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FERAL THINGS DON'T BELONG INSIDE II PART 12 [IN PROGRESS] Bunny Hybrid! Jungkook

Parts: P1 | P2 I P3 | P4 | P5 | P6 | P7 | P8 | P9 | P10 | P11 | P12 | P13 | P14 | P15 | P16 | P17 | P18 | P19 |

DESCRIPTION:

You never planned on taking in a hybrid. Especially not one like him.

You offer him food. A place to stay. Rules.

He offers you obedience. Tension. Trouble.

Because hybrids like him don't know how to exist without earning their place and you're about to learn that kindness, to someone like Jungkook, can feel just as dangerous as cruelty.

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: : pairing: Bunny Hybrid! Jungkook x reader

: : genre: Hybrid AU, Angst-driven Romance

: : warnings: alcohol use, drug use, mutual pining, violence mentions of abuse, cursing, fluff, angst, smut, jealousy, emotional trauma, hurt/comfort, dehumanisation themes.

: : word count: chapter: 10k | Total: 135,2k [for now]

ao3 link: Link

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A/N: if you're here for emotional damage, slow-burn tension and a little bit of chaos-then yeah. let's go this fic is messy in all the ways: hurt, comfort, trust issues, anc a hybrid who doesn't really know how to be safe even when he finally is.

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PART 12

"Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy fucking birthday dear Hobiii—Hope you get laid and don't end up in the ER!”

The roar of gravelly voices and drunken laughter bounces off the walls of the Noir Vibe Nation Club's VIP lounge, making your head throb before the night has even truly begun. You don't join the shouting; instead, you offer a strained, slightly pained smile, feeling the heat of pure cringiness prickle at your brain.

"Ay, ay, birthday boy! Better see some action tonight or I’m demanding a refund on the booze!"Jackson bellows, punctuating the sentence with a suggestive wink towards Hoseok.

You thrust your shot glass into the air just to blend in, clinking it sharply against the others before tossing your head back. You let the expensive, chilled vodka hit your throat, and god–expensive or not, it’s fucking nasty.

Hoseok just laughs, leaning back against the plush velvet sofa. “Man, shut up,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m the one who paid for it anyway. If anyone’s getting a refund, it’s my bank account.”

You quickly wipe your lips with the back of your hand to stop a stray wave of vodka from escaping, your eyes darting away as Jackson starts a loud, off-key rendition of 'Birthday Sex' song. He’s adding some very aggressive, very unnecessary hip thrusts for emphasis.

You internally roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts, filled with secondhand embarrassment as you wish you could disappear into the shadows of the booth.

You’re sitting in the center of a lounge you would have literally killed to even glance at a month ago. It’s peak luxury; dark velvet surfaces, a floor that glows with soft, recessed LED strips, and a private balcony that overlooks the main dance floor. From your perch at the top of the club, you can see the sea of heated bodies below, the neon lasers slicing through the haze of dry ice and expensive perfume.

To be honest, you’d completely blanked on Hoseok’s birthday until his voice crackled through your phone yesterday, casually announcing that a limousine would arrive outside your nasty-ass apartment building to pick you up tonight. You’d panicked instantly.

Mostly because you forgot one very important detail: You had nothing to wear.

Thankfully, Gia (your co-worker) rescued you. She has an entire closet overflowing with tiny club dresses from her weekly Friday rages, and she’d practically shoved you into the first black thing she could find. Now, you’re squeezed into a black mini dress that barely covers your ass, feeling dangerously exposed and intensely uncomfortable.

Usually, this was the dream... Back when your apartment was just a lonely, silent void where you spent your nights drinking wine and crying to shitty romantic comedies, you wanted this more than anything. But now? Now, there is a hybrid at your place. A hybrid who turned that void into a real home. The thought of him alone there makes you reluctant to even breathe the expensive air here, but you try to keep it in for Hobi’s sake.

You feel a shift in the seat beside you as Jimin leans in, his shoulder brushing yours. He has to get close for you to hear him over the music. "You good? You seem in your head,"

You offer a weak nod, leaning back. "I'm just... a bit drunk," you reassure him. You aren't exactly lying; you've always been a lightweight, and the vodka is already spinning in your skull. "I don't digest alcohol too well."

Suddenly, a sharp buzz vibrates against your thigh. You sigh, your heart sinking because you already know what it is. You reach into your handbag, pulling out your phone and angling it away from the group.

Jungkook hadn’t taken your departure well. In fact, he took it so poorly that you’d resorted to sneaking into the building’s basement again and “borrowing” an old Nokia brick from a neighbor’s storage parcel just so he’d have constant contact with you. Otherwise, he probably would’ve lost his mind completely. You had spent an hour teaching him how to use the damn thing, and now you deeply regret it. He is absolutely spamming you.

