⏠đŹđđđđźđŹ: upcoming | kkangpae!au (main story here)
⏠đ°đđ«đ§đąđ§đ đŹ: knife play, fear play, blood play, clothing destruction (hoodie, bra, leggings, pantiesâthe lavender hoodie did nothing wrong), primal play (he literally hunts her down through the forest and pins her to the ground) nudity, nipple play (extensive), breast play, oral (f. receiving, through clothing), semi-public sex (forestâtechnically a security dead zone but still outside), outdoor sex, sex on the floor, blade handling (uhh yeah he makes her grip the blade), possessive behavior, biting, marking, mildly very unhinged love language, wolf/bunny imagery (to be cringe is to be free i regret nothing i love the bunny petname and i will NOT apologize), blood as lubricant (yes really), palm cutting, blade-to-throat, piercing kink (he has opinions about giving her nipple piercingsâwith pink bows), pink kink (is that a thing? V definitely has it), dirty talk, praise kink, pale-skinned OC, small titties (A cup), penetration through (yes through, panties get destroyed) clothing, pain kink (he likes the friction and the sting), taehyung has a dick piercing (Albert) and he snags it against lace on purpose because heâs a sadomasochist, thrill kink (he literally needs a knife at his jugular to finish), cum inside, overstimulation, muffled sobs via bloody palm, adrenaline tears, body insecurity (brief, he corrects it with unhinged enthusiasm), implied snooping through medical records (casual), encyclopedic recitation of security systems (flirting?), birth control discussion (he noticed the implant under her skin), V being V (consider yourself warned lmaoooo), and Orionâs belt as a psychological coping mechanism (donât ask).
p.s. everything is consensual! (yunjin has been after V for weeks) but the fear + primal play can give off dubcon vibes so read at your own discretion!
⏠playlist | comment for taglist | ⏠đœđȘđ°: #ctr
⏠đđđđ đđđđ : part 1 | part 2
snippet #1 | snippet #2 | snippet #3
â§ a/n: one would assume that with the sheer volume of filthy smut i've produced in my lifetime, primal play would've shown up at least once. one would assume wrong. hence this. my little guinea pig. my experiment. my white rabbit.
so. i've read primal play. plenty of it. and it almost always leaves me with that specific unsatisfied feeling, you know the one. either she's just lying there while he chases her like she's a speed bump with a pulse, or he catches her and immediately skips the entire point and goes straight to insertion. no foreplay. no savoring. criminal. actually criminal. so after a few minutes of bemoaning and at least two 'must i do everything in this house's, i sat down and wrote the thing i wanted to read. i am, for the record, still writing it. so honestly this is an interest check to see how many people would actually be interested in something like this and whether i should hyperfixate on finishing it or not.
also. yes. it's an OC this time, which is deeply strange for me given that my entire brand is shoving you headfirst into second-person and making it your problem. but i could not in good conscience slap x reader on this when yunjin is, very specifically, based on lesserafim's yunjinâpink hair, soft voice, absolutely no business being in a forest at midnight with that man. if you're coming from my longfic kkangpae you already know. if you're new: godspeed, genuinely, and maybe start there.
pray for the pink bows. may they rest unripped.
also yes the banner was completely self-made so i expect at least 3 praise comments thank you and youâre welcome.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Floor five. Eleven-something at night. Yunjin knew exactly why she was there before she even knocked.
She just didn't know he'd take her into the forest.
â đđđđđ: smut
â đđđđđđ: explicit (18+)
â đđđđđđđ: taehyung x oc (female) | kkangpae!au (main story here)
â đđ: 20k
â đđđđđđđđ: knife play, fear play, blood play, clothing destruction (hoodie, bra, leggings, pantiesâthe lavender hoodie did nothing wrong), primal play (he literally hunts her down through the forest and pins her to the ground) nudity, nipple play (extensive), breast play, oral (f. receiving, through clothing), semi-public sex (forestâtechnically a security dead zone but still outside), outdoor sex, sex on the floor, blade handling (uhh yeah he makes her grip the blade), possessive behavior, biting, marking, mildly very unhinged love language, wolf/bunny imagery (to be cringe is to be free i regret nothing i love the bunny petname and i will NOT apologize), blood as lubricant (yes really), palm cutting, blade-to-throat, piercing kink (he has opinions about giving her nipple piercingsâwith pink bows), pink kink (is that a thing? V definitely has it), dirty talk, praise kink, pale-skinned OC, small titties (A cup), penetration through (yes through, panties get destroyed) clothing, pain kink (he likes the friction and the sting), taehyung has a dick piercing (Albert) and he snags it against lace on purpose because heâs a sadomasochist, thrill kink (he literally needs a knife at his jugular to finish), cum inside, overstimulation, muffled sobs via bloody palm, adrenaline tears, body insecurity (brief, he corrects it with unhinged enthusiasm), implied snooping through medical records (casual), encyclopedic recitation of security systems (flirting?), birth control discussion (he noticed the implant under her skin), V being V (consider yourself warned lmaoooo), and Orionâs belt as a psychological coping mechanism (donât ask).
cut in 2 parts because tumblr hates length. part 1 here.
âI cââ She swallows. âI canâtââ
âYou can.â
âV, I canâtââ
He pushes forward, and his chest presses into the blade, just a fractionâjust enough that she feels the resistance, feels the tip bite into fabric, feels the knife start to go somewhereâand every alarm in her body fires at once.
Yunjin wrenches backward.
Her hands yank the knife away from him so fast the momentum almost tips her over, her arms pulling the blade toward her own body in her desperate retreat from the idea of piercing someone, of steel going through shirt and skin and muscleâ
The knife ends up clutched against her chest, point up, her whole body curved around it protectively.
Not protecting herself from the weapon.
Protecting him from her.
V watches this happen with an expression of quiet, absolute satisfaction.
And then he chuckles.
The sound rolls through his chest and out into the cold air between them, and it soundsâgod, it sounds genuinely charmed. This soft, private laughter of someone who ran an experiment and got exactly the result they wanted.
Heâd known.
Heâd known she wouldnât do it.
Thatâs why he pushed forwardâbecause he knew sheâd pull back.
Because the equation was already solved in his head before he even placed the blade.
Because V doesnât gamble. He calculates.
âGood bunny,â he murmurs.
Her chest cracks open and floods warm.
She hates it.
She hates that those two words in that voice make her feelâmake her feelâ
Happy.
Which is insane.
Sheâs holding a knife in a forest with a man who kills people and she feels happy because he called her a good bunny.
She really needs to schedule an appointment with J-Hopeâs second.
V reaches for her. Slow this time.
His hands cup her shouldersâgently, so gently it doesnât match anything else about this, doesnât match the knife or the chase or the countingâand he eases her back down onto the ground.
Pine needles prick through the thin cotton of her ruined hoodie. The cold seeps into her shoulders.
He follows her down, settling his weight over her again, and his hand finds her wrists and gathers them back together above her head.
The knife stays in her grip for one more second before he takes it from her. She lets it go without resistance, fingers uncurling like petals, and itâs the easiest surrender sheâs ever made.
The knife spins.
She catches it in her peripheryâa flash of silver movement at the edge of her vision, his right hand a blur of practiced rotation, the blade folding and unfolding in that hypnotic figure eight sheâs seen a hundred times and still canât track.
The handles click.
The steel flashes.
And then his hand comes down.
Fast.
The blade slams into the earth right beside her neck.
THUNK.
Yunjin flinches so violently her whole body leaves the ground for a second. A high, choked sound punches from her throatâand itâs not a scream but the shape of one that got caught behind her teeth. Her head snaps to the side and she feels it: the knife buried to the hilt in the soil, the handle still vibrating faintly, the blade maybe two inches from the tendon in her neck.
Her pulse hammers against the ground.
V holds the position for a beat. Just long enough for her to feel the proximityâthe almost of it, the near-miss singing in her nerve endings like a plucked string.
Then simply leaves the knife there. Planted in the earth beside her throat like a headstone for her composure.
âNow,â he says, as if theyâd just paused for a commercial break. âWhere was I.â
Jesus Christ.
His freed hand finds her left breastâthe one his mouth hasnât touched yetâand he cups it fully this time. His palm is warm, broad enough to cover the whole small swell of her, and he justâholds it.
Then he simply pinches her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Not hard, but enough to hold itâto trap the stiff peak and roll it slowly, tugging it up from her chest, stretching the skin gently before letting it spring back.
Her back bows. A moan slips outâan actual throaty moan that rings in the treesâand her face goes nuclear.
Vâs eyes go half-lidded. That pleased, sleepy look settles over his face.
âSee?â he murmurs. âSensitive.â
He lowers his mouth to the one he hasnât tasted yet.
This time he doesnât start gentle. His lips close around her left nipple and he sucksâimmediate, firm, hollowing his cheeks against her small breast. His tongue presses flat against the peak inside his mouth and drags, and the wet heat combined with the suction pulls something from so deep in her chest that her hands clench into fists above her head.
âNnhââ
She canât form words. Her hips shift against the ground and her legs are shaking where his thighs bracket them.
âVâthatâsâahââ
He alternates in his sucking, first flicking the tip of his tongue against the trapped nippleâquick, flicks that send jolts straight to her clit. Then sucking again, slow and deep, drawing the nipple further into his mouth than seems possible, as if heâs trying to take the whole breast in.
His hand works the other side. Rolling and tugging the right nipple between his fingers, pinching it lightly just to feel her flinch, then soothing it with a slow rub of his thumb.
He pulls off with a wet sound.
Studies her nipple. Itâs swollen now, glistening with his saliva, flushed a deeper shade than beforeâalmost red, angry-looking, slick and shining in the moonlight.
âPretty,â he says. Then, tilting his head: âPrettier wet.â
She makes a noise that is, generously, a whimper.
He switches. Mouth to the right nipple now, hand to the left, and the sensation of cool night air hitting saliva-slick skin makes her gasp briefly. Goosebumps erupt across her chest. The abandoned nipple tightens painfully, exposed, and then his fingers find itâstill slickâand tug.
Immediately, he draws a slow circle around the areola before closing in on the nipple, spiraling tighter and tighter until the tip of his tongue flicks across the very peak.
Then he bites.
Just the edges of his teeth closing around the stiff nub, the pressure strange after all that softness, and Yunjinâs whole body jolts.
V hums against her skin. His teeth release the nipple and his tongue soothes over it in flat strokes.
âPiercingsâ he says, mouth still brushing against her breast.
Her brain stutters to a halt. âWâwhat?â
He lifts his head enough to look at her nipple. Considers it. His thumb and forefinger catch the wet peak and hold it up, stretching it slightly, examining it from the side.
âA needle,â he says. âThrough here.â
His other hand releases her wristsâbriefly, just long enough to tap the opposite nipple with one finger before returning to pin her.
"And here. Matched set.â
She stares at him with her mouth open.
âSmall gauge,â he continues, warming to the subject. âSomething delicate. Gold, maybeââ He pauses. Reconsiders. âNo. Rose gold. To match.â
Heâs redesigning her like a moodboard.
âPink bows,â he adds, and his voice goes soft on the wordsâalmost dreamy. âThreaded through each ring. Little satin ones. The same shade asââ His gaze flicks to her hair. ââthese.â
Yunjin cannot believe this is happening to her.
She cannot believe she is lying on a forest floor with her tits out while the most dangerous man in Kkangpae describes his ideal nipple piercing aesthetic with the enthusiasm of someone planning a Pinterest wedding.
âYouâd heal fast,â he muses, thumb circling her areola absently. âSmall breasts heal faster. Less tissue strain.â
âHow do you know thatââ
âAnd then theyâd be even more sensitive.â
His eyes brighten fractionally, like this possibility truly excites him.
âRight now, you can barely handle my mouth. After the piercings?â
He dips his head and drags the flat of his tongue across her nipple in one gentle stroke.
Her spine arches on reflex, a broken âahâ falling from her lips.
âYouâd cry.â
He says it like itâs the whole point.
âEvery touch. Every brush of fabric.â He kisses the wet nipple between wordsâsoft. âA breeze. Water in the shower.â His tongue flicks out, quick, and she jerks. âYouâd feel everything.â
She is going to lose her mind.
He lowers his mouth again, and this time thereâs intent behind itânot idle exploration but dedication.
He sucks her nipple into his mouth and works it with his tongue, rolling it, pressing it against the roof of his mouth, and his hand kneads the other breast in rhythm, thumb brushing the peak in time with each pull of his lips.
The sensation builds in layersâheat and pressure, the ache of overstimulation starting to glow at the edgesâand sheâs squirming now, unable to stay still, shifting restlessly against the ground.
She grinds up.
One involuntary, desperate roll of her pelvis against him, seeking friction it hasnât been offered, pressing up into the weight of him between her legsâ
She feels him.
Hard. Thick through his pants, pressed against the dampness between her thighs.
The contact is briefâa fraction of a secondâbut the shape of him is unmistakable.
Yunjin freezes.
Vâs mouth goes still on her breast.
He lifts his head.
Slowly.
His eyes find hers.
His tongue traces his lower lipâa quick, absent gesture, collecting the slick of his own salivaâand his expression makes every organ in her body rearrange.
He doesnât look surprised. He looks like something just clicked into place. Like a lock engaging. Like a wolf whoâd been playing with its food just felt movement and remembered âoh, right, hungry.â
Yunjinâs stomach drops.
âThatââ Her voice comes out reedy, cracked. âI didnâtâthat wasâI didnât mean toââ
âCareful.â
One word. Quiet.
Itâs not the smile from beforeânot the amused one, not the fond one, not the pleased-with-his-experiment one.
Thhis one has teeth.
The thorned-rose feeling wraps around her ribcage and squeezes.
Her stomach turns inside out.
Her clit throbs so hard she can feel her own pulse between her legs, a sick, swooping rush of butterflies and dread knotted together so tightly she canât tell which is which.
He holds her gaze. His smile completes itselfâwide, eerie, the kind of smile that belongs on a presence that hunts in the dark.
âYou do that again,â he says, voice dropping low enough to feel in her spine, âand Iâll start eating you from the bottom up instead, bunny.â
He just stays thereâhovering over her, his weight balanced on his knees, that terrible smile still seated on his faceâand he lets the moment breathe. Lets her feel the full scope of what she just did.
The involuntary twitch.
The grind.
The way her hips had moved toward him like bound by magneticism, completely beyond the jurisdiction of her brain.
He waits until her face has gone through every shade of pink available on the human spectrum.
Then he reaches for the knife.
The blade slides out of the soil with a soft, gritty hiss.
He holds it loosely, tipping it once in the moonlight to inspect the edge, and his gaze returns to her.
âGive me your hands,â he says.
Her stomach plummets. âWhatââ
âHands.â
He releases her wrists.
The sudden absence of pressure is disorientingâsheâs been pinned so long that freedom feels wrong, feels like a trickâand her arms ache as blood floods back into her fingers.
