like I know you at all anymore.”

That, more than anything else this morning, makes tears well in your eyes. “No, Hoseok, please, I’m still the same person.”

He just shakes his head. “You used to care about this mission. You used to care about us.”

“I do care…” You stand up and come closer to him. “I do care about you.” But the moment you reach for him, he pulls away. 

“Then why did you do that in the lab?!” His voice cracks, so much hurt and betrayal packed into one sentence. 

“I…” But you don’t have an answer. “I don’t know.” You collapse back down into your chair. 

“I can’t trust your judgement anymore.” Hoseok says, squaring his shoulders. “Stay out of my lab.” 

He turns and leaves the room as you lose all composure and collapse onto the table in sobs. Everything is fucked. Everything is fucked and it’s all your fault. 

A hand touches your shoulder and you flinch. 

“It’s just me.” Jin says, running his large warm hand over your shoulder. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.” He rubs your back as your sobbing abates. 

“I… I really don’t see how,” you sniffle, picking your head up off your arms and wiping your face with a napkin that Jin hands you. 

“Well, someday we’ll be back on Earth,” he says, with a small sympathetic half smile half frown. “And I’ll buy you a breakfast sandwich.”

______

The list of things that you can do in the greenhouse is dwindling. When Jimin’s finds you around lunch time, you’re in the process of re-inventorying your seed stores, checking each container for signs of mold or water damage. 

“Whatcha doing?” he asks, bumping you with his hip as he sidles up next to you. 

“Nothing important,” you mutter, jotting down another 100 tally mark before you lose your place. You have well over 2000 tomato seeds in your stores now. 

“Taehyung was in a great mood today.” Jimin says. 

“Yeah?” You half-heartedly reply, dumping out another package onto your seed-counting tray. 

“Perhaps he wasn’t such a perfect gentleman, after all?” Jimin bumps you again, causing a row of ten seeds you just lined up to scatter. 

You huff. “Nothing happened, Jimin.”

“What do you mean ‘nothing happened’?” Jimin asks, confused. “Hasn’t he been in love with you for months?”

Shit. Are you going to disappoint yet another crew member if you don’t maintain the lie that you and Tae are sleeping together?

“Oh, well, yeah, I guess some stuff happened. I just thought you wouldn’t want to hear about it.” You shrug, attempting to resume your counting and ignore this line of inquiry. 

“No, I want to know!” Jimin says, wrapping his arms around you from behind and kissing just below your ear. “Tell me what happened…”

The warmth of him wrapped around you is a comfort after the morning you’ve had. You sigh and lean back against him. “Well, it was really nice actually. He set up this whole beautiful date for us. He decorated the rover with the landing lights, so it was all sparkly.”

“Mmm…” Jimin groans, rubbing against you as he kisses your neck. “And then what happened?”

“He had some bubbly apple juice and real champagne glasses. It was pretty magical.”

Jimin laughs. “Only Tae could do something like that. Where’d he get champagne glasses from?”

“He said he brought them from Earth.”

“See?” Jimin spins you around to face him. “I told you he was in love with you.”

You roll your eyes and fight the urge to say ‘no, he’s in love with you, you doofus.’

“I don’t know about that,” you say. “But it was really a very lovely evening.”

“And so?” Jimin lets the question hang for a minute as you raise an eyebrow. “Did you hook up with him?”

“Umm,” you bite your lip. “Yeah…”

“In the rover?”

You nod. 

“You dirty girl,” Jimin grins. “Tell me more.”

“You don’t want to know the details, do you?” You squirm back around to face your seed trays. 

“Actually, I really do.” He pulls you back against him again and presses his hips against your ass. “It kind of turns me on.” 

“Umm, well, I, uh, climbed under the table and sucked him off.” You would be lying to say that hadn’t occurred to you as something to do last night, if Taehyung had actually been interested in you.

“That’s my girl. Tell me more.” You can feel Jimin’s erection grinding against you. 

“Umm… he uhh…” You struggle for any further details as Jimin begins kissing you again. “He held his hands in my hair.” 