You look at the screen discreetly while the others are busy pouring another round:

Kook: when are you coming home?

Kook: y/n

Kook: I miss you

Kook: please come back.

Kook: I don't want to be alone.

Kook: y/n?

Your heart twinges with guilt. You quickly thumb the buttons on the screen, typing out a reply with blurry vision.

You: It’s only been 2 hours, Kook. Eat something and go to sleep. I’ll be back soon.

You quickly flip the phone to silent and slip it into your handbag, tucking it tight against your side. Just as the zipper slides shut, Hoseok stands up. He taps his ring against his glass and the sound cuts through the muffled roar of the dance floor below commanding the attention of the small circle.

Aside from you, Hobi and Jimin, the group is tight-knit: Jackson, who has been Hobi’s ride-or-die since they were kids; a guy named Romano who works in the same marketing company, and Hoseok’s brother, Jihyun, who has his arm wrapped possessively around his girlfriend, Mina.

"Everyone!" Hoseok shouts, his face flushed from the few drinks he's already had. " I just wanted to say... I appreciate you all. Really. Thank you for being here for my birthday."

The group nods, a collective murmur of "Happy Birthday, man" and "Of course, bro" rippling through the plush booth. You offer a small, sincere smile, leaning against the velvet.

"Anyway," Hoseok continues, his eyes sparkling with a sudden, sharp clarity. He reaches out and grabs everyone’s glasses, including yours. You wince as he refills them to the brim with that liquid fire. "I want to make an announcement. I’ve thought about it for a long time, and I’m finally making it happen—I’m starting my own business!"

Jimin's head snaps up. "Woah, bro." He leans forward, elbows on the table, suddenly fully attentive. "What kind of business?"

Hoseok takes a breath. Then he says, "I'm going to open an elderly care home."

A dead silence falls over the table. Everyone looks at him like he’s just announced he’s moving to Mars.

Hoseok looks around at all of you. "...What?"

Jackson breaks first. "That's a weird path to go from marketing, dude. Like...that's a hard left turn." He grins, leaning in. "What’s the real motive? You trying to get lucky with an eighty-year-old granny? Looking for a sugar mama in a wheelchair?"

Hoseok bursts out laughing, the tension snapping instantly as he shakes his head at the absurdity, then his expression softens.

He picks up his glass again, turning it in his hands, watching the amber liquid catch the low light. "The system is a mess," he says, his voice dropping an octave. "My grandmother got kicked out of her nursing home last month because they 'ran out of space.' There’s nowhere for these people to go where they actually get treated like humans. She basically raised me. I can’t just sit on my marketing cash while she, and people like her, have nothing."

Your throat tightens.

Hobi has always been the guy with the biggest heart. The family man who would give his last cent to someone in need. And maybe that’s why his words hit so hard. Because lately, you know all too well what it feels like to watch someone suffer while the world decides they’re too complicated, too inconvenient, too broken to help properly.

Disregarding your spinning head and the way the black dress is riding up your thighs, you stand up, raising your freshly filled glass.

Everyone turns to look at you.

"Hobi," you say, your voice thick with pride. "That is great news. Seriously. The world needs more people like you."

"Yeah. To Hoseok!" Jimin says, standing beside you, his glass raised.

"To Hoseok!" Romano echoes, scrambling to his feet.

You toss the drink back. It burns even worse this time, a searing trail that makes your stomach flip dangerously, but you swallow it down. You feel like you might puke, but for a human like Hoseok? You’d take a dozen more. Even if your mind is already halfway out the door, back to your apartment and the hybrid who doesn't want to be alone.

After a few more “celebratory” shots, Hoseok finally decides it’s time to hit the dance floor again. You find yourself being hauled upright, your legs feeling like half-melted jelly beneath you. As you leave the VIP lounge, your eyes land on the transparent stairs ahead; an absolutely terrifying architectural choice for a drunk person.

Gripping Jimin’s shoulder like it’s a life raft, you descend, feeling like you’re walking on thin air while the floor below spins in neon circles. You are definitely, undeniably wasted.

The transition from the quiet lounge to the main floor is a physical assault. The heat of a thousand bodies hits you, thick with sweat and expensive cologne. You’re navigating the sea of people like a pinball, bumping into two different guys before the third collision turns into a complete disaster.

A girl, lost in a frantic trance of dancing, swings her arm just as you stumble past. Her pink drink splashes directly across your chest and down the long sleeve of Gia’s dress.