She brings them down slowly, stiffly, and he catches them. Both of her hands. He gathers them together as if wrapping a gift, folding her fingers around the blade of the knife.
She yelps.
Though, before she can protest, he lifts her hands above her head and presses them back against the ground.
âHold this,â he says.
She stares up at her own hands. âVââ
âDonât move.â His voice drops a register.
The playfulness thins, thorned quality rising to the surface like it that had been swimming just below the waterline.
He leans in, way too close for comfort.
So close she can feel the cinnamon touching her skin, smell the whiskey from his breath and something metallic and animal underneath all of it.
âThat blade,â he murmurs, and his finger comes up to tap once, lightly, against the flat of the steel, âis very sharp.â
Tap.
âAnd your handsââ His gaze flicks upwards. ââare shaking.â
They are.
She can feel the tremor traveling from her shoulders through her biceps into her wrists into her fingers into the handle into the blade.
A fine, constant vibration, like a tuning fork someone struck twenty minutes ago and forgot about.
âIf you move,â V says, and his voice is quiet now, stripped of the warmth, stripped of the playfulness, just the clean bare architecture of a statement, âthat edge will open your skin. Your palms. Your fingers.â
She swallows hard enough to hear it.
âAnd that would make a mess.â He pulls back a fraction. Considers her. âWouldnât want that.â
His smile comes back. Smaller this time. Private. Surgical.
âSo. Stay still for me.â
He leans back.
Her hands stay where they are. Above her head, wrapped around the blade, shaking.
She doesnât move. She doesnât dare move.
The steel hums against her palms with every tremor and she can feel how thin the line is between holding and cutting, between this and red.
Vâs gaze travels from her handsâgood, stillâto her faceâflushed, wet-eyed, lips partedâto her bare chestânipples swollen and slick from his mouth, glistening rosy in the low lightâto the waistband of her leggings.
The leggings heâd already sliced into. The fabric gapes at the hip where heâd cut earlier, torn enough to expose a stripe of whatâs beneath, but the rest is still mostly intact. Mostly in the way. Mostly between him and whateverâs under the cotton candy wrapping.
He fixes this.
Both hands grip the tear heâd made and pull.
The sound of fabric ripping fills the clearingâlouder than the knife had been, longer, a sustained rrrip that makes Yunjin flinch and then immediately freeze becauseâknife, knife, donât moveâand the leggings split wide along the seam.
He tears them open from hip to mid-thigh on one side, then the other, peeling the ruined cotton back like heâs unwrappiing something that needs careful handling.
The cold hits her inner thighs first. Then her hips. Thenâ
The matching panties. The ones sheâd put on two hours ago in her room, the ones that had seemed like such an innocent, private decision at the time, the ones that are now on full display in a moonlit forest for a man who literally collects deathly souvenirs and has already mentally designed her nipple piercings.
Worse: theyâre wet.
She can feel it. Has been able to feel it for a while, actuallyâthe slick heat between her legs, the way the thin lace clings to her, damp and warm and obvious.
Sheâd been ignoring it. Refusing to acknowledge the very specific evidence of what his mouth on her tits and his knife against her skin had been doing to her for the last however-many minutes.
V sees it.
His hands go still on the torn fabric. His gaze lowers and stays.
He doesnât say a word.
The silence is somehow louder than everything that came before.
Yunjin squeezes her eyes shut.
Her fingers tighten around the knifeâcarefully, carefully, the edge is right thereâand her face burns so hot sheâs amazed the pine needles underneath her arenât catching fire.
She wants to close her legs. She wants to disappear. She wantsâ
âOh, bunny,â V says softly. âLook at you.â
She does not look. She keeps her eyes sealed shut and her jaw clenched and her hands very, very still above her head, because if she looks down and sees what heâs seeing she will actually, literally, die.
His thumb presses against her. Through the lace. Right over her clitâor close enough that the difference is irrelevantâa firm, warm point of pressure against the soaked fabric.
And thatâthat brings out a full-body twitch out of her that makes the blade jitter above her hands.
âStill,â he reminds her. Calm. Almost kind.
Still. Right. The knife.
The very sharp knife sheâs holding above her own hands.
The knife that will open her skin if sheâ
His thumb moves, a slow, grinding circle. Pressing against her clit, dragging the fabric across the sensitive skin in a tight rotation.
âNnhââ
Sheâs panting. Immediately panting. One touch and sheâs panting.
âVâthatâsâahââ
âShh.â
Another circle. Slower.
He watches his thumb work with intent, and his head tilts slightly, as if paying attention to something she canât quite figure out.
His other hand comes to rest on her hipâjust restingâand his thumb grinds down again, harder this time.
Her hips buck.
He pushes them back down.
âStill,â he says again, and thereâs a thread of amusement now. âYouâre going to hurt yourself.â
She forces her arms to lock. Forces her fingers to grip without squeezing. Forces her brain to split between sensation and survival, the two-track split Seduction Division drilled into her, theoretically, in situations approximately nothing like this.
His thumb circles again.
The lace is so wet now that itâs translucentâshe can feel it, feel how the fabric has gone sheer against her, sticking to her folds, outlining everything underneath with zero ambiguity.
Each pass of his thumb drags the soaked material across her clit in a friction thatâs maddeningâtoo much texture and not enough pressure, close but not close.
âMesmerizing,â he mutters, almost absently. âPink on pink. Youâre really allâjust one color.â
Her thighs are trembling apart, loose and useless where his body settles.
Then he does something unexpected.
He takes his hand off her hip and presses her thighs together. Justâpushes them closed tighter.!His palm flat against the outside of her left thigh, guiding it inward until her legs seal shut, trapping his thumb against her clit through the lace.
The compression is immediateâher thighs pressing warm and tight around his hand, the fabric of her panties pulled taut against her from the new angle, the pressure on her clit doubling because now sheâs squeezing around it.
âHold,â he says.
And his thumb grinds.
The friction isâgod, itâs insane.
Her own thighs clamp the pressure in, squeezing and rubbing and creating a sensation of heat and slick and texture that makes her vision swim.
Her hips try to buck and fail because her legs are pressed together, because his hand is holding them there, because thereâs nowhere for the sensation to go except through her, building in her pelvis with nowhere to escape.
âGood,â V breathes. âGood, thatâsââ
He sounds fascinated, as if watching something bloom in time-lapse.
Her arms shake above her head. The knife jitters. She can feel the edge kissing above her fingers, feel how close it is, how paper-thin the distance between holding and bleeding, and the awareness of itâthe dangerâsends a sick, hot pulse straight to her clit.
Like she canât tell the difference between fear and arousal anymore.
Like the two wires crossed somewhere deep in her brainstem and now theyâre soldered together, one signal, one response: more.
âVââ Her voice fractures. âI canâtâIâm gonnaâthe knifeââ
âYouâre doing so well.â
God. That doesnât help.
That makes it worse.
The soft, approving tone, the patience, the way he says it like sheâs exceeding his expectations at something importantâit hits her between the ribs and between her legs simultaneously.
He withdraws his thumb.
She almost sobs.
Almostâbecause the breath is halfway out and the sound is halfway formed and then his palms flatten against her knees and pushes them down, and the cold forest air rushes against the wet heat between her legs and she hears herself keen.
âShh.â
He smiles.
âStay,â he murmurs, and releases her knees.
They stay. She keeps them down.
He shifts. Lowers himself onto his elbows, his body sinking down until his face is level with her navelâand then lower, lowerâand Yunjinâs breath stops.
His mouth touches her stomach. Below her navel. The soft, vulnerable plane of skin where her abs arenât defined enough to be abs, where her body is just bodyâsoft and warm and human.
His lips press there first. A closed-mouth kiss. Testing the temperature. Tasting.
Then his tongue comes out.
A slow, flat drag from her navel downward. Warm and wet against her cool skin, the contrast making goosebumps explode in every direction.
He licks a deliberate line south, following the fine trail below her belly button, his nose brushing her skin as he goes, and she can feel him inhaling. Breathing her in. Cotton candy and fear-sweat and something underneath both thatâs a bit muskierâthe scent of how wet she is, rising from between her thighs.
âMm,â he hums against her lower belly.
The vibration makes her abs clench.
He traces the edge of her panties with his tongue. The waistband sits low on her hips, and he follows itâleft to right, slow, the tip of his tongue dipping just barely under the elastic before retreating. Tasting the line where fabric meets skin.
Where pink meets pink.
Her arms are shaking. The knife trembles. She locks her elbows harder and breathes through her teeth.
He nuzzles against the lace.
Justâpresses his nose into the front of her panties and breathes, deep and slow, like heâs smelling a flower.
The fabric is thin enough and damp enough that she can feel the heat of his exhale through it, can feel the shape of his nose against her mound, and her hips roll toward his face before she can stop them.
He pulls back. Looks up at her through his lashes with an expression thatâs almost curious.
âBe patient,â he says.
She doesnât have patience.
She has a knife and a heartbeat and a clit thatâs throbbing so hard she can feel it in her teeth and he wants patience.
He readjusts.
His hands grip her thighs and push them open, resettling her open legs around his shoulders.
His body slides lower between them until heâs lying on his stomach on the cold forest floor, elbows planted, face inches from the wet lace.
And then he justâlooks.
The soaked fabric leaves nothing to the imagination.
Her folds are visible through it, swollen and parted, the mesh clinging to every contour in a way thatâs more obscene than nudity. Her clit strains against the thin barrier, a flushed, tight knot pressing at the fabric from underneath. The cotton gusset is a shade darker than the edgesâdarker because itâs soaked, saturated, and she can feel how much because the cold air makes the wetness feel more obvious somehow, more damning.
âAll this,â he says quietly, âfrom just the top.â
Her face might actually be on fire. She canât tell anymore. Fire and embarrassment feel the same at this point.
He lowers his mouth.
The first touch is soft. Just his lips, closed, pressing directly over her clit. A kiss. Gentle.
She feels the warmth of his mouth through the damp fabric, the shape of his lips against her swollen clit, and the contact is so specific after all the teasing that tears prick her eyes.
Then he opens his mouth.
His tongue presses flat through the laceâbroad, hot, wet against wet, and the texture of the fabric caught between his tongue and her pussy adds a gritty, delirious friction.
âOhââ Yunjinâs voice shatters into something unrecognizable.
Her thighs clamp around his head reflexively and then force themselves open again because he told her to stay and sheâs staying.
âOhâgodâVââ
He licks upward.
One long, dragging stroke from the bottom of her slit to the top, tongue pressing the embroidery into her folds, collecting the taste of her through the thin barrier. His lips close around the peak of her clit at the top and he sucksâgentlyâand her entire lower body lifts off the ground.
The knife wobbles dangerously above her hands.
She forces her arms down. Locks them.
Donât move. Donât move. Donâtâ
Vâs tongue starts working. Not idle licksâfocused ones. Heâs mapped her through the fabric, found the shape of her clit beneath the lace, and now his tongue-tip circles it teasingly.
Around, around, press, release, around again.
He hums softly against her.
The sound vibrates through the lace, through her folds, through her clit, into her spine, and it has this low and satisfied cadence that makes her think heâs eating something heâs been thinking about for hours on end.
She can feel his jaw working, feel the movement of his tongue through the soaked fabric, feel how his breath comes hot and uneven against her inner thigh when he turns his head to adjust the angle.
âYouââ she manages, barely, voice cracking on the syllable.
Her hands are screaming with the effort of holding still. Every nerve in her body is trying to curl inward, trying to clench, trying to grab something.
âYouâreânnhâthroughâthrough myââ
He seals his mouth over her pussy through the panties and sucks, pulling the fabric and her folds together into his mouth, tongue working the bundle of her clit.
Her head presses into the dirt. Her knees shake where theyâre pinned open around his shoulders.
And above her head, her hands tremble around the knifeâholding it, barely, the blade catching moonlight each time she shakes.
Still. Sheâs still. She hasnât moved.
Vâs tongue drags down, below her clit, nosing through the fabric to press against her entrance. It gives under the pressure of his tongue, dipping into her just barely.
Then, he licks back upâslowly, agonizingly slowlyâtasting the full length of her through the ruined panties.
He pulls back just enough to breathe.
âSweet,â he murmurs, and the word ghosts warm over her slick, aching pussy. âLike the rest of you.â
Her fingers tighten around the knife, but she does not move.
His mouth returns to her clitâlips sealed, tongue working in those patient little circles through the soaked laceâand then his hand moves.
She feels it on her inner thigh first. The drag of his fingertips, light, traveling upward from where her leg is trembling against his shoulder. Not rushing. Touring. His knuckles graze the crease where her thigh meets her hip, and she thinks okay, okayâbut then his fingers drift inward, toward the center of her, and the thought dissolves into vapor.
His middle finger finds her entrance through the panties.
Not pressing in. Not yet. Just resting thereâthe pad of his finger settled where it clings to her opening.
She can feel how the fabric dips slightly under the pressure, molding into her.
His tongue flicks her clit. His finger traces a slow circle around her entrance.
She sobs.
A wrenched, involuntary sound from somewhere behind her sternum.
âNnhâVâpleaseââ
He hums against her, finger circling, tracing the rim of her entrance in that slow, maddening orbit, and his tongue keeps working, andâ
He pulls his mouth away.
The sound she makes is humiliating.
A thin, high, desperate thing that she would absolutely deny making later under any circumstance.
The cold air rushes against her clit where his mouth had beenâwet, exposed, throbbingâand she jerks.
V lifts his head from between her thighs, lower lip glistening. Looks at her face. Then at his fingers, still resting against her entrance.
âBunny,â he says, conversational. âYouâre drenched.â
She wants to disintegrate.
His finger pressesâjust slightlyâagainst the lace over her entrance, and the fabric gives. Sinks inward.
The wet cotton molds into her opening around his fingertip without actually letting him inside, and the tease of itâalmost-in, not-quite-in, the stretch that isnât a stretchâmakes her thighs spasm.
âBet I could fuck you through the lace,â he muses.
His tone. God, his tone.
It sounds like this is a logistics problem to him, and nothing more. An engineering question, if you willâand not his finger pressing the mesh into her pussy while she shakes apart on a forest floor holding a knife above her own head.
He pushes slightly harder. The fabric dips deeper, his fingertip dragging the fabric into her entrance.
âAhââ Her voice breaks. âThatâsâyou canât justââ
He can. Apparently. He does.
His mouth returns to her clit, lips sealing over it through the lace, tongue pressing flat and grinding, and his finger works the fabric into her entrance in shallow, rhythmic pushes.
Not penetrating her properlyâjust working the wet cotton in and out, stretching her opening around, and the sensation is unlike anything she has a framework for.
Itâs too much and not enough at once.
Itâs the idea of being fucked while being denied the actual thing, and her body doesnât know whether to chase or retreat, so it does bothâher hips rolling in frantic little circles, her thighs clamping against his ears, her arms locked rigid above her head as the blade trembles.
He does this forâshe doesnât know. A minute. Three.