Jimin runs his hand through your hair. “Where did he come?”

“On my chest,” you lie.

“Fuck,” Jimin starts unzipping his jumpsuit. “You turn me on so much.” He pulls you away from your seeds and toward the rows of plants. “Come on, come suck me off.”

“No, Jimin…” you pull your hands away from him. “This is the greenhouse.”

“Oh, come on. Since when do you care?”

“We-we have to be more professional…”

“I think that ship sailed a while ago.” He keeps pulling you in the direction of the stacks. Hoseok’s “you used to care about this mission” plays in your head.

“No! Jimin!” You yank your hand out of his. “I’m not going to do this right now!”

He pauses, frowning. “But it’s Thursday. It’s my only day.” 

“That didn’t stop you from fucking me on Tuesday. I am not in the mood today!”

He crosses his arms. “You were in the mood to blow Yoongi in the greenhouse. You told me about that. What is it about him that makes you forget all the rules?”

“Ugh,” you groan. “This isn’t about Yoongi.” You turn back to your work. 

“Yeah, we’ll see,” he says. And when you look up again, he’s gone.

______

You spend the rest of the day counting seeds and listening to your Sounds of Earth playlist, trying and failing to stop replaying the conversation from breakfast over and over again. You feel bad for the way you yelled at Jungkook and worse for your betrayal of Hoseok. And now with Jimin upset too, you’re really struggling to see in what way anything about your plan has worked out so far. 

You’re contemplating the odds that you could sneak into the kitchen and back to your sleep pod without seeing anyone when Jimin’s voice comes over the intercom. 

Chief Botanist to the workshop please. Chief Botanist to the workshop. 

The workshop? Yoongi’s workshop? Your heart rate speeds up instinctively. Why does Jimin want you to meet him there? You throw down your equipment for the day and brush off your hands. 

You manage to sneak unseen through the hallway to the workshop and find Jimin there, leaning against Yoongi’s workbench. 

The workbench you filmed yourself masturbating on. The workbench you begged Yoongi to fuck you over. It is suspiciously clean and clear of any projects. 

You look around for the flight engineer warily, but Jimin seems to be the only person here. 

“Um, why did you want me to come here?” you ask.

“Well, I want you to come everywhere,” Jimin answers cheekily. “But this is where you and Yoongi filmed the video, isn’t it?

“Yes…” you answer slowly, bouncing on your toes and still expecting Yoongi to appear from somewhere. “Right there.” You gesture in the direction of him and the workbench.

“Here?” he asks, arching an eyebrow as he pats the bench suggestively.

You swallow. “Yeah, on the bench.”

He chuckles low. “Would you show me?”

You glance at the door. “But what if Yoongi comes back?”

As if on cue, the doors open and your dark haired flight engineer strolls casually into the room. He looks between the two of you, not particularly surprised to see either of you. 

“I actually asked Yoongi to join us this evening.” Jimin says. 

“Join us?” Your palms start sweating at the very idea. “Join us for what?”

“Well, not for tea.” Yoongi laughs, leaning against a shelf behind him, looking much too relaxed for your comfort. 

Jimin climbs up onto the workbench, trying to mirror Yoongi’s relaxed stance. “I want to know what he does that you like so much.” 

“It’s not about him!” You again try to argue. 

“Oh really?” Yoongi arches an eyebrow. “ The last time you were here you were begging me to fuck you over that workbench.”

Jimin glances down startled and hops off the workbench. “I would like to believe it’s not about him,” he says, walking toward you. “But I’m still feeling quite out of the loop for never having gotten to see this video that apparently everyone else did. I think I’m missing an important piece of the puzzle here. I was hoping the two of you might enlighten me.”

“And you’re fine with that?” you ask Yoongi.

Yoongi nods. “If you are.” Then he smirks. “Seems like our mission specialist could use some pointers.”

Ah, now you see how Yoongi got talked into this. Competitiveness and the chance to prove that he’s the one who really understands you. 

“This is a bad idea,” you answer, shaking your head. 