"I'm so sorry! Oh my god, I’m sorry!" you stammer, trying to wipe the liquid away, but the girl just glares, shouting something about you paying for her twenty-dollar cocktail.

Jimin hooks his arm under yours, dragging you away before a catfight can break out. "Bro, you seriously need to learn how to walk."

"This is Gia’s dress!" you wail, looking down at the damp, dark stain on the fabric. "She’s going to kill me."

Jimin doesn’t even look concerned, just steering you through the shifting crowd as the bass vibrates through the floor and the lights blur into something hazy and disorienting. You’re wobbling with every step, still clinging to the ridiculous hope that this can somehow be fixed.

When you finally reach the hallway, Jimin slows, guiding you toward the bathrooms.

“I’ll be around,” he says, letting go of your arm but not fully stepping away yet. His eyes flick over you once, making sure you’re steady. “Don’t disappear, okay?”

You nod quickly, already half focused on the damage control. He gives your shoulder a light pat and finally turns back toward the crowd, disappearing into the noise as you push toward the bathroom. When you shove the heavy doors open, you freeze.

"What the fuck?" you mutter, squinting through the strobe-light haze.

This isn't a bathroom; it’s a fever dream. The walls are a pulsating, aggressive neon pink, the floor is jet-black obsidian, and there’s a goddamn disco ball spinning lazily from the ceiling. To top it off, a shimmering silver pole is bolted right next to the hand dryers, looking way too sturdy for "decoration." You honestly wonder if you’re supposed to pull a striptease before you're allowed to use the soap.

You stumble to the marble sink and groan at your reflection. The dress is black, but the cocktail has left a nasty, oily-looking patch that reeks of nauseatingly sweet maraschino cherries. You attack the fabric with wet toilet paper, but in your drunk state, your coordination is shot. Twice, your hip slides against the damp marble and you end up half-submerged in the sink, your chest getting soaked in the process.

A girl exiting a stall side-eyes you on her way out, but you just sigh, ringing out your sleeve.

On instinct, you fish the phone out of your bag. 20 missed calls.

"Shit," you hiss.

You duck into a stall, nearly face-planting into the toilet bowl before catching yourself against the cold wall. You slide down until you’re sitting on the floor, the world spinning in slow, dizzying loops, and hit redial.

Jungkook answers before the first ring even finishes. "Y/n?" His voice is so sharp, so alert, it makes your head throb.

"Is the house on fire?" you mutter, leaning the back of your head against the stall door.

"...No."

"Electric breakdown? Did the power go out again?"

"No," he says, sounding genuinely confused by the questions.

"So... are you dying?". Your voice is slurred as you try to find a comfortable spot on the cold tile. "Is there blood? Are we calling an ambulance?"

He sighs. "No."

"Then why are you blowing up my phone, Kook?" You shut your eyes, trying to stop the toilet from revolving like a carousel. "I thought it was an emergency."

There’s a long, heavy silence on the other end, just the sound of his ragged breathing. "I miss you," he whispers, the words sounding small and broken.

Your heart, already vulnerable from the vodka, softens instantly. "I miss you too, bun. But it’s only been a few hours."

"Can't you just leave?"

You let out a long, weary sigh. "Kook... you were doing just fine when I was working the bar shift. What’s so different now?"

"It is different," he shoots back, his tone turning defensive, as his frustration cuts through the static. "You have to work at the bar, but you don't have to be there. They’ve had you for hours. It’s my turn now."

A small, dizzy giggle escapes your lips, the alcohol making the possessiveness in his voice sound almost endearing. "So that’s it? You’re just jealous? That’s what this is about?"

"I’m not jealous," he mutters, and you can practically hear him pouting, his jaw tightening on the other end. "It's just... the bed is cold. And your scent is fading off the pillows."

"Jungkook," you groan, rubbing your temple. "You have to survive for a little bit without me. You’re a big boy."

"Come home," he commands.

"I will." you murmur." Just later."

He lets out a frustrated, bratty whine that sounds far too loud in the silence of the toilet stall. "You don't care about me,"

Here we go again. You know this trick by heart now. Him tugging on your heartstrings with a shameless, calculated play for your conscience. You both know it’s a cheap shot, a low blow designed to make you crumble, but you’re not letting yourself get sucked into it tonight. Not when your head is spinning and your chest is damp with cherry-scented cocktail.

You straighten up as much as your drunken state allows. "Jungkook," you say, your voice turning stern despite the sway of your head. "I wouldn't be sitting in a toilet stall calling you right now if I didn't care. Don't play that card."

"It's not enough," he mutters, his voice thickening.

"No?" you breathe, the spinning in the room finally slowing down as you focus entirely on the sound of his breath.