Long enough that her breathing goes ragged and thin, long enough that the coil in her pelvis tightens to something unbearable, long enough that sheâs making these continuous, broken little noisesââah, ah, nnh, please, ahââthat she canât control and canât stop.
Then he sits up, plucks the knife from her grip.
Her fingers donât resist. Theyâve been clenched so long they barely respond at all, cramped and aching, and the blade slides free from her loosened fist like it was never hers to begin with.
The relief of not holding it hits her like a wave.
Her arms drop to her sides, heavy, tingling, and she flexes her fingers and winces at the stiffness.
V flips the knife shut with a casual click-clack and tucks it somewhere behind himâshe hears it thud softly into the earth, planted handle-up, placed with the absent precision of someone who has a relationship with every surface within armâs reach.
Then he grips her thighs.
His hands close around the backs of her knees and he liftsâscooping her lower body up and toward him, dragging her across the pine needles until her thighs bracket his hips.
Her ruined hoodie bunches up under her shoulders. Her legs settle on either side of his kneeling frame, thighs draped open over his thighs, and sheâsâ
Sheâs spread around him. Looking up at him from below. Hoodie split, bra destroyed, leggings torn, panties soaked through, and heâs kneeling between her open legs like this is a position heâs designed the evening around.
(It is. She knows it is. Every single step of this has been choreographed.)
His hand goes to his belt.
Yunjinâs brain comes back online.
âVââ She pushes up onto her elbows, eyes wide. âWeâreâweâre outside.â
He glances at her.
The belt buckle clinks.
âWeâre in the forest,â she clarifies, like maybe heâs forgotten this critical environmental detail. âSomeone couldâthere areâV, the castle hasââ
âNo cameras in this quadrant,â he says.
His tone is calm. Informational. Manual-flat.
âADâs surveillance grid covers the perimeter in a two-hundred-meter radius from the castle walls. Forty-six fixed-lens cameras on the north face aloneâtwelve with infrared, eight with motion tracking, the rest standard resolution. But the treeline past the eastern access roadââ He unthreads the belt from its loop with a soft hiss of leather. ââsits in a dead zone. Intentional. AD left it as an exfiltration corridor for stealth ops. No fixed lenses, no PTZ rotation, no laser tripwires.â
He unbuttons his pants.
âThe nearest motion sensor is three hundred meters northeast.â
He unzips.
âItâs a dual-tech passive infrared and microwave unitâsensitive to body heat and mass displacement. At this distanceââ He pauses, considering. ââwe would need to be approximately four meters closer and moving at walking speed for it to trigger.
Yunjin is staring at him with her mouth open.
âGround-level vibration sensors along the southern access road, but those are calibrated for vehicular weightâanything under ninety kilograms wonât register. The patrol rotation for the eastern quadrant runs on a forty-five-minute cycle. Last pass wasââ He tips his head back slightly, thinking. ââtwenty-two minutes ago. Gives us twenty-three. More than enough.â
He says âmore than enoughâ the way other people say âpass the salt.â
âThereâs a thermal imaging drone that sweeps the full perimeter every two hours, but AD programs it on a predictable west-to-east arc. It passed the eastern treeline at eleven-fourteen. Next pass is one-fourteen.â Another pause. âItâs twelve-oh-seven.â
He knows the time. He knows the time without checking.
Sheâs lying here with her tits out and her panties soaked and heâs reciting ADâs entire security architecture from memory like a man reading a train timetable.
âThe biometric scanners are door-mounted onlyâirrelevant out here, really. Pressure pads are concentrated at entry points, not forest floor.â
He tilts his head at her.
âThe ventilation ducts that double as listening posts have a range of approximately fifty meters from the castle wall. We areââ He glances at the treeline behind them, calculating. ââroughly seventy-three meters out.â
Yunjin opens her mouth.
Closes it.
Opens it again.
âHow do you know all of that.â
The smile that crosses his face is small and private and deeply, profoundly unsettling.
âI read.â
He says it like the explanation is sufficient. Like âI readâ covers the entirety of having memorized the castleâs security grid down to sensor calibration thresholds and drone flight timing.
(It probably does, for him. He probably does just read things and then theyâre in his brain forever, filed and indexed and cross-referenced, because heâs V, because his mind works like a filing cabinet that someone set on fire and the fire made it smarter.)
âAlso,â he adds, almost as an afterthought, âAD talks in his sleep.â
She doesnât know if heâs joking. His face gives nothing away.
He pushes his waistband down.
Yunjin looks at the sky.
Itâsâoh.
Oh, itâs beautiful.
The canopy thins here, where the trees are older and taller and their branches spread wide enough to leave gaps. Through those gaps, stars. Thousands of them, more than sheâs ever seen, more than the city ever allows. The Milky Way is a pale, milky smear across the black, and thereâs no light pollution out here, nothing to compete withâjust the deep, velvet dark and the impossible scatter of light, and itâs stunning.
It really is.
Itâs the kind of sky only seen in movies about rural escapes and coming-of-age romances like the dramas she likes, not in the middle of being undressed by the Chief of Stealth Assassinations while her panties drip onto the forest floor.
She stares at it and thinks that it is the most beautiful ceiling sheâs ever had while being terrified for her life.
She hears him palm himself.
The sound is softâskin on skin, the faint shifting of fabricâand she feels the movement in the way his weight shifts between her thighs, the way the muscles in his legs tense against the outsides of hers.
She can picture it without seeing itâhis hand wrapped around himself, stroking once, slow, and the image alone sends a hot flush rolling from her chest to her hairline.
She keeps looking at the stars.
Orionâs belt is right there. Three bright dots in a perfect line.
She focuses on them with the intensity of someone trying to solve an equation.
âYunjin.â
She counts the stars in Orion. One, two, three. The belt. The sword hangs below.
She remembers that from a documentary. A nice, safe documentary that she watched on her laptop in her room wearing actual clothes.
âYunjin,â he says again.
âMm.â
She does not look down. She does not.
V hums.
âYou can look,â he says, softly, gently, even.
She feels like a tiny animal being coaxed to eat from his palm.
Exactly like when he ushered the words âdonât let me catch youâ.
The same one that preceded every terrible thing that happened next.
âI donâtââ She swallows. âIâm fine. Iâmâthe stars areâtheyâre niceââ
âBunny.â
One word. Patient.
âYouâve been curious since I unzipped.â
Her face ignites. Nuclear. Sub-surface volcanic.
She squeezes her eyes shut and thinks that this is how she diesâin the forest, with glinting stars, while a beautiful psychopath narrates her own arousal back to her.
âI have not,â she says, weakly.
âYour breathing changed.â
Oh god.
âAnd your pupils dilated.â
âYou canâtâyou canât see my pupils, my eyes areââ
âWere. Past tense. Before you decided the constellation Orion needed your urgent attention.â
He noticed. He noticed her staring at Orion. He identified the specific constellation she was using as a escape hatch.
What kind of personâ
âLook,â he says. Simple. Quiet.
She looks.
Down.
She does it fast, like ripping off a bandage, her eyes dropping from the stars to his face to his chest to hisâ
Oh.
Her eyes spasm.
Heâsâheâs holding himself. One hand wrapped around the base, angled toward her, and heâs hard, flushed, dark with blood, the head swollen and slick with pre-cumâand thatâs already a lot, thatâs already more than she was prepared forâbut what stops her train of thought entirely is the glint of metal.
At the tip.
A small, curved barbell.
The steel catches the moonlightâthe same moonlight that was illuminating the stars sheâd been hiding in a second agoâand the ball sits just below the head of his cock, emerging from the underside and curving up through the slit.
A piercing.
V has a piercing.
On his dick.
Yunjin looks up at the sky so fast she nearly gives herself whiplash.
Stars. Stars stars stars. Orion is still there. Thank god. Orion hasnât moved. Orion doesnât have a dick piercing. Orion is safe.
Her face is so hot she could cook something on it. An egg. A whole breakfast. She could sustain a small campfire exclusively through the thermal output of her cheeks right now.
She hears him exhale. Not quite a laugh. The ghost of one, breathed out through his nose, and she can feel him watching her face do eleven things at once.
âV,â she says. Her voice has gone soprano. âYou have aââ
âMm.â
âOn yourââ
âYes.â
She presses the heels of her palms against her eyes.
Orion throbs in her retinasâthree dots, burned in.
When did this become her life? When did she become a person who lies in forests looking at pierced penises? What series of choices led to this exact moment?
Sheâd like to audit them. Sheâd like a flow chart.
He shifts forward on his knees, free hand finding her hipâanchoring, warmâand then she feels it.
The head of his cock pressing against her panties. Just resting there. At first. The hard ridge of him settling against the soaked lace, and the contactâeven through the barrierâsends a bolt of sensation from her clit straight up her spine.
He drags himself along her slit. Slow. Up and down, the length of him gliding against the drenched lace, and the piercing catches on the fabric with every strokeâa tiny, hitching drag of steel against cotton that adds this punctuation to the smooth glide.
She moans. Full, open-mouthed, loud enough that it echoes briefly in the clearing.
Her hands fly from her eyes to the ground beside her, fingers digging into pine needles, and her hips roll up to meet him involuntarily.
V watches her with that dark, focused attention.
He strokes along her again. The piercing catches against her clit through the mesh and her whole body jerksâan electric pulse that makes her thighs clamp around his hips and a fractured âahâ fall from her lips.
âSensitive here, too,â he mutters, as if he were taking inventory on things heâd like to keep in mind.
Sheâs going to combust.
She is going to spontaneously combust and theyâll find a scorch mark on the forest floor and a pair of ruined panties and no one will know what happened.
He pulls back slightly. His hand leaves himself and reaches forâhis pocket? No, the fabric pooled at his thighs. He pats absently at his back pocket, then the front one, and pauses.
âMm.â He looks at her. âI donât have a condom.â
She blinks up at him.
âThough I suppose thatâs whatever,â he continues, the sentence finishing itself at its own pace, âgiven the Nexplanon.â
He reaches for her left arm, the one thatâs just lying there, and his hand closes around her wrist and turns it, rotating until the soft inner surface faces up.
The pale, thin skin of her inner bicep catches the moonlight.
His thumb finds a spot. Three inches above the crease of her elbow.
He presses.
Under his thumb, a small, thin rod rises against her skin. A ridge. Barely visible, barely palpable, the subdermal implant that sheâd had inserted six months ago, the one sheâd easily forgotten was there half the time because it sits flush under the skin and she can only feel it if she pressesâ
If she presses exactly like heâs pressing.
âHowââ Her voice is somewhere between a whisper and a screech. âHow do you know about that?â
He lets go of her arm. It drops.
âI review personnel files when Iâm bored,â he says, as if this is a perfectly normal hobby. âMedical records are attached. ADâs encryption on the health database is good, butââ The corner of his mouth twitches. ââIâm a Chief. Special access. Perks of the job.â
He reviewed the medical files. He checked the medical files and read her contraception records. While bored.
âAlso.â He tilts his head. âFlower requisitions birth control for every woman in Seduction. Standing order. Has for years. Smart woman.â A beat. âYou came in six months ago. The implant was logged at your intake physical.â
He says it in a way that sounds almost like respect. Not for Yunjinâfor Flower. For the system. For the chain of care that Chaewon built into her division like infrastructure, making sure every woman under her watch was protected whether they asked for it or not.
Yunjin stares at him.
Her arm still tingles where heâd pressed.
Heâsâhe noticed. He noticed a three-centimeter rod under her skin that she herself forgets about.
He read her file. He read everyoneâs files.
He knows her medical history and ADâs encryption protocols and Flowerâs requisition habits and the contraceptive policies of a division that isnât even his, and heâs holding all of it in his head right now while kneeling between her legs in a forest at midnight.
She doesnât know if sheâs terrified or turned on or both.
(Both. Itâs both. Itâs always both with him.)
âYouââ she starts.
He lines himself up.
Her breath catches.
He notches himself at her entranceâthrough the panties, against the thinness thatâs the only thing between themâand pushes.
Not slowly.
Not carefully.
He pushes, and the head of his cock strains against the lace, stretching the fabric into her opening, and the thin cotton resists for one secondâone taut, trembling secondâ
The curved barbell hooks into the weave of the embroidery like it was designed for this, the steel ball snagging on the threads, and V doesnât slow down. He pushes through.
The fabric tearsâa specific rip that she feels more than hears, the panties splitting from the inside out as the piercing rips through the lace, the cotton parting around the steel and the cock behind it, threads snapping in rapid succession as he forces his way in.
The sting of torn fabric dragging against her entrance, the abrupt stretch of him entering her through a hole heâs making as he goes, the piercing pulling threads into her alongside his cockâitâs bright and specific and her mouth opens on a gasp that has no sound.
Vâs breath hitches.
For the first time all night.
His exhale comes stuttered, punched out of him, and his jaw tightens and his eyes go dark and his fingers dig into her hips hard enough to leave marks.
âOh,â he breathes. âThatâsââ
He pushes deeper, makes her feel the threads giving way around his cock, the fabric shredding in a line from her entrance upward as his girth stretches the small rip wider.
Mixed with the stretch and the fullness of him thereâs this gritty, raw friction of torn cotton dragging against her inner walls alongside his cockâtexture where there should be only slick, and thatâŠ
That tells her he likes it.
Because his face does this thingâthis intake of breath and eyes fluttering half-closed, lips half-parted.
V is pushing through it all like someone leaning into a bruise, savoring the ache of destroying something beautiful.
And finally, the lace gives one last soft rip as he bottoms out.
Heâs inside her. Fully, completely, his hips pressed flush against hers, his cock buried to the hilt, and she can feelâeverything.
The heat of him. The stretch. The warmed hard pressure of the piercing seated deep inside her, the steel ball pressing against a spot on her front wall that makes her vision blur.
V holds still.
Heâs breathing through his teeth. A thin, controlled sound.
His eyes are open and fixed on her face with an intensity that makes vines wrap around her ribcage and pull, tight enough that her lungs feel small.
âThere,â he says, voice rougher than before. Rougher than sheâs heard it all night. âThatâsââ
He doesnât finish the sentence.
His hips shiftâa tiny movement, barely perceptibleâand the piercing drags against her front wall, and Yunjin hears herself make a sound that doesnât belong to any language she speaks.
Above them, Orion watches.
The stars donât blink.
He shifts just a fractionâa slow, experimental roll of his hipsâand the drag is different, it pulls the fabric with him.
V's jaw tightens.
He rocks his hips again, and this time the piercing snags on a thread, pulls it taut, and the tiny point of resistance before it gives makes him exhaleâharsh, punched out, a sound she's never heard from him before.
Itâs almost like he needs it.
This isn't about pleasure in the normal sense. This is about the edge of it. The catch. The sting. The friction that sits right on the line between sensation and pain and he's leaning into the pain side like it's a warmth he's been cold without.
He pulls back slowly, dragging himself halfway out, and she can feel threads pulling against her walls.
He pushes back in. His eyes flutter.