“Probably.” Jimin and Yoongi say in unison, then smirk at each other. 

“What are the ground rules?” Your hands are trembling and you’re not sure if it’s nerves or excitement. 

“Only I get to touch you.” Jimin says. “It is Thursday after all.”

“I don’t need to touch her.” Yoongi replies, so damn smug. “She likes being told what to do.”

Oh fuck, you’re in trouble. The way the two of them look at you, it’s hard to think clearly. 

“Okay,” you whisper breathlessly. “Let’s do it.”

“Excellent!” Jimin claps his hands together. “How did it start?”

“Well, I already took the liberty of blocking the camera.” Yoongi replies. “So then I think it began with a blindfold.” He looks at you questioningly. “Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah…” you nod. You would like to shut out the rest of the world for a moment.

Yoongi picks up a familiar cloth and some tape and begins walking toward you. Your heart races. 

“I can do it.” Jimin cuts in, grabbing the items for Yoongi’s hands. Yoongi hands them over to him and you feel a pang of disappointment. 

Jimin runs over to you, brushing up against you as he wraps the blindfold over your eyes. You let out a sigh at the comforting darkness. 

“And then I told her to take her clothes off.” Yoongi says from behind you. “And she did.”

You move to pull down your zipper, but Jimin’s hand is already there, startling you. For a moment, you are nervous again. This is a bad idea. 

“That’s a good girl.” Yoongi’s voice calls to you and you let Jimin help you out of your clothes. 

“Then she got up on the workbench and spread her legs.” 

You pause for a second, having been spun around in the clothing removal process and not totally sure where the workbench is. 

“Jimin, help her find the bench.” It’s Yoongi’s voice, but Jimin’s hands that guide you to the workbench. Jimin picks up you around the waist to lift you onto the workbench. “Good girl,” Jimin murmurs, mimicking Yoongi. “Let us see you.”

“I don’t know…” you rub your legs together, still nervous. 

“You can do it.” Yoongi prompts. “Don’t you remember? You’re the sexiest fucking thing in the whole universe.” You gasp, he chuckles, and you find the courage to spread your legs apart, pushing yourself back onto the bench and placing your feet at the edge. 

Jimin gives out a low whistle. 

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Yoongi asks and you feel your face heat up. 

“Fucking perfect.” Jimin agrees and your core clenches in response. Both men groan and your head gets a little fuzzier. 

“Now touch yourself,” Yoongi commands.  

“How should I touch myself?” you tease. You hear Jimin’s zipper begin sliding down next to you. 

“Hold on there, Jimin.” Yoongi chastens. “Give her a minute.”

“I just need some room to breathe…” Jimin replies. “Goddamn.”

“Take your fingers, suck on them.” Yoongi’s voice is back to you. You obey, running your tongue over two fingers before placing them in your mouth and sucking lightly. You hear Jimin take a sharp inhale of breath. “Now touch your nipples.” Yoongi commands. 

You run your fingers down your neck and swirl your fingers around your nipple as Jimin groans out loud. 

“How can you stand not touching her?” he asks, running a hand up your leg and making you shiver. 

“Have patience, mission specialist.” Yoongi replies. “Just watch.”

There is something deeply intoxicating about them talking about you without involving you directly. Like you are both here and not here at the same time. 

“Please…” you sigh.

“Please what?” Yoongi asks and it sounds like he’s come closer to you. 

“Keep going.” You swirl your fingers around your nipple again and shudder. 

“Good girl.” You can hear the grin in Yoongi’s voice. “Touch your clit.” You do as he says, groaning as you bring your hand down to your most sensitive part. “Very good.”

“Do you wish it was my fingers right now instead of yours?” Yoongi asks, a direct imitation of the original video. He must have watched it a lot before it finally got deleted. 

“Yes…” you moan. 

“What about Jimin?” Yoongi asks and you hear Jimin shuffle off what you assume is his jumpsuit. “We did this to make a video for him. You did like his video, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” You pause, wondering what Jimin is thinking right now. But you don’t have to wonder for long. 