"No. I can’t feel you," he murmurs, and you can hear the desperation creeping back in. "It's so empty here. Come home and fix it, y/n. Please."

Before you can even begin to formulate an answer, the heavy quilted doors of the bathroom swing open. The sharp, high-pitched giggles of a few girls echo off the neon-pink walls, accompanied by the clatter of heels on the obsidian floor. The private bubble you were in pops instantly.

"Kook, I have to go," you whisper hurriedly,. "The world isn't ending. I’ll be back soon, I promise. Just... wrap yourself in my sweater or something."

"But—"

"I mean it. Bye, Kook."

You press the 'end' button before he can get another whine out, the silence of the disconnected call ringing in your ears. You stare at the glowing screen of the phone for a second, feeling like a criminal, before shoving it back into your bag. You need to get out of this stall before you start feeling the phantom heat of his touch through the phone line.

You push yourself up from the floor, smoothing the damp fabric of the dress down as best you can. Exiting the stall, you pointedly avoid the sharp, judgmental gaze of a girl at the mirror. She clearly thinks you’re the type to skip the sink after peeing.

Emerging back into the main club, you scan the neon-drenched horizon for Jimin’s blonde hair or Hobi’s bright smile, but they’re nowhere to be found. The dance floor is still a pulsating mess, but there’s a new, strange energy shifting through the club. It’s a quiet chaos. Instead of the usual flow toward the bar or the exit, a stream of people is rushing toward a dark hallway that leads away from the music.

"You think the show's started?" one guy murmurs to his friend, his face lit by a frantic sort of excitement.

"Better have. I heard they’ve got a fresh one tonight. Real mean streak," the other responds, picking up his pace.

Your drunk brain, currently operating on a dangerous mix of curiosity and a complete lack of self-preservation, decides it’s time for a detour. You let yourself be swept into the current, totally untethered from your group. You figure all of them are probably lost in a dance-off. They won't miss you for ten minutes.

But the further you go, the more the atmosphere sours. The expensive scent of the club’s perfume fades, replaced by a draft that feels metallic and recycled. This is a suspiciously bad idea, you think, your pulse thrumming in your ears, but your feet are already moving. You turn a corner and slip through a heavy door marked FIRE EXIT, stepping into a staircase that plunges into a hollow, lightless throat.

"Move it, move it," someone grunts from behind, bumping your shoulder as you hesitate. The shove sends you stumbling onto the first step, and you have no choice but to keep going down.

The air gets colder. You navigate a series of dimly lit underground corridors, the walls damp and the ceiling low. You’re expecting anything at this point: an underground strip club, some freaky high-stakes poker game, maybe even a private Justin Bieber concert. But when you finally emerge into the light, your breath hitches.

It’s a massive, hidden arena. Steep, high rows of tribunes are packed with people, all leaning forward with a hungry, predatory look in their eyes. At the very center, far below the seating, is a sunken arena that looks like a brutal, reinforced box ring.

The atmosphere isn't one of celebration; it’s one of violence. There’s a copper tang in the air that makes your stomach turn. Despite the screaming sirens in your head telling you to run back to the safety of Hobi's birthday shots, you find your legs moving toward an empty seat. You sink down, the black mini-dress riding up as you stare at the ring below, a cold dread settling in your gut that this "show" is something you were never meant to see.

"Man, I hope it’s as brutal as last week," the guy sitting to your left mutters, adjusting a heavy tray of drinks on his lap. "Friday’s rounds were fucking fire. I’ve got five hundred on the underdog today. Hope he’s got that killer instinct."

The lights in the arena suddenly cut out, plunging the tribunes into a suffocating, expectant darkness. A second later, a harsh, clinical white light floods the center stage. You squint, your eyes burning as the reality of the architecture hits you. It isn't a boxing ring. It’s a floor-to-ceiling cage of reinforced steel, the mesh so fine and strong there is absolutely no escape once those gates click shut.

A distorted voice booms over the hidden speakers, announcing the start of the "main event." You find yourself gripping the edge of your seat, knuckles white, leaning forward until your chest is practically pressed against the railing.

From the left, the first "participant" is shoved into the light. Your heart stops. He isn't wearing any boxing gloves or trunks. He’s wearing a heavy iron chain around his neck that rattles against the floor, and a pair of ginger cat ears are pinned back flat against his skull in terror.

This isn't a sport. It's a slaughterhouse.

But the real ice-water-in-your-veins moment comes when the gate on the opposite side creaks open.

A man in a tactical vest is struggling with a scuffling, snarling figure, snapping a heavy leather lasso against his back to drive him forward. The hybrid is handcuffed, his eyes wide and bloodshot