"More," he murmurs.
It doesn't sound like he's talking to her.
His hand reaches behind him, fingers finding the grip of the knife without looking, the way one would find a light switch in your own bedroom.
He pulls it from the soil with a soft scrape and brings it forward. Flicks it open with his thumb. Click-clack.
Between one moment and the other, heâs holding the knife out, handle toward her.
Yunjin stares at it.
"Take it," V says.
She takes it, fingers closing around the warm handle, and he doesnât wait a second to hold up his left hand, palm toward her. Long fingers splayed, the skin pale in the low light, the lines of his palm visibleâlife line, heart line, all the stupid fortune-teller lines she used to trace in middle school.
"Here," he says, and taps the center of his palm with his other hand's index finger, right in the meat of it, the fleshy mound below his fingers.
Her stomach drops.
"Vâ"
"A cut." His voice is even. Instructional. "Shallow. Diagonal."
She looks at the knife. Looks at his palm. Looks at his face.
He can't be serious. He can'tâbut his expression hasn't changed.
That same steady, bird-bright attention, no flinch, no waver, just the absolute certainty of a man who has decided what's going to happen next and is simply waiting for things to rearrange at his will.
"I can'tâ" Her hand is shaking. The blade jitters. "V, I can't cut youâ"
"You can."
"IÂ can't, that'sâthat's insane, you're asking me toâ"
"Yunjin."
He says her name and the forest gets quieter.
"It's a surface cut. Two centimeters." He holds his palm steady, presenting it like a canvas. "I'll guide you."
Her eyes are burning. Not from the cold. From the everythingâfrom the fact that she's full of him and holding his knife and he's asking her to draw blood like it's nothing, like this is a normal thing that happens between people, like the leap from pink lingerie to palm lacerations is a completely reasonable progression of events.
In his head, it probably is.
His other hand comes upâslow, gentleâand wraps around her knife hand. Over her fingers. Steadying.
The tremor in her grip dampens under the pressure of his palm, and he guides the blade toward his outstretched hand with patient, measured control.
"Breathe," he says.
She breathes.
The tip of the knife touches his palm.
He presses. She doesn't. He does itâtilts his own palm forward into the blade, using her hand as the mechanism, and the steel parts skin the way it parts everything else. Easily. Quietly.
A thin, dark line opens across the center of his palm, welling red almost immediately.
V doesn't flinch.
He doesn't even blink.
The blood rises in a slow, even seamâdark in the moonlight, almost black, thick and warm. It pools in the cup of his palm, following the lines there, filling the creases.
A drop spills over the edge and lands on her bare stomach.
Hot. Shockingly hot.
She flinches at the temperatureâliving hot, blood-hot, hotter than she expectedâand a sound comes out of her that she can't categorize.
V takes the knife from her hand. Sets it in the earth beside her headâthunk, blade down, handle upâand lifts his bleeding palm.
She watches, frozen, as he wraps his slick red hand around himself.
He has to pull out to do it. The withdrawal is slowâshe feels every inch leave her, the piercing dragging against her walls, the shreds clinging and releasingâand then he's out and his hand is there, gripping his cock, blood mixing with her arousal as he strokes himself once, twice, coating the shaft in dark, slippery red.
The sight isâ
She doesn't know what it is.
It's awful. It's the most visceral, stomach-turning, beautiful thing she's ever seen and she hates herself for that last word but it's the one her mind keeps supplying.
His hand, dark with his own blood, wrapped around his cock, the steel of his piercing glinting wet through the red, and his faceâ
His face is open. Unguarded.
The expression she's watched him maintain all night has cracked along a seam she didn't know existed, and underneath it there's justâwant. Raw, undiluted.
Like roses blooming.
He pushes back in.
The glide now hits different, becomes slicker, warmer. Itâs like the blood eases the friction the embroidery keeps creating, and adds a new quality to the movementâthick, organic, essentially alive.
And it makes Vâs head tip backwards, moans.
An actual, audible moanâlow and cracked and wrecked, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest.
Her walls clench around him on reflex and her hands fly to his forearms and she holds on because she has to hold on to something.
His teeth catch his lower lip. She watches him bite downâhard enough to leave marks, hard enough that the flesh whitens under pressureâand his hips snap forward.
"Fuckâ" The word falls out of him broken and shapeless. "That'sâfuckâ"
He's losing it.
She can see it happening in real timeâthe usual demeanor of his, three-steps-ahead at all times, shredding the way her panties had shredded, the wolf underneath finally showing through.
His hips roll again, grinding deep, and his breath stutters.
"Fuck, that'sâso muchâ" He swallows. His throat works visibly. "âbetter."
He lowers himself.
Both forearms come down on either side of her head, bracing, caging her in, and his face is right there suddenlyâinches from hers, close enough that she can see the individual variations in his irises, the faint sheen of sweat on his temples, the way his pupils have swallowed everything until his eyes are more black than brown.
His hair falls forward, brushing her cheeks.
He starts moving, real thrusts now. Not the experimental rocking from beforeâdriving into her, hips snapping with a rhythm that's not controlled in the slightest.
"Nnhâ"
Her back arches off the ground.
Her hands grip his forearms, fingernails digging in.
"Vâoh godâVâ"
"Look at you," he breathes.
His voice has dropped low enough to vibrate against her skin, murmur and a confession all at once, spoken right against the corner of her mouth where his lips brush with every thrust.
"Taking me all the way to the rootâ"
His hips roll deep. She feels his pelvis grind against her clit and a moan rips out of her before she can think about catching it.
"âand fluttering. Can you feel that? The way you grip every time Iâ"
He thrusts. Hard.
She cries out.
"âthere. Right there. Squeezing me like you don't want me to leave. God, godâ"
Sheâs panting, open-mouthed, fingers carving half-moons into the muscle of his forearms.
His blood is still slick between themâshe can feel it, warm and wet, mixing with her arousal, making each thrust a glide so obscene the sound of it fills the clearing.
Schlick. Schlick. Schlick.Â
Rythmic and relentless and made dirtier simply by the wet slap of his hips meeting hers.
"Vâohânnhâ"
"You've been so good, bunny."
The words land somewhere behind her sternum and bloom.
"Letting yourself get caught."
His mouth brushes her temple. His breath comes warm and ragged against her hairline.
"Letting me chase you down and pin you to the floor."
Another thrust.
"And here you are. Spread open in the forest, and you're taking everythingâeverything I give youâ"
He pulls back enough to see her face.
What he finds there makes his eyes go dark.
"âand you're glowing from it," he finishes.
Her throat burns. Her eyes build something behind her eyelids and she knows for a fact it isnât tears, not yet.
Itâs hotter than that.
Because the praise isn't just hitting her subconscious anymore. It's traveling. Down through her chest, through her stomach, pooling hot and urgent between her legs where his cock is dragging in and out of her in blood-slicked strokes, and each word makes the pool deeper.
"Pretty thing," V murmurs. "Pretty pink thing."
She whimpers. It slips out before she can stop itâthin, high, desperateâand she feels her face burn with the sound of it.
Because it's embarrassing, the noise she just made.
Itâs a sound that belongs to someone who's lost every shred of composure they ever had and she has, she's lost all of it, it's goneâ
He notices.
Of course he notices. His eyes focusâquick, immediateâand his next thrust comes slower, deeper, more intentional. Like he's testing a hypothesis. Like something just clicked into place behind those dark, bird-bright eyes.
"You like that," he observes.
Not a question. The corner of his mouth curls.
"The praise."
She shakes her head. Reflex. Denial.
Because admitting it would beâshe doesn't even know what it would be, just that her face is on fire and her clit is throbbing and her walls are clenching around him at the word and that's information she doesn't want to have about herself, that'sâ
"No?" He tips his head. Watches her. "Hmm."
He thrusts again. Deep, grinding, the piercing pressing hard against her front wall, and thenâright at the peak of the stroke, right when her back is arching and her lips are parting and her body is answering a question her mouth is trying to denyâ
"How about beautiful?"
She gaspsâsharp, fractured, her whole body going rigidâand a gush of slick heat floods the space between them, her arousal doubling in a wet, embarrassing rush that she can feel coating his cock.
V's lips part.
"Oh," he says softly. "Oh, that'sâ"
He looks down between them. She follows his gaze because she can't help itâbecause her body has stopped taking instructions from her brainâand sees it.
The absolute, outer worldly mess between her legs.
God, thereâs blood. Thereâs so much fucking blood and itâs not from her, obviously. But itâs mixed with the fluids of her own arousal and it creates something thatâs neitherâsomething dark and shining and warm and deliriously wet.
"Look at that," V breathes. "Look what happens when Iâ"
He rolls his hips while he watches.
"âwhen I tell you how good you're being." His gaze lifts from where they're joined to her face. "When I tell you how well you take it. How pretty you look stretched around me, all flushedâ"
His thumb traces her cheekbone, smearing blood.
His eyes follow the path of it.
"All pink."
His hand drifts down, thumb brushes a swollen, spit-slick nipple and she jerks.
"Here."
He rolls the nipple between his fingers.
She whimpers.
"Here."
His gaze drops between them, to where his cock disappears into her.
"And here. Where it counts."
She makes a sound, broken and raw and high-pitched that comes from the floor of her lungs and doesn't ask permission on its way out.
"Your whole body answers, bunny."
He sounds fascinated. Absolutely, clinically fascinated, like he's watching a specimen do something unexpected under a microscope.
"Every time I praise you, every time I tell you you'reâ" He thrusts. "Goodâ" Another. "âprettyâ" Another, deeper, harder. "âbeautifulâyou get wetter. You get tighter. These pretty walls startâ"
He groans. Low, roughâthe word dissolving into a sound as she does exactly what he's describing, clenching around him in a reflexive squeeze that drags a visible shudder through his shoulders.
"âthat," he finishes, breathless. "That. Right there. You like it."
She canât speak. She canât form words because a beautiful psychopath figured out that sheâthat praiseâthat the words âgoodâ and âprettyâ and âbeautifulâ from his mouth are doing things to her that she doesnât have the words to even begin explainingâ
âI d-donâtâahâknowâ"
"You don't know," he says.
He says it with what might be wonder, might be delight. As if he's just been handed a gift he didn't expect and is turning it over in his hands, examining every angle.
"You don't even know what you need." His mouth curves. "You just need someone to tell you you'reâ"
He thrusts deep.
"âdoing well, hmm?"
A sob rips from her throat. An actual, audible sobâworse than pain, loaded with every nerve in her body.
"AhânnhâVâpleaseâ"
She doesn't know what she's asking for. More. Less. Harder.
The word âgoodâ again, one more time, just one moreâ
"Please what?"
His voice is close. Breath warm against her cheek.
His hips maintain that devastating rhythmâdeep, grinding, the piercing pressing against that spot like he's built a blueprint.
"Iâ"
She can't answer. She can't answer because she doesn't knowâbecause the cadence of his voice saying âprettyâ and âgoodâ and âbeautifulâ in that low, evaluative tone that makes her chest ache.
"Hmm."
He watches her try to form a word and fail.
He lowers his mouth to her ear. His next thrust is purposefully angled to drag the piercing in one long, grinding pull along her front wallâand against the shell of her ear, barely louder than a breath:
"You're the prettiest thing I've had under me in this forest, Yunjin. You know that? Pink and soft and soaking and you don't even know whyâyou just know it feels good when I tell you you'reâ"
He bites her earlobe. Light. Just the edge of his teeth.
"âgood."
She can feel herself drippingâher arousal flooding out around his cock with each thrust, coating the inside of her thighs.
"Look at this mess," he breathes, his voice going rough at the edges now. "All from words. All from being told you'reâ"
He thrusts hard.
"âeverything I want right now."
Her hands fly to his back. Nails digging in.
She's gaspingâopen-mouthed, wet-eyed, completely goneâand his lips trail from her ear to her cheek, to the tear tracks, and he presses his mouth against the salt.
"There," he murmurs. "Pretty when you cry, too. Everything matches."
His tongue traces a tear track. She shudders.
"The pink, the tears, you falling apartâall the same pretty color."
His hand comes down over her mouth.
The left one. The bleeding one.
Copper floods her senses like a wall. Smell firstâmetallic, organic, so thick she can taste it on her tongue before the wetness even reaches her lips. Then the heat. His blood is warm against her mouth, seeping between his fingers, smearing across her chin and her cheeks.
She can taste it. Salt and iron and a flavor that tastes the way his aura feels.
Thorned. Sweet. Dangerous.
The sound she makes against his palm is not a scream.
It's bigger than a scream.
It's every emotion she's felt tonight compressed and detonating against his bloody fingersâfear and arousal and disbelief and the shocking, awful tenderness of being called âgoodâ by someone who kills people for a living while his blood smears her face and his cock hits that spot and the stars watch over his shoulderâ
She's sobbing.
Full, heaving sobs that push against his palm in wet, muffled bursts, and she's cryingâtears spilling hot from the corners of her eyes, streaking through the drying blood on her cheeks, dripping into her hair.
She doesn't know the difference anymore. The tears are coming from the same place as the moans, from the same overloaded circuit, the same fuse that blew the second he counted to two and she ran.
It's too much. It's all too much.
The piercing dragging inside her, the blood on her mouth, the weight of him pinning her to the earth, the thorns crushing her lungs, the fact that she can still see Orion through the gap in the canopyâthree stars in a row, steady, indifferent, witnessingâ
And she likes it.
God, she likes it.
That's the part that makes her sob harderâthe horrified delight of discovering that this is what she wants.
The blood, the fear, the blade stuck in the ground six inches from her ear, and his voice telling her she's good.
She's wet from it.
She's getting off on being called cute things while a man bleeds onto her face.
Yunjin from six months ago would not even be able to fathom it.
Pastel colors itty-bitty-titty-committee Yunjin who can't drink whiskey and blushes when someone looks at her too long and wears matching lingerie sets. Fucking a Chief. Getting railed by the most dangerous man in Kkangpae under Orion's belt with his blood on her face and his cock inside her and sheâ
She aimed for the stars and the stars aimed back.
And oh, she's close.
She's really close.
"Shh," V breathes against her forehead. His hips drive forwardâdeep, grinding, the piercing pressing. "You've done everything I asked, haven't you? Held the knife. Held still. Let me catch you, pin you, cut your lingerieâ"
A sob pushes against his palm. Hot. Wet. Muffled.
"âand you liked it." Not accusatory. Wondering. "Didn't you. Every part. The chase. The blade. The way it feels when I tell you you'reâ"
He rolls his hips in a slow, devastating grind, and whispers the word like it's a key and her body is the lock:
"âa good bunny."
She detonates.
The orgasm takes herâseizes her by the spine and pulls.
Her vision whites out. Her walls clamp down on his cock so hard she feels the piercing dig into her front wall from the pressure alone. Her spine arches. Her thighs seize around his hips. The sound she makes against his bloody palm is animalâshattered, sobbing, wreckedâa thing with no language in it.