“What did you like about it?” Jimin whispers, leaning in so close you can feel the warmth of him. 

Your insides squirm with embarrassment. 

“Go on,” Yoongi encourages. “Tell him what you liked.”

“I liked your abs.” You circle your clit to distract from the things you are saying. “I like your cock.”

“That’s a good girl.” Jimin leans in and kisses your cheek. “Keep going.”

“I think at this point, I started asking her whose dicks she wanted to suck.” Yoongi says. You groan, speeding up the circles of your hand. 

“Oh yeah?” Jimin asks and you can hear how breathless he is. “And whose dicks did you want to suck?

You tilt your head back and gasp. “Everyone’s.”

“And why’s that?” Yoongi prompts.

You bite your lip. 

“You can do it,” Yoongi encourages. “Tell Jimin what you are.”

“I’m a slut.” Your core clenches again and you hear Jimin groan. 

“That’s my girl.” Yoongi says and you have to pull your hand off of yourself or else you are definitely going to come. 

“Can someone please fuck me now?” you gasp, panting. 

“I second that.” Jimin groans. 

“Alright, Mr. Mission Specialist in Charge of Drilling…” Yoongi teases. “Let’s see what you got.”

“Finally,” Jimin groans. “Come here.” He grabs your waist and slides you to the edge of the bench. “Tell me what you want.”

“Please fuck me Jimin.”

“Tell me again what you are.”

“I’m a slut. A dirty desperate slut.”

“Yes, you are.” He grabs your hips possessively as he sheathes himself inside you. “And you’re all mine.”

Yoongi scoffs. “She’s such a good little slut for her whole crew. Isn’t that right? Tell Jimin how much you like me watching right now.”

Jimin picks up his pace and it’s all you can do to pant out “I like it. I love it.”

“Such a good girl,” Jimin continues. “My little slut. Tell me again.”

There’s nothing but darkness beneath the blindfold. Nothing but darkness and the voices of the two men pulling you further and further away from yourself with every command, every thrust inside you. 

“I’m a slut,” you cry. “It’s all I’m good for. Please. Please fuck me harder. Tell me it’s all I’m good for.” There are tears in your eyes and you’re not sure if they’re from pleasure or pain. 

“It’s all you’re good for,” Jimin answers. “Just a dumb whore who belongs to whoever’s inside her.” He presses down on your hand on top of your clitoris as he thrusts into you again and it sends you flying over the edge of your orgasm, whole body clenching over and over as you gasp in pleasure. 

Jimin’s reaching his end too, grabbing your hips more firmly. You spill into overstimulation and try to squirm away, but he holds you tightly. “Take it. Take it slut.”

“Ah, Jimin, wait…” you gasp, trying a bit harder to push him off of you. 

“Hey, Jimin, hang on…” Yoongi’s voice is much closer now. 

“Shut up!” Jimin barks and you’re not sure if it’s directed at you or Yoongi. “Just take it you filthy fucking whore,” he spits as he finally comes, spilling himself into you. 

“Oh shit,” Yoongi says, pushing your blindfold up off your eyes. “Are you okay?”

Blinking into the lights of the workshop, you are suddenly drowning in how much you are not okay. More tears are building in your eyes, blinding you to the expressions of either man. 

“She’s okay, right?” Jimin says, panting. “That’s what she wanted.”

“No…” you begin shaking your head. “No, no, no…”

“Wait, what’s happening?” Jimin asks.

“No, that’s not what I wanted!” Violent sobs wrack your body. “This is not who I am! None of this is how it’s supposed to be.” 

“Oh god,” Jimin’s voice is shaky. “Oh god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t understand. I didn’t know.” He’s backing away, seeming to grow paler in complexion as he goes. 

“Jimin, get back here,” Yoongi barks. “Where are you going?”

You continue sobbing on the bench, knees drawn up to your chin. “I’m not a whore. I’m not. None of this is right.”

“Oh god, I can’t do this.” Jimin’s whole body is trembling. “I’m sorry.” And he turns and runs from the workshop. 