She feels everythin in maximum, excruciating detail.
V keeps moving through it. Shallow, rolling thrusts that draw out each contraction, his breathing ragged against her forehead.
But his rhythm stays searching.
She feels it as her aftershocks settle. The way his thrusts deepen, angle, adjustâtesting, shifting, looking for a frequency that isn't coming.
His jaw is tight. His forearms tremble. She can feel his cock throbbing inside her, feel how hard he is, the blood-hot pulse of him pressed against her sensitive wallsâbut the peak isn't there.
Like a flame that keeps catching and won't hold.
His hand lifts from her mouth.
Air rushes inâcold, pine-sharpâand she gasps, tasting copper on her tongue.
His bloody handprint stays tacky on her skin.
He's still moving. Deep, grinding rolls. But his faceâ
His face isn't right.
The expression that's settled there, she hasn't seen from him all night.
Frustration.
His eyes are dark, unfocused, turned somewhere inward. She watches his brow furrow with what looks like annoyanceâlike his body is defying him, like the orgasm is right there and some door between him and it won't open.
Blood. Pain. The lace. Her pleasure. Her tears. All of it good.
None of it enough.
"Your life," he breathes, "or mine?"
Yunjin blinks up at him.
She'sânot here. Not really. Her brain is somewhere in the upper atmosphere with Orion, still twitching from the aftershocks of an orgasm that rewired her from the inside out, and the words âyour life or mineâ are just shapes. Mouth shapes. They don't assemble into meaning while her pussy is still fluttering around his cock and there's blood on her faceâ
"Whâ" She swallows. Her voice is destroyedâhoarse, wet, cracking. "What?"
He keeps moving. Slow, grinding. His cock drags against walls that are so sensitive now every stroke makes her flinch and whimper.
"Choose."
The word comes through his teeth. His hips roll.
"Your life." A thrust. Deep enough that her vision sparks. "Or mine."
She stares at him. Tears on her cheeks. Blood on her mouth. Post-orgasm tremors still running through her thighs in little aftershock shudders.
"I don'tâ" She gasps as he grinds up. "âI don't understand, Iâ"
"Mine, then," he says.
Softly. Simply. The way someone picks a restaurant.
He takes her hand, gathers her shaking, bloody fingers and wraps them around both handles of the butterfly knife. His hand covers hers. Steadies.
And he brings the steel down to his own neck.
The point of the knife rests against the side of his throat. Just below his jaw, left side, right where his pulse beats visible under the thin skinâa greenish channel, steady, pushing blood through the very throat she's now holding a blade against.
He adjusts her grip. Angles the tip in.
"There," he breathes, and his hips start againâslow, deep, rolling thrusts that draw a gasp from her with each push. "Rightâthere."
She's shaking. Every part of her. Post-orgasm tremors and adrenaline and the crystalline, ringing terror of holding a puncturing object against a throat while the person it belongs to pushes into it.
"Vâ" Her voice is barely there. "V, I can'tâif Iâ"
"You won't."
Quiet. Certain. Fact, not reassurance. He has run this equation the way he ran the one with his palm and the blade over his heart.
The answer is the same.
His hips snap forward and her hand trembles against his throat.
"Steady," he whispers.
He leans into the blade.
She feels the resistance giveâbarely, barelyâthe tip breaking through one paper-thin layer of skin.
A single bead of blood wells up around the steel. Dark, bright, catching moonlight.
It sits at the tip for a suspended second and then rollsâslowâdown the side of his neck. A thin red rivulet tracing the tendon, following the column of his throat.
V's eyes close.
And then they open.
Wide. Bright. The pupils blown so dark they've consumed the hazel entirely, but what's behind them isn't the half-lidded pleasure from before. She watches his face change.
The frustration dissolves. Swept out like a tide. And what floods in behind itâwhat rushes up to fill every line and hollow of his expressionâis relief.
Vast, shuddering, whole-body relief, like a lock finally giving, like a door being blown off its hinges.
His mouth falls open. A sound comes outâlow, guttural, animalâ
And then he grins.
Not a smile. Not the curated not-quite-smile from the hallway or the leashed amusement from the chase.
AÂ grin. Wide and eerie and showing too many teeth.
It resembles something feral, something that hunts in the dark, something that just caught the scent it's been tracking all night and is running toward it full tilt.
He grins with blood running down his neck and a knife at his throat and his cock buried to the hilt inside her and the sight is the most terrifying alluring thing Yunjin has ever seen.
His hips drive forward. Hard.
"Fuckâ" The word comes out on a breath that sounds like a laugh. "âyeahâ"
He snaps his hips again. And again. His rhythm goes from measured to frantic in the space of a heartbeat.
She feels the shift in her bonesâthe force of each thrust shoving her up the forest floor, her back scraping against pine needles, her body jolting with the impact.
"Fuckâyeahâthat'sâ" He's panting between each word, breath hitching, and the sound that cuts through his panting isâ
A chuckle.
Dark. Breathless. Barely a sound at allâmore like air being punched through a grinâbut it's there, and it has no humor in it. None.
It's the sound of someone who's found the thing they were looking for and the finding is better than the searching and the pain is better than the pleasure and the blood is running warm down his neck and he's laughing about it.
"Harder."
He presses her hand against the blade.
His hips snap with a force that makes the wet slap of their bodies crack through like a gunshot.
"Pressâharderâ"
Her fingers tighten. The blade bites deeper. Another bead of blood wellsâthe line thickening to a glossy threadâand V's head tips back and the sound he makes is guttural, wrecked, dragged from below his lungs.
His hips piston.
Fast. Faster than he's gone all night. Just speed and depth and force, his body driving into hers with an urgency that's feral.
He bites his lip. She can see itâhis teeth sinking into his lower lip hard enough to blanch the flesh, hard enough that it looks like it hurts, and above the bitten lip his hair is in his eyes and he doesn't push it back.
He doesn't do anything but fuck herâhard, fast, hips slamming with a rhythm that's coming apart at the seams.
"Fuckâ" A thrust. "âfuckâ" Another. "âyeahâ"
He looksâ
He looks happy.
That's the part that makes her stomach turn inside out. Not the blood or the knife or the brutality of his hipsâthe happiness. The pure, uncut, unperformed joy on his face. Like this is the only context in which his body knows how to feel it. Like the locked door didn't just openâit opened onto what he'd forgotten existed.
And he's standing in the doorway grinning like someone gifted him one of his favorite collectibles while blood pours down his throat.
"Vâ" she gasps, and her voice is wrecked, pitched high with overwhelm. "V, you'reâyou're bleedingâ"
"Mm-hmmâ"
He doesn't slow down. The grin splits wider. His hips slam forward so hard her teeth click together.
"I knowâfuckâIÂ knowâisn't itâ"
He laughs. A real laugh, this timeâbreathless, cracked, shaking through his chest and into hersâand his eyes find hers and they're shining.
"Fuckâ" His rhythm stutters. His hips lose their patternâsnapping erratic, urgent, chasing it now with everything he has. "âyeahâright thereâthat'sâfuckâ"
She can feel him getting close.
Can feel it in the way his cock swells inside her, the way his thrusts go shallow and fast and desperate, the way the veins in his forearms bulge where they brace beside her head.
His teeth release his lipâit's red, bitten raw, glisteningâand his mouth falls open on a pant that turns into a groan that turns into a sound she will remember for the rest of her life.
"Press," he manages. "Moreâ"
She does.
Her fingers tighten and the blade presses in, another fractionâanother fractionâand the line on his throat widens. Goes glossy.
The blood runs faster now, tracing a branching path down his neck toward his collarbone.
She can feel his pulse hammering beneath the steelâfast, fast, the fastest it's been all night.
Then, finally, hips slam forward and freeze. Buried to the hilt.
His mouth opens. No sound at first. Just the shape of itâjaw slack, lips parted, eyes screwed shut, grin gone now.
Then a groan rises. From the floor of his lungs. Low, shuddering, broken.
And she feels the first spurt of heat flood her.
Hot. Blazing hot. Filling her in a thick, pulsing wave, his cock throbbing against her walls with the release.
His hips jerk. Once more. Twice. The final spurts, weaker now, a fading pulse, and his cock twitches inside her as the last of it empties.
His breath comes in harsh, fractured bursts against her face. Panting. Almost keening. A sound that doesn't match anything she's heard from him tonightânot the curated patience, not the clinical observations, not even the broken fucks or the deranged chuckling.
Then his body settles. The tension drains in a slow cascadeâarms first, then shoulders, then his jaw unclenching.
His hips stay flush against hers, cock softening inside her. The cum sits warm and heavy between them. Some of it has started to leakâshe can feel it, a slow trickle seeping around him, sliding thick down between her thighs.
His blood is cooling on her knuckles. On her face. On her mouth.
His hand finds hers on the knife. Still at his throat. Still trembling.
He eases it away. Gently. His fingers unwrap hers from the handle one by oneâpatient, careful. The same hands that pinned her wrists and split her hoodie and pressed her thighs open for his mouth.
He takes the blade with a tenderness that doesn't match anything else about tonight.
Folds it shut. Click-clack.
Sets it in the earth beside them. One final thunk.
He stays where he is. Inside her. Forearms caging her head. Blood trickling from his throat in a lazy line that's already slowingâthe body doing what bodies do. Closing up. Sealing over. Beginning the quiet work of repair.
His eyes find hers through the haze. Blown wide. Dark. The hazel entirely consumed.
For a long moment there's nothing. Just the forest coming back online around them.
Wind in the canopy. Something small in the undergrowth. The distant, mechanical hum of the castle beyond the treeline. Alive and indifferent.
She can feel his heartbeat through his chest. Against her bare, bitten breastsâagainst the nipples he'd wanted to pierce and adorn with little satin bows. Thudding. Slowing. Finding its way back to that infuriating, impossible calm.
"Good bunny," he whispers.
The words vibrate against her mouth. Warm. Close.
The praise hits her one last time and the glow behind her ribs overflows. Faint. Ember-quiet.
And maybe she should put it out.
But she doesn't.
Above, through the thinning canopy, Orion hangs.
Three dots in a line, patient and unchanged.
The stars watch the wolf rest his head in the hollow of the rabbitâs throat and donât blink.
Floor five. Eleven-something at night. Yunjin knew exactly why she was there before she even knocked.
She just didn't know he'd take her into the forest.
â đđđđđ: smut
â đđđđđđ: explicit (18+)
â đđđđđđđ: taehyung x oc (female) | kkangpae!au (main story here)
â đđ: 20k
â đđđđđđđđ: knife play, fear play, blood play, clothing destruction (hoodie, bra, leggings, pantiesâthe lavender hoodie did nothing wrong), primal play (he literally hunts her down through the forest and pins her to the ground) nudity, nipple play (extensive), breast play, oral (f. receiving, through clothing), semi-public sex (forestâtechnically a security dead zone but still outside), outdoor sex, sex on the floor, blade handling (uhh yeah he makes her grip the blade), possessive behavior, biting, marking, mildly very unhinged love language, wolf/bunny imagery (to be cringe is to be free i regret nothing i love the bunny petname and i will NOT apologize), blood as lubricant (yes really), palm cutting, blade-to-throat, piercing kink (he has opinions about giving her nipple piercingsâwith pink bows), pink kink (is that a thing? V definitely has it), dirty talk, praise kink, pale-skinned OC, small titties (A cup), penetration through (yes through, panties get destroyed) clothing, pain kink (he likes the friction and the sting), taehyung has a dick piercing (Albert) and he snags it against lace on purpose because heâs a sadomasochist, thrill kink (he literally needs a knife at his jugular to finish), cum inside, overstimulation, muffled sobs via bloody palm, adrenaline tears, body insecurity (brief, he corrects it with unhinged enthusiasm), implied snooping through medical records (casual), encyclopedic recitation of security systems (flirting?), birth control discussion (he noticed the implant under her skin), V being V (consider yourself warned lmaoooo), and Orionâs belt as a psychological coping mechanism (donât ask).
cut in 2 parts because tumblr hates length. part 2 here.
â„ a/n: Oh boy. Ooooh boyâwhere do I even begin with this one. I KNEWâI knewâyou all were going to thirst over Taehyung in this universe and not a single one of you has disappointed me. Not one. I feel so seen. So validated. So concerned for all of us, collectively. But genuinelyâheâs such a layered character, I swear to God. The amount of backstory this man carries? The psychological wiring? The way everything he does has intent behind it even when it looks like heâs just being⊠whatever the hell that is? Yeah. No wonder you gremlins like him. I get it. I wrote him and even Iâm like⊠oh. Oh thatâs⊠hm. Okay. Which is exactly why I ended up writing this one-shot. I was so immersed while writing it that it genuinely felt like watching a movie in my head. Like I could see the lighting, the pacing, the expressionsâeverything. Itâs one of those pieces where I kind of black out and then come back like âoh⊠so THATâS what we did today.â I really hope you guys feel that same intensity while reading it, because it was a ride to write.
Nowâbefore you dive in, let me contextualize a few things just so weâre all on the same page.First of all: everything here is consensual. Yunjin is not being randomly thrown into thisâshe has been actively seeking Taehyung out for months. She has a crush, she knows what kind of man he is, and she steps into this fully aware of what sheâs getting herself into. Howeverâbecause of the nature of the dynamic (primal play, power imbalance, blood/knife play), there are moments that can read as dubcon. That tension is intentional, but if thatâs not something youâre comfortable with, please take care of yourself and step back. Alsoâthis is an OC piece, not x reader. So we are in third person limited POV instead of our usual second person. In the main story, Taehyung is canonically hooking up with Yunjin, and she has established features (pale skin, pink hair, etc.), so I couldnât in good faith slap a reader-insert label on this. It wouldnât be fair or inclusive. Sheâs her own character. And yesâshe has small titties. Iâm saying it now. If that breaks your immersion or isnât your preference, thatâs completely okayâthis might not be the one for you. Youâll also notice a lot of bunny/wolf imagery throughout. That was a very deliberate choice. I love the dynamic, but the usual prey/predator terminology makes my soul leave my body, so this was my way of keeping the psychological tension without wanting to crawl out of my skin while writing it. And lastlyâTaehyung is⊠very out of pocket here. Do not @ me about the things he says. I do not control him. I cannot control him. I am simply a vessel. But if you look closelyâif you really pay attentionâyouâll see that heâs not just being random for the sake of it. Heâs playing a game. He is always several steps ahead, and his seemingly disconnected lines? Theyâre not random. Theyâre part of how he destabilizes, guides, and conditions the person in front of him.
So yeah. Have fun with that.
Go ahead and read, and while you do, try to figure out what the fuck is wrong with V.
The answer is everything.
Mwah. <3
The thing is, Yunjin knows exactly why sheâs here.
Sheâd known since this afternoon when the text came throughâđđđđđ đ», đđđđđđđâno context, no explanation, just that. And sheâd stared at her phone screen for approximately four seconds before her face did the thing.
The thing where her cheeks go warm and her mouth tucks in at the corners trying not to smile.
Sheâd failed at not smiling.
So here she is. Floor five, eleven-something at night, her pink hair in a loose braid because sheâd redone it twice and decided she didnât care, in the pale lavender hoodie she tells herself she chose for comfort and not because itâs soft to the touch.
She raises her hand to knock and pauses for exactly one secondâjust oneâto breathe.
Okay. Normal. This is completely normal.
She knocks.
The door opens faster than she expects, whichâokay, thatâs something to tuck away and examine later because since when does V not keep people waiting?âand then the thought dissolves because heâs just there, and sheâs been around him enough times now that one would think her brain would have developed some kind of tolerance. Some kind of buffer.
âŠIt hasnât.
V leans against the doorframe with the kind of casual ease that shouldnât be attractive on a person but very much is, head tilting slightly when he sees her.
Heâs got this way of looking at people like heâs already three steps ahead of the conversation. Cunning, and smart, and somehow, making you feel infinitely and forever inferior.
Yunjin hates it.
She also, embarrassingly, loves it.
âYou came,â he says.
âYou texted,â she points out, like thatâs a very reasonable explanation for why sheâs standing outside his room at midnight, which it is, actually, and sheâs choosing not to analyze it further.
The corner of his mouth does something akin to a smile, but not quite.
Itâs the suggestion of one, keeping it on a leash.
âI text a lot of people.â
âDo they all show up?â
âHm. Yes.â
She makes sure her face doesnât do any weird expressions, which takes more effort than it should, and sheâs very aware of the thorns that loom over him and sheâs never quite figured out how to describe.
âAre you going to let me in,â she says, âor is the haunting ambiance exclusive to the hallway?â
He steps aside.
Cinnamon engulfs the room immediately. That scent that is the equivalent of the thorned thing that always envelops him, old and grounding and still, eerily, dangerous.
She canât not notice the lamp in the corner, low and amber, and then, the fact that the window is cracked just slightly, letting in the cold of the forest outside.
The ambient quiet of trees in late-night wind whispers through.
The castle has that effect, sometimes.
One forgets that just beyond the walls thereâs miles of nothing and dark.
âDrink?â Heâs already moving toward the windowsill where a bottle sits half-abandoned.
âWhat is it?â
âDoes it matter?â
âYes,â she says honestly.
He glances back at her with something that isnât quite amusement, and also, kind of is.
âWhiskey.â
She wrinkles her nose.
He sees it. The not-quite-smile deepens a fraction.
âNo, thank you,â she says, very politely.
âRight.â
He pours himself one anyway, unhurried, and she watches him because she canât really help it.
Even when he doesnât plan it, heâs hot.
The way he moves is studied without seeming to try, thought-out, like he has opinions about the exact speed at which a person should do things.
She respects it immensely.
He turns and leans back against the windowsill, glass in hand, looking at her in a way ghat makes her feel simultaneously seen and like sheâs being very gently taken apart, layer by layer, just to see whatâs in there.
âYou redid your hair,â he says.
She blinks. âI always have my hair like this.â
âYou had it down at dinner.â
The fact that he noticed doesnât escape her.
Sheâd known, vaguely, that he had noticedâsheâd caught him looking, twice, across the cafeteria, and she had immediately looked away the first time and then very much not looked away the second time.
But hearing him say it out loud does something to the temperature in the room.
âBraidâs more practical,â she says.
âMm.â He sips his whiskey. Doesnât look away. âFor what?â
Itâs frustrating, the effortless tilted thing he does with a sentence, where the words are technically innocent and yet the effect is absolutely not.
Yunjin tips her chin up just slightly.
Sheâs been in the Seduction Division for six months.
Sheâs learned a thing or two about not handing a person exactly what theyâre fishing for.
âIn general,â she says pleasantly. âIâm a practical person.â
âYou came here at midnight in a lavender hoodie.â
âItâs very warm.â
âAnd practical.â
âExtremely.â
He sets his glass down on the windowsill. Just thatâjust sets it down, a small gesture, and the room gets quieter for it.
He looks at her steadily. She looks back.
The thorned thing presses closer. She feels it in her collarbones, in the soft space below her throat, not unpleasantâthe opposite, which is kind of the problem.
âYunjin,â he says.
She likes the way he says her name.
She wishes she didnât.
He says it like each syllable is a small decision, like he chose this particular arrangement of sounds deliberately.
«Yun-jin.»
Something thoughtful in it.
Something that makes her feel weirdly, unfortunately known.
âV,â she says.
He tilts his head at her.
What flickers through his expression, quick and unreadableâpleased, maybe, in a way he hadnât expected to be, she canât parse it.
âYouâre careful,â he says.
âI try to be.â
âMost people arenât.â A pause. He picks his glass up again, rolls it once between his palms. âItâs boring when theyâre not.â
âIâd hate to be boring.â
âYouâre not.â His eyes stay on her, steady. âThatâs why youâre here.â
Yunjin is trained. She knows what it looks like when someoneâs angling for something, knows how to hold a conversation at armâs length while appearing completely open. She knows all of this.
Sheâs finding it deeply unhelpful right now.
V sets the glass down with a soft clink and nods toward the window.
She can feel the forest air drifting through the window in slow pulsesâpine and dark earth, the particular quiet of trees at midnight that sounds like breathing.
âHave you been out there yet,â he says, but itâs not really a question.
She follows his gaze.
Past the glass, past the perimeter, the treeline is a dark wall at the edge of the groundsâthe kind of dark that isnât empty but occupied.
âAt night?â
âThatâs the only time it matters.â
She looks back at him.
Heâs already watching her, that birdlike attention, head tilted just slightly.
âWhat happens out there?â she asks. âAt night.â
The corner of his lip lifts upwards in a way that looks like heâs tasting the words.
âDepends on who you go with.â
He pushes off the windowsill and crosses to the doorâthe same leisure gait, hands loose at his sidesâand glances back when he reaches it, hand on the frame.
âCome on, bunny.â
She stares.
ââŠBunny?â
He looks at her hair. Back to her face.
The look is self-explanatory in the most aggravating possible way.
âVââ
âYou can wait here if you want.â He shrugs, easy, like itâs optional. âIâll come back.â
She grabs her keycard.
The forest is cold in a way thatâs not really dramatic.
Itâs not cinematic either, honestly. Thereâs no wind or howl one could expect from a place like this.
But the temperature does drop the moment the treeline closes behind her like the castle warmth was never a guarantee to begin with.
Yunjin pulls the hem of her hoodie down over her palms while V walks ahead.
His hands hang loose at his sides, and between the fingers of his right hand, she can see it:
A butterfly knife, moving, constant, the handles rotating through his grip in a motion so practiced it looks involuntary.
The blade flashes once when a seam of moonlight finds it through the canopy.
Click.
Rotate.
Click.
Yunjin watches it. Then watches him. Then watches the knife again.
âYouâve never come out here,â he says.
âAt night? No.â
âWhy not?â
She steps over a root.
âBecause itâs dark and full of trees and Iâm notââ she pauses. âI donât have a reason to.â
âYou have one now.â
He stops walking.
She almost walks into him.
He turns around slowly, unrushed as everything else, and looks at her.
The knife stills in his hand for the first time since they left the building.
âTell me something,â he says.
She waits.
âWhat do bunnies do,â he says, âwhen a wolf is near?â
The cold gets more specific.
Yunjin blinks. Processes this. Looks at him.
He looks back, entirely serene.
âWhat?â she says.
âBunnies.â
Heâs patient about it, genuinely, infuriatingly patient, like the sentence makes complete sense and she just needs a moment.
The knife starts moving again.
Click.
âWhen they feel a wolf close by. What do they do?â
âThey run,â she hears herself say.
âMm.â The corner of his mouth does the thing. âThey run.â
The silence after that is not emptyâit has texture, has the forest shifting somewhere overhead.
âInteresting instinct,â V says, tilting his head. âPrey animals.â
He says it like he finds it fascinating.
âAll that speed, all thatââ the knife rotates, ââpotential, and what do they do with it?â
He looks at her, and the look is warmer than the rest of him.
âThey run.â
âIs this going somewhere?â Yunjin asks.
âItâs already somewhere,â he says simply. âYouâre just catching up.â
The knife stops again.
He looks at her the way heâd looked at her in the cafeteriaâtwice, across the roomâexcept thereâs no cafeteria here, no distance, no crowd to dissolve it into background noise.
Itâs just this.
Just him and the dark and that cinnamon scent threading through the cold pine air, sweet and low and dangerous.
âYouâre soft,â he says.
It doesnât sound like an insult.
It sounds like being assessed.
His eyes move from her face to her braid, and back.
âSoft, pink, wonât drink whiskeyââ he takes one step toward her and she holds her ground, barely, ââshows up in a lavender hoodie at midnight.â
Another step.
âDo you know what wolves do,â he says, âwhen something soft wanders into their territory?â
Her heart rate is, at this point, embarrassing.
âDepends on the wolf,â she manages.
His lip twitches, leashed, then the smile opens slightly.
âDonât let me catch you,â he says.
She stares at him.
She cycles through interpretations and throws them all out.
âOr what?â she asks.
He doesnât answer.
He simply looks at her with that smile.
âOne.â
Oh. Heâs seriousâ
âTwo.â
She runs.
Thereâs no deliberation. No composure. No six months of Seduction Division training that presents itself as useful in this particular moment.
One second sheâs standing her ground and the next something ancient and entirely unreasonable in the back of her brain has looked at V smiling like that with a blade in his hand and simplyâdecided.
Her feet make the choice. She ratifies it.
The forest is terrible for running. The ground is soft in the wrong places, uneven, roots hiding under pine needle beds that her feet find at angles she canât predict. Her braid whips against her back. Her breath comes cold and she ducks a low branch without fully breaking stride and has truly no idea where sheâs going, which is fine, thatâs a problem sheâll solve while movingâ
Behind her: nothing. Complete, terrible quiet.
No footsteps. No branches.
Just the ambient breathed-out hush of the forest, which, in a way, makes it worse, because she canât calibrate against silence, canât track what she canât hear, and she slows just enough to check over her shoulderâ
Dark. Trees. Nothing.
She faces forward again and nearly runs directly into him.
V stands two feet ahead of her, leaning against a tree with one shoulder, the knife doing its slow idle rotation like nothing has happened, like heâs been here the whole time, like the forest delivered him while she was looking the wrong way.
Heâs not breathing hard. Heâs looking at her with that bright attentive quality, and his eyes dim when he sees her faceâpleased, genuinely pleased, quiet and warm and entirely at odds with the rest of him.
Yunjin stops. Chest heaving. Staring.
âHi, bunny,â he says.
She stares at him for three full seconds.
Her heartbeat is catastrophic.
âThat was quick,â she says, slightly breathless.
He considers her.
âYou were never going to outrun me,â he says, not unkindly, just factually.
His eyes dropâbrief, quickâto the visible flutter of her pulse at her throat, and back up.
The smile hasnât left, itâs just settled into a quieter register.
It has patience in it.
âWolves,â he says, soft, âalways catch the rabbit.â
The knife folds closed with a quiet snick.
He pushes off the tree.
Yunjinâs plan, in hindsight, has several critical flaws.
The first being that she is running from the Chief of Stealth Assassinations in a forest he likely knows by heart.
The second is that she is wearing a hoodie specifically chosen for comfort, not aerodynamics.
The third is that she actually thinks she has a chance.
She pushes off the tree trunk before V can finish folding his knife, scrambling backward with a distinct lack of grace.
Pine needles slip under her sneakers.
She nearly trips over a root, rights herself with a frantic pinwheel of arms, and then she is running.
Again.
The forest swallows her instantly.
Itâs darker now, or maybe her eyes just haven't adjusted from the brief moment of moonlight. Branches whip at her face, little stinging reminders of her poor life choices, and the air burns cold in her lungs.
Stupid.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
But somethin about the way V had looked at her gives her stomach a rush of excitementâlike she was something delicious heâd found on his plate.
Behind her, a sound.
Not a footstep. Not the snap of a twig.
A chuckle.
Low, dark, and amused.
The sound comes from everywhere at once.
Yunjin runs faster.
Her breath comes in jagged gasps now, white puffs in the dark air.
Two minutes? Three? It feels like an hour.
Her legs burn, but panic is starting to tap politely on her shoulder.
She skids around a massive oak tree and presses herself flat against the bark, trying to vanish.
Quiet, she orders herself. Be quiet.
She holds her breath until her chest aches.
Silence.
The forest settles around her. The wind sighs through the canopy, a lonely, hollow sound. A nocturnal bird calls out, startling her so badly her heart stutters.
She needs to think. Sheâs in Seduction. She reads people. She needs to read the forest.
She closes her eyes, tilting her head.
Yank.
Her head snaps back, a sudden pull that drags a gasp from her throat.
Her braid. Someone has her braid.
"Found you," a voice murmurs, right against the shell of her ear.
V.
Of course itâs V.
He doesnât let go. He reels her in, winding the length of her braid around his hand like a leash, pulling until her back hits a chest that feels solid as a wall.
"Fast," he hums, the vibration of it traveling straight through her spine. "Surprisingly fast. For something so soft."
Yunjin is trembling.
She tells herself itâs the cold. She tells herself itâs the adrenaline.
She knows, with a sinking, swooping feeling in her stomach, that it is neither of those things.
"Iâ" Her voice squeaks. She clears her throat. "I have good cardio."
"Mm."
He shifts, and she feels itâthe unmistakable pressure of him against her lower back.
Oh.
"Too bad," he whispers, his lips brushing the sensitive skin below her ear, sending shivers racing down her arms. "Your hunter is me."
His free hand comes up to her throat. His fingers are long, cool against her flushed skin. He tilts her head back further, exposing the line of her throat to the moonlight, to him.
"V," she breathes.
"Shh."
He tugs on her braid again, tight enough to make her gasp, and the sound seems to please him.
"You like to run," he observes, almost bored. "Instinct?"
"Yes," she admits breathlessly.
"Bad instinct."
He spins her around.
The world tilts.
One moment sheâs upright, pinned against him; the next, sheâs being maneuvered, not gently, down onto the bed of pine needles.
He follows her down, a heavy, warm weight that settles framing her thighs before she can even think to close them.
He pins her wrists above her head with one hand. Effortless. Like sheâs made of paper.
Yunjin stares up at him.
He looks⊠wrecked.
Beautifully, terrifyingly wrecked.
His hair is messed up from the run, falling into his eyes. And his eyesâtheyâre blown wide, dark pupils swallowing the hazel, focused on her with a terrifying intensity.
He looks unhinged.
He looks like he wants to bite something.
He looks like he wants to bite her.
"V," she whispers again.
He ignores her. He brings his other hand upâthe one not pinning her wristsâand she sees the glint of metal.
The butterfly knife.
He flicks it open with a flick of his wrist. Click-clack. The sound is loud in the quiet forest.