“Jimin!” Yoongi yells. “You can’t just leave!!” He moves to follow Jimin and your entire body screams out in pain at the idea of him leaving you right now. 

“Yoongi, no, don’t go.” You try to get down off the workbench but stumble and fall to the ground, shaking. “Don’t leave me.”

“Shit, shit, shit.” Yoongi murmurs, rushing back to you. “No, I’m not leaving. I won’t leave you. I’m so sorry.”

You are too lost in your own self-loathing to even hear him. Jungkook shouting about all you wanted was seven cocks. Hoseok telling you you aren’t the same person you once were. It’s all too much. “I’m not… I’m not…” you cry, shivering on the ground. 

Something warm wraps around you. It’s Yoongi. “Shh…” he soothes. “‘You’re okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He drapes your jumpsuit over your shoulder and rubs his hands up and down your arms.

“What’s wrong with me?” Your head is fuzzy and you’re so cold.

“Nothing’s wrong with you.” Yoongi kisses the top of your head. 

“But why do I feel like this?” You curl your legs up, making yourself into a ball in Yoongi’s arms. 

“I think it might be sub-drop. Things got too intense too fast.” He tightens his arms around you. “God, you’re shivering.” 

“H-how do I make it go away?” 

He looks around the workbench, frowning. “Do you want me to take you back to your sleep pod?”

“No, no, please. I don’t want to be alone.” 

He nods. “Okay, okay, I have an idea.” He moves to get up. 

“No…” you grasp his shirt tighter. He leans down and kisses your forehead. “I’m coming right back, I promise.” You loosen your grip on him just enough for him to wiggle out of your grasp. 

You close your eyes to rest for a minute and are startled by a loud thump right next to you. Yoongi has thrown down a huge piece of foam and kevlar onto the floor beside you.

“Umm… what is that?” you ask.

“Uh,” he chuckles, rubbing the back of his head. “It’s a piece of replacement insulation that I pulled out of storage. I use it to take naps sometimes.”

“Uhh…” you eye it warily. 

“It’s really comfortable, I promise.” He pulls a metallic space blanket out of a nearby drawer. “Can I show you?”

You nod. He kneels down next to you and slides his arms underneath you, lifting you up and carrying you over to the makeshift bed. “I think you just need some rest,” He says as he gingerly sets you down and begins tucking the blanket around you. 

You’re still shivering though. “Yoongi, I’m so cold. Please…”

He bites his lip nervously. “Some skin-to-skin contact might help. But maybe that’s the last thing you want right now…” 

“No, please, that’s what I want.”

He nods, then stands up, unzipping his jumpsuit but leaving his underwear on. “I swear, I’m not gonna try anything, it’s just for the warmth.”

You nod, pulling back the blanket for him. He slides in next to you, wrapping you into his arms again. 

You let out a deep sigh. He’s so warm. His bare skin is so warm and he smells so good. “Thank you,” you whisper. Your eyelids begin to droop as you snuggle in closer to him. 

He nods, nuzzling his face into your hair and giving you another small kiss on the top of your head. “You just rest now, okay?”

You nod, again, already fading out. You think you hear him whisper one last “I’m sorry,” into your hair before you fall asleep. 

________

Your head is resting on Yoongi’s bare chest when you wake up in the morning. Your head bobs up and down with his breath, his arms still wrapped around you. His hands are warm. One hand rests on your shoulder and the other is closed over your hand resting on his chest. He spent all night holding your hand. Your bare legs entangle with his beneath the blanket he draped over you yesterday. You’re entirely naked and he’s in only his underwear.

The rhythm of his breath pauses for a moment as you begin to move. But as you snuggle in toward him, kissing his chest, it resumes its steady pattern. His hand on your shoulder twirls soft spirals across your skin with his delicate and deliberate fingers. 

“How do you feel?” he asks. 

A huge grin spreads across your face as you press your cheek against his chest, positively giddy. Sleeping on an actual horizontal surface, wrapped in Yoongi’s arms, it’s the best rest you’ve had in years. “Amazing,” you answer. 