He traces the line of her jaw with the flat of the blade. She shivers, her breath hitching.
"Youâre shaking," he notes, watching the blade slide down her neck.
"Iâm cold."
"Are you."
He smiles. Itâs not a nice smile.
"You smell," he says, leaning down until his nose brushes the sensitive skin just below her jaw, inhaling deeply, "like cotton candy."
He drags the scent in like a drug.
"Makes a wolf," he murmurs against her skin, his voice dropping an octave, "want to eat the rabbit."
Yunjin feels her face flame. Her entire body feels hot, tight, strung out.
"Do you know what happens," he asks quietly, pulling back just enough to look her in the eye, "when a wolf catches a rabbit?"
"Youâ" Yunjin swallows hard. "You said that already."
"I said wolves always catch the rabbit."
He moves the knife. The blade rests in the hollow of her throat now, right where her pulse is hammering a frantic, betraying rhythm against the steel.
"I didnât say," he murmurs, "what happens after."
"Tell me," she hears herself say.
Vâs eyes change.
The darkness in them seems to expand, swallowing the last of the light.
But thereâs heat there, too.
A terrifying, consuming heat.
"They play with it," he says.
He shifts his grip on her wrists, tightening just enough to remind her sheâs caught.
"They like to see," he continues, his voice low and contemplative, "how fast its heart can beat before it gives out."
He taps the knife against her collarbone. Tap. Tap.
"Is your heart going to give out, bunny?"
"I don't know," she whispers honestly.
It feels like it might.
"Good."
He leans in closer, his lips hovering inches from hers.
She can smell the cinnamon on him, rich and spicy, mixing with the scent of pine and dirt and him.
"Tell me," he says, his voice dropping. "Did you run because you were scared? Or because you wanted me to chase you?"
Yunjin stares at him. Her wrists ache where heâs holding them. The pine needles are digging into her back. There is a knife at her throat.
And she has never, in her entire life, been this turned on.
"I don't know," she confesses.
"Liar,â he decides for her. "You saw me, and you thought, 'Oh, look. A monster. I wonder if he bites.'"
He drags the flat of the knife down her chest, over the lavender hoodie, stopping right between her breasts.
"Well," he whispers. "I do."
Then the blade tilts.
Just a little. Just enough that the edge kisses the fabric.
âHold still,â he murmurs.
She goes very still.
The sound of cotton giving way is shockingly quiet.
He doesnât rush. He draws the knife down the center of her chest in a glide, and the hoodie parts along the line like it wanted to.
The air hits her skin in a thin, chilly strip, from collarbone to below her sternum, and goosebumps race outwards from the path.
She makes a sound. Embarrassing. Half gasp, half whine.
He hears it.
She can tell he hears it because his mouth curves, slow and pleased, eyes staying on the cut heâs making. Heâs careful with pressure, she realizes dimlyâclose enough to scare the absolute life out of her, but not enough to touch skin.
Not even once.
He knows exactly what heâs doing.
Of course he does.
The hoodie falls open.
Underneath, pale pink lace.
Yunjin wants to disappear into the ground.
âOh,â V says softly.
Thatâs it. Just oh, like heâs just unwrapped something heâd been quietly hoping for and doesnât want to spook.
Heat blasts through her face so fast she actually feels dizzy.
She squeezes her eyes shut on reflex. That kind of just makes it worse, because now she canât see him, but she can feel everythingâthe way his gaze drags down over her exposed bra, the way the forest air licks over her newly bare skin, the way her nipples tighten because of course they do, traitors.
âLook at that,â he hums. âPink.â
She makes a dying noise in the back of her throat.
âDonâtââ She clears her throat. Her voice comes out thin. âDonât say it like that.â
âLike what?â He finally looks up at her face, lazy curiosity in his eyes.
She wants to cover herself, instinctively, but her wrists are still pinned above her head, held in one of his hands like it costs him nothingâand it probably does.
âV,â she mumbles, trying very hard not to look down at herself again and failing instantly.
The bra looks so much more obvious out here, like sheâs lit for inspectionâthe soft lace, the tiny little bow in the center that had seemed cute in her room and now feels⊠accusatory.
âI didnâtâI wasnâtââ
âYou wore pink lace to my room,â he says, matter-of-fact, merely reciting mission intel. âAt midnight.â
Her stomach swoops.
He shifts his weight a little, the knife resting now against the edge of the hoodie where itâs fallen away.
âYou followed me into the forest.â
His tone stays light, almost conversational, but his eyes donât move from her chest.
âI think we both know what that means.â
âItâs justââ she tries weakly. âItâs just underwear.â
His mouth kicks up.
âMm. Just underwear,â he echoes. âBunny, you color-coordinate your lingerie for your superior and then pretend itâs an accident.â
Superior.
Right. Heâs not just some guy, heâs V, Chief of Stealth Assassinations, Council member, terrifying knife man, and she isâwhat. A Seduction ensign with too many feelings and a bad case of cotton-candy aesthetic.
Her cheeks burn hotter.
âIâit was laundry day,â she lies. Badly.
The knife moves again.
Lower, this time.
He drags the flat of it down to the band of her leggings at her hips, tracing the seam with idle interest. The pressure is just enough to make the elastic dip, not enough to cut.
Her abdomen jumps under the contact.
âLaundry day, hm?â he repeats, sounding deeply unconvinced and also a little entertained.
He tugs at the waistband with the tip of the blade, watching the fabric give. She can feel every tiny shift; the cold metal, the way it threatens to slip lower, the way her skin flinches and then tries not to.
âVââ
âShh, bunny.â His voice goes soft, almost soothing. âIâm being careful.â
He is.
That might be the most insane part of this.
His hand is steady, fingers loose on the handle, and when he finally angles the edge in and slices, itâs clean.
Her leggings part with another soft rip, the sound so intimate it makes her toes curl inside her sneakers.
The air hits her hips.
He pulls the cut open lazily with the knife, exposing more skin, more lace.
More pink.
He stops.
âThere,â he sounds satisfied.
She wants the earth to open up and swallow her down to the molten core.
Matching. Sheâd put on the matching set.
Because sheâs an idiot. Because some traitorous part of her had thought, âif he sees, itâll be nice if it all⊠coordinates.â
Pink bra. Pink panties. Pink hair. Pink face.
She is going to combust.
âYun,â he says, and this time her name sounds almost like a laugh. âYouâre killing me.â
She risks a look at his face, because apparently she hasnât suffered enough.
He looks⊠delighted.
Not in a soft way. In that weird V wayâeyes bright, smile a little too pointy, like the world just presented him with his new favorite toy and heâs already thinking of every terrible thing he can do to it.
His gaze drags back up, slow and unmistakable, knife tapping lightly against her hip bone, from the damp little scrap of lace between her thighs to the bra straining over her breathing.
âYouâre all pink, bunny.â
Her breath stutters.
He sounds obsessed.
âItâs notââ She swallows. Her throat feels too tight. âItâs just⊠a set.â
That earns her a low, pleased hum.
âI love a matching set,â he says, almost to himself. âAttention to detail.â
He lets the knife rest at the waistband of her panties for a beat, just enough to make her whole body go jelly again, and thenâbecause heâs cruelâhe doesnât cut.
He drags the flat of it back up instead.
Across the little triangle of lace, up over the bare skin of her stomach where the hoodieâs been split, back to her chest.
He notices the way her frame shakes at every inch mapped upwards.
His smile slips toward a lazier tug, smoke curling at the edges. Then tilts the knife so the tip hooks into the tiny bow between her cups.
Yunjin stops breathing.
He could cut it.
He doesnât.
He nudges the bow gently aside, nudging the knot so it sits just off-center, and then angles the edge to catch on the stitching below it.
âYou like this one,â he says, eyes flicking up to her face again. âThe little bow.â
She blinks rapidly, trying to keep her eyes on his and not on the steel resting in her cleavage.
âItâs⊠cute,â she manages.
âCute,â he repeats, as if testing the word on his tongue. âWeâll keep it, then.â
Of course. Of course the man who carves people open for a living has opinions on preserving aesthetics.
He draws a slow, careful line down with the knife, splitting the bra neatly beneath the bow.
Her breath turns into a high, silent hitch as the tension gives; the bra loosens around her, the cups falling away from the center to either side.
The straps dig into her shoulders for one suspended second and then the whole front of it just⊠spills open.
Her breasts are bared to the cold air and his gaze in the same instant.
Her nipples are already tight, flushed the deep, humiliating same color.
âJesus,â she whispers, because sheâs has decided thatâs the word to go with.
Vâs eyes go heavy-lidded.
He lets the ruined lace fall away from the knife, drops the blade to rest idly against the side of her ribcage, and just looks.
The sound he makes isnât loud. Itâs more like a low, satisfied exhale, punched out of him without his permission.
âPretty,â he says.
Her whole body lights up at the word.
There shouldnât be this much power packed into two syllables.
He lowers his head a fraction, enough that his breath ghosts over her skin, warm against the chill, and her back arches before she can stop it.
His eyes flick up at the movement, catching the way her chest offers itself, and his mouth does that slow, dangerous curve again.
âLook at them,â he murmurs, almost fond. âAll pink too.â
He reaches out with his free hand finally, the one not pinning her wrists, and his fingers curve just under the swell of one breastânot squeezing, not really touching her nipple yet, just cupping, like heâs gauging weight.
She bites down on a sound.
âThe rabbit doesnât need a reason to groom,â he muses, thumb sweeping just close enough to the taut peak that she almost sobs. âIt just⊠keeps itself neat. Clean. Ready.â
Ready.
Indeed, ready.
She shaved. She moisturized. Sheâd looked at herself in the mirror before heading to floor five and thought, âOkay. Presentable.â
Her stomach swoops so hard she actually shifts on the pine needles.
His eyes catch it.
âYun,â he says softly. âYouâre adorable.â
That doesnât help.
Not even a little.
He finally lets his thumb drag over her nipple.
Itâs barely pressure. A skim.
Enough to send a bolt of sensation straight down between her thighs, enough to make her hips twitch against his weight.
She hears herself suck in a breath through her teeth.
His pupils blow a little wider.
âI should put bows on those,â he says.
She blinks.
ââŠWhat?â
He tilts his head, like the statement is self-evident. Like sheâs the one not following.
âLittle bows.â He gestures vaguely at her chest with the butterfly knife. âThere.â
His gaze moves to her nipples, appraising.
âLittle presents.â
She stares at him.
âV,â she says, carefully. âYouââ
âYouâd look like a gift,â he continues, settling this for himself. Reasoning it through out loud like sheâs not there, and also like sheâs entirely the subject of conversation. âWrapped and addressed.â
A pause.
He seems to be imagining it.
The image, apparently, meets some internal standard.
âYes,â he decides.
She doesnât know what to do with that.
She legitimately does not know what to do with that.
âV,â she whispers, because itâs the only thing that seems to come out correctly.
âMmm?â
He gives the nipple a tiny, barely-there pinch between thumb and forefinger.
A soft, broken sound slips past her lips before she can catch it.
The hand holding her wrists tightens minutely. Approval, she realizes, in some fucked-up corner of her brain.
âSo much pink,â he says, seemingly proud.
Her heartbeat tries to escape through the point where the blade rests.
âWonder if youâre pink too,â he muses, voice dropping lower, âunder all this lace.â
Yunjin swallows, throat working against the press of fear and arousal thatâs become one tangled, buzzing thing.
And she, in truth, doesnât know what to do with anythingânot her body, not her face.
All she knows is that sheâs laid out under V in the middle of a dark forest, her hoodie split, her bra ruined, her matching underwear on full display, and he is looking at her like a wolf whoâs finally got his rabbit pinned.
And god help her, she thinks sheâs never wanted anything so badly in her life.
She suddenly registers the absence of cold before she registers why, still buzzing from where the flat of the blade had traced her skin.
She refocuses her eyes to see V holding it loosely, casually, the handle resting between two fingers like a cigaretteâlike itâs nothing, like itâs an afterthoughtâand then his wrist flicks.
One rotation. Two.
The butterfly knife spins through his fingers in a lazy figure eight, handles clicking open-shut-open in a rhythm that sounds almost musical.
Moonlight catches the edge each time it turns, little strobe-flashes in the dark.
And then he throws it.
Yunjinâs entire body seizes.
The knife comes down fastâfastâblade-first, the silver arc of it aimed directly at her hands where theyâre pinned above her head, and every cell screams ânoâ at once.
Her eyes slam shut.
Her wrists jerk against his grip.
She makes a soundâhigh, involuntary, ripped from somewhere below thoughtâ
Thunk.
The blade bites into the earth.
She feels the vibration through the ground. Through her skull, her shoulders, the whole length of her arms.
The handle hums faintly where itâs buried, and when she cracks one eye openâtrembling, heart somewhere in her sinusesâshe sees it.
The knife. Planted in the soil between Vâs index and middle finger. Between the knuckles of the hand thatâs still pinning her wrists to the forest floor. The blade embedded in the dirt, close enough that she can feel the residual warmth of the steel against the side of her pinky.
Not a scratch.
Not a single scratch.
Her breath comes out in a shaky, wet rush. Her vision is blurredâshe blinks and realizes, mortifyingly, that her eyes are stinging with unshed tears.
Adrenaline tears. Fear tears. The kind that donât ask permission.
V watches her face with open, lazy interest.
âShh,â he murmurs. âI never miss.â
She wants to say something. Anything. Something cutting, something that proves sheâs not a full-body tremble in a ruined hoodie right now.
But her tongue is stuck to the roof of her mouth and her heart beats at a speed that would send her to J-Hopeâs office right away.
So what comes out instead is a thin, cracked: âYouââ
âI know.â He says it warmly. Almost fond.
Now that the knife is tucked away, he has one hand free.
Oh.
Oh, sheâs in trouble.
He flexes the freed hand once. Slow. His fingers stretch and curl, working out the stiffness of the grip, and his gaze drops from her face to her chest.
Her breasts are still bare to the night air, small and round, the nipples pulled tight from the cold, flushed that same traitorous color as everything else about her.
She feels horribly, excruciatingly exposed.
And were it for the cold, itâd be fine.
But itâs not becuse of the weatherâitâs because of the way he looks at her chest with explicit, rigorous attentionâthe same way heâd looked at the knife when it was spinning.
His fingertipâjust the pad of his index finger, just the tipâtouches the center of her sternum. Not her breast. The flat plane between them, where her heart is hammering a riot against her ribs.
âSmall,â he says.
And it lands exactly the way sheâd been afraid it would.
Her face burns.
She turns her head to the side, chin tucking instinctively, and her eyes find the dark canopy above because thatâs easier than this.
Easier than lying here with her nothing-tits out while the Chief of Stealth Assassinations offers a one-word review.
Small.
Yeah. She knows. Sheâs aware, thanks.
âDonât do that.â
His voice is quiet. His finger hasnât moved from her sternum.
She swallows. Doesnât look at him.
âYunjin.â
Something in the way he says itâthat careful, syllable-by-syllable quality, like each sound is a choiceâmakes her turn back.
Heâs watching her with his head tilted. His expression hasnât changed. That same bright, alien attention, focused entirely on her.
âSmall things,â he says, âare more sensitive.â
She blinks.
âDid you know that?â
His finger traces a slow, considering path from her sternum to the swell of her left breast. Just the outer curve. Barely a touch.
âSmaller surface area. Same nerve supply. Higher concentration. More density.â
He says it the way someone would recite a fun fact at a dinner party.
âMeans everyââ his fingertip drifts inward, tracing the curve tighter, spiraling closer to the center, ââsingleââ closer, ââtouchââ
He reaches her areola.
Yunjinâs back arches off the ground so fast itâs involuntary.
A gasp rips out of her, and her hands twist above her head where his other hand is still pinning them, fingers scrabbling uselessly at nothing.
V pauses. Watches the arch of her spine settle back down.
ââregisters more,â he finishes softly.
Sheâs panting. She can hear herself panting.
Itâs embarrassing.
Itâs one fingertip on the edge of her areola and sheâs panting like sheâs been running again.
âFascinating,â he murmurs, almost to himself.
His finger circles. Just once. A slow, featherlight loop around the puckered skin of her areola, tracing the border between smooth and textured, and the sensation is so specific, so concentrated, that her toes curl inside her sneakers.
âAll this pink,â he says, gaze fixed on the path his finger is drawing. âLike candy.â
He presses the pad of his thumb flat against her nipple.
Just contactâfull, flat, warm.
Full, flat, warm contact after the teasing almost-touches, and the sensation floods through her chest, immediate and bright.
Her nipple is so tight it aches, and the warmth of his thumb against it sends electric pulses straight down through her stomach, through her pelvis, between her legs.
She makes a sound sheâll be mortified about for the rest of her natural life. Thin and needy and high in the back of her throatâbegging, even though she hasnât said a word.
Vâs eyes darken a fraction, pupils expanding, swallowing hazel, and his lips part just slightly.
He likes it.
He likes the sound.
âAgain,â he says. Not a request.
He rolls his thumb. Just a small, tight circle, pressing her nipple down and dragging it to the side, letting it spring back.
The frictionâhis thumb pad against the sensitive peakâmakes her whimper.
Actually whimper.
Mouth open, eyes squeezed shut, the sound pulled from somewhere she can't name.
âGood,â he breathes.
His head lowers.
She feels his breath first. Warm against her cold skin, ghosting over the breast he hasnât touched yetâthe right one, the neglected one, its nipple tight and aching and straining toward nothing.
Her chest heaves with each inhale, and she knows he can see it, the way sheâs practically offering herselfâ
His mouth closes over her right nipple.
Warm. Wet.
The sudden heat of his mouth after the biting cold of the forest air is so intense that her vision whites at the edges.
His lips seal around the stiff peak and his tongueâoh god, his tongueâpresses flat against the tip, broad and hot and slick.
âAhââ Her voice cracks. Her hips shift on the pine needles. âVââ
He hums against her, vibration traveling straight through her nipple, through her breast, down into her ribcage where it rattles around like a trapped bird.
His tongue movesâa slow, wet drag, tasting her with intent.
Her fingers twist above her head. The hand pinning her wrists hasnât loosened. The knife handle is still right there, she can feel it against the side of her hand, the textured grip warm from being inside his palmâ
Wait.
Her little finger brushes metal.
The knife.
Itâs right there. Right next to her trapped hands, blade buried in the dirt, handle jutting up.
If she justâshifted her fingersâcurled them a fractionâ
V sucks in.
Her thoughts scatter.
He draws her nipple further into his mouth with a slow, deliberate pull, hollowing his cheeks around the small peak, and the sensation is so intense and sweet it makes her thighs clench against his hips.
His tongue flicks against the captured tip, quick and wet, and she hears herself gaspâbut her handâ
Her fingers curl around the handle of the butterfly knife.
The textured steel sits against her palm like it belongs to someone elseâs story entirely, someone braver, someone who doesnât wear matching lingerie sets to their superiorâs roomâ
V goes still.
His mouth stays on her breast, lips still sealed around her nipple, but the movement of his tongue stops.
She can feel the shift in his attention even before he lifts his headâa quality change, thorns tightening around her like a vine noticing new movement.
He pulls off her nipple with a soft, wet sound.
Looks up.
His eyes find her hand on the knife handle.
Something hungry moves through his expression.
He looks likeâŠ
Like heâd been waiting for this part.
âOh,â he says.
Yunjinâs fingers tighten on the handle reflexively. Her knuckles go white.
Sheâs not even sure what sheâs doingâshe didnât plan this, her hand justâit moved, it found the knife, and now sheâs holding a weapon while pinned under the Chief of Stealth Assassinations in the middle Kkangpaeâs forest, and this is either the bravest or dumbest thing sheâs ever doneâdefinitely the dumbest.
Vâs gaze moves from her hand to her face; and his mouth is wetâshe can see it, the slick shine of his own saliva on his lower lip, the faint glistening on the corner of his mouth from where heâd been sucking her nipple.
He looks enthralled.
âGo ahead,â he says.
His hand releases her wrists. Justâlets go. Opens his fingers and pulls his hand away, casual as setting down a glass, and suddenly her arms are free. Both of them. No resistance, no weight holding her down.
Just the knife in her hand and him above her and the forest breathing around them.
Yunjinâs brain stutters.
âTry it,â he adds, like an encouragement.
She stares at him. Her wrists ache faintly where heâd been gripping themâthe blood rushing back makes her fingers tingle around the handle.
The blade is still buried in the dirt. Sheâd have to pull it free. Sheâd have to actuallyâ
His fingers fold over her knuckles, warm and sure, and he tugs the knife from the earth like it weighs nothing.
The blade comes free with a soft, gritty scrape, soil crumbling from the steel, and then itâs justâin her hands.
A real knife. His knife.
The one heâd used to cut her hoodie, her bra, her leggings.
Sheâs holding it and her arms are shaking so badly the blade jitters in the dark.
V doesnât take it back.
Instead, his hand grips her shoulderâfirm, suddenâand yanks her upright.
And suddenly sheâs sitting up, disoriented, the split halves of her hoodie falling off her shoulders while he remains kneeling in front of her with his thighs bracketing hers.
He adjusts her grip. Both her hands around the handle now, fingers layered, his hands guiding hers with the patience of someone correcting a studentâs form.
Then he places the tip of the blade against his own chest.
Over his heart.
âVââ Her voice comes out strangled.
The tip of the knife rests against the dark fabric of his shirt, right over the left side of his chest, and she can feelâthrough the handle, through the steel, through whatever insane connection exists between a blade and the body it touchesâhis heartbeat.
Steady. Calm. Completely, offensively calm.
âThere,â he says, presumably satisfied with the placement. âThatâs right.â
Sheâs shaking so hard the knife tip trembles against him. Her vision is blurring againâthose stupid adrenaline tearsâand her breath is coming in shallow, hiccupping bursts.
taehyung x OC | gang au | primal/knife/blood play, smut | 20k
masterlist | comment on masterlist for taglist
đ rundown ; âDo you know what wolves do,â he says, âwhen something soft wanders into their territory?â Her heart rate is, at this point, genuinely embarrassing. âDepends on the wolf,â she manages.
His tongue flicks her clit. His finger traces a slow circle around her entrance.
She sobs.
Not cryingânot exactlyâjust this wrenched, involuntary sound that comes from somewhere behind her sternum, her body trying to process two points of contact at once and failing spectacularly.
âNnhâVâpleaseââ
He hums against her, finger circling, tracing the rim of her entrance through the lace in that slow, maddening orbit, and his tongue keeps working, andâ
He pulls his mouth away.
The sound she makes is humiliating.
A thin, high, desperate thing that she would absolutely deny making later under any circumstance.
The cold air rushes against her clit where his mouth had beenâwet, exposed, throbbingâand she jerks.
V lifts his head from between her thighs, lower lip glistening. Looks at her face. Then at his fingers, still resting against her entrance.
âBunny,â he says, conversational. âYouâre drenched.â
She wants to disintegrate.
His finger pressesâjust slightlyâagainst the lace over her entrance, and the fabric gives. Sinks inward.
The wet cotton molds into her opening around his fingertip without actually letting him inside, and the tease of itâalmost-in, not-quite-in, the stretch that isnât a stretchâmakes her thighs spasm.
âBet I could fuck you through the lace,â he muses.
His tone. God, his tone.
Like heâs considering a logistics problem. Like this is an engineering question and not his finger pressing wet pink lace into her pussy while she shakes apart on a forest floor holding a knife above her own head.
He pushes slightly harder. The fabric dips deeper, his fingertip dragging the fabric into her entrance.
âAhââ Her voice breaks. âThatâsâyou canât justââ
taehyung x OC | gang au | primal/knife/blood play, smut | 20k
masterlist
đ rundown ; âDo you know what wolves do,â he says, âwhen something soft wanders into their territory?â Her heart rate is, at this point, genuinely embarrassing. âDepends on the wolf,â she manages.
The hoodie falls open.
Underneath, pale pink lace.
Yunjin wants to disappear into the ground.
âOh,â V says softly.
Thatâs it. Just 'oh', like heâs just unwrapped something heâd been quietly hoping for and doesnât want to spook.
Heat blasts through her face so fast she actually feels dizzy.
She squeezes her eyes shut on reflex. That somehow just makes it worse, because now she canât see him, but she can feel everythingâthe way his gaze drags down over her exposed bra, the way the forest air licks over her newly bare skin, the way her nipples tighten under the lace because of course they do, traitors.
âLook at that,â he hums. âPink.â
She makes a dying noise in the back of her throat.
âDonâtââ She clears her throat. Her voice comes out thin. âDonât say it like that.â
âLike what?â He finally looks up at her face, lazy curiosity in his eyes.
She wants to cover herself, instinctively, but her wrists are still pinned above her head, held in one of his hands like it costs him nothing.
It probably does cost him nothing.
âV,â she mumbles, trying very hard not to look down at herself again and failing instantly.
The bra looks so much more obvious out here, like sheâs lit for inspectionâthe soft lace, the tiny little bow in the center that had seemed cute in her room and now feels⊠accusatory.
âI didnâtâI wasnâtââ
âYou wore pink lace to my room,â he says, matter-of-fact, like heâs reciting mission intel. âAt midnight.â
Her stomach swoops.
He shifts his weight a little, the knife resting now against the edge of the hoodie where itâs fallen away. The forest floor is cold and prickly under her back. His thighs bracket her hips, heavy and immovable.
âYou followed me into the forest.â
His tone stays light, almost conversational, but his eyes donât move from her chest.
âI think we both know what that means.â
âItâs justââ she tries weakly. âItâs just underwear.â
His mouth kicks up.
âMm. Just underwear,â he echoes. âBunny, you color-coordinate your lingerie for your superior and then pretend itâs an accident.â
Superior.
Right. Heâs not just some guy, heâs V, Chief of Stealth Assassinations, Council member, terrifying knife man, and she isâwhat.
A Seduction ensign with too many feelings and a bad case of cotton-candy aesthetic.
Her cheeks burn hotter.
âIâit was laundry day,â she lies. Badly.
The knife moves again.
Lower, this time.
He drags the flat of it down to the band of her leggings at her hips, tracing the seam with idle interest. The pressure is just enough to make the elastic dip, not enough to cut, not yet.
Her abdomen jumps under the contact.
âLaundry day, hm,â he repeats, sounding deeply unconvinced and also a little entertained.
He tugs at the waistband with the tip of the blade, watching the fabric give. She can feel every tiny shift; the cold metal, the way it threatens to slip lower, the way her skin flinches and then tries not to.
âVââ
âShh, bunny.â His voice goes soft, almost soothing. âIâm being careful.â
He is. That might be the most insane part of this. His hand is steady, fingers loose on the handle, and when he finally angles the edge in and slices, itâs clean.
Her leggings part with another soft rip, the sound so intimate it makes her toes curl inside her sneakers.
The air hits her hips.
He pulls the cut open lazily with the back of the knife, exposing more skin, more lace.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
taehyung x OC | gang au | primal/knife/blood play, smut | 20k
masterlist | comment on masterlist for taglist
đ rundown ; âDo you know what wolves do,â he says, âwhen something soft wanders into their territory?â Her heart rate is, at this point, genuinely embarrassing. âDepends on the wolf,â she manages.
His eyes find her hand on the knife handle.
Something hungry moves through his expression.
He looks likeâŠ
Like heâd been waiting for this part.
âOh,â he says.
Yunjinâs fingers tighten on the handle reflexively. Her knuckles go white.
Sheâs not even sure what sheâs doingâshe didnât plan this, her hand justâit moved, it found the knife, and now sheâs holding a weapon while pinned under the Chief of Stealth Assassinations in the middle Kkangpaeâs forest, and this is either the bravest or dumbest thing sheâs ever doneâdefinitely the dumbest.
Vâs gaze moves from her hand to her face. His mouth is wetâshe can see it, the slick shine of his own saliva on his lower lip, the faint glistening on the corner of his mouth from where heâd been sucking her nippleâand his expression is doing something she canât parse.
He looks enthralled.
âGo ahead,â he says.
His hand releases her wrists. Justâlets go. Opens his fingers and pulls his hand away, casual as setting down a glass, and suddenly her arms are free. Both of them. No resistance, no weight holding her down.
Just the knife in her hand and him above her and the forest breathing around them.
Yunjinâs brain stutters.
âTry it,â he adds, like an encouragement.
She stares at him. Her wrists ache faintly where heâd been gripping themâthe blood rushing back makes her fingers tingle around the handle.
The blade is still buried in the dirt. Sheâd have to pull it free. Sheâd have to actuallyâ
His fingers fold over her knuckles, warm and sure, and he tugs the knife from the earth like it weighs nothing.
The blade comes free with a soft, gritty scrape, soil crumbling from the steel, and then itâs justâin her hands.
A real knife. His knife.
The one heâd used to cut her hoodie, her bra, her leggings.
Sheâs holding it and her arms are shaking so badly the blade jitters in the dark.
V doesnât take it back.
Instead, his hand grips her shoulderâfirm, suddenâand yanks her upright.
And suddenly sheâs sitting up, disoriented, the split halves of her hoodie falling off her shoulders while he remains kneeling in front of her with his thighs bracketing hers.
He adjusts her grip. Both her hands around the handle now, fingers layered, his hands guiding hers with the patience of someone correcting a studentâs form.
Then he places the tip of the blade against his own chest.
Over his heart.
âVââ Her voice comes out strangled.
The tip of the knife rests against the dark fabric of his shirt, right over the left side of his chest, and she can feelâthrough the handle, through the steel, through whatever insane connection exists between a blade and the body it touchesâhis heartbeat.
Steady. Calm. Completely, offensively calm.
âThere,â he says, like heâs satisfied with the placement. âThatâs right.â