“Glad to hear it.” You feel him smile against the top of your head. His hand begins moving up and down your back and you arch against it, like a cat longing for affection. 

You’re a bit afraid to look at him, unsure what to say and unwilling to jeopardize the mood. But he places a finger under your chin and tips your head up to meet his eyes. 

His face is still a bit puffy from sleep, but his eyes are wide awake and intent, dark and focused entirely on you. His long dark hair hangs into his eyes and he shakes his head slightly to get it out of his face.  

Holy shit, you are so aroused. You had no idea you could be this aroused from some hand-holding and a back rub. Your core throbs where your leg is wrapped around his thigh.  He must feel how wet you are against him, but his hand doesn’t change pace as he moves up and down your back. The hand entangled with yours begins playing with your fingers and running over your knuckles. He’s exploring you, savoring you. 

“So…” you say, licking your lips and fighting the urge to squeeze his thigh more firmly between your legs. 

 “So…” he repeats, watching you. 

“So it’s Friday…” Your voice comes out all breathless. 

Everything moves so slowly. His eyes scan your face as he moves his hand from his chest to your chin. 

“And what do you want to do with your Friday?” he asks. 

“You once said that if you could have touched me, you would have kissed me.” He doesn’t answer, but his eyes get ever so slightly darker. “And you can touch me now.”

Slow as molasses, he leans in to you, tilting your head back as his lips meet yours. Like warm honey, he pours himself into you. Warmth radiates from his lips to your mouth and down your throat where his hand still rests. His hand spans from his fingertips along your jaw to his thumb between your breasts. 

Your lower lip quivers as he sucks it into his mouth. He’s so gentle and soft and you can’t really believe that it’s like this. You sigh contentedly against his lips. As his tongue enters your mouth, you can’t help squeezing your legs around his thigh. 

He groans, slotting his own leg up between your core and now things are going a bit too slow for your liking. You want to beg him to hurry the fuck up, but you settle for rocking your hips against his thigh instead. 

He gasps and finds a hold on your hip, stopping you. “Don’t rush me, woman.”

You whine and rock your hips again. 

“Now, now, none of that…” He rolls you onto your back, pinning you beneath him, slotting his leg even more firmly between yours. The weight of him on you makes you quiver again. He hasn’t stopped kissing you, continuing to savor you ever so slowly.

“Min Yoongi,” you gasp when he finally gives you a chance to breathe. “If you do not fuck me right now, I will throw you out of the airlock.” 

“Oh shit,” he stops and sits up slightly. “I forgot Namjoon needed me to unclog a toilet this morning.” He smirks and acts like he’s about to get up. 

“Don’t you fucking dare.” You grab him around the neck and drag him back down on top of you. Your legs lock around his waist as his cock presses against your cunt in a way that makes you positively mad, only the thin cloth of his underwear stopping you from what you want. “Get inside me this instant.”

He chuckles, rocking his hips so his cock rubs against your slit and clit. “Ask nicely,” he teases.

You groan with frustration and roll him over, climbing on top of him and straddling him. “God, I hate you,” you mutter as you wiggle down to pull off his underwear. 

He laughs, folding his arms behind his head. “No you don’t.”

You climb back up and kiss him again, laughing too. “No, I don’t.” 

You reach down to try to put him inside you, but he stops you, sliding his fingers inside you instead. You gasp. 

He smirks. “I’m either gonna hear you beg or I’m gonna hear you come before I fuck you.”

“Ugh, you’re the worst.” 

“I’m the best.” So fucking smug. All it takes is one long kiss pairing with those long fingers and you’re tipping over the edge. 

“That’s my girl,” he sighs as he finally eases himself into you. 

He keeps going with his same slow pace and doesn’t stop kissing you. He only breaks free from your kiss as he comes, sighing softly against your forehead. 

You can’t stop grinning as you curl into his chest again, sighing contentedly. Only then do you realize something important.

“Shit, Yoongi…”

He looks up at you confused.

“No one turned the gravity off.”

He looks around for a minute. “Oh shit, yeah… they must have left it on for us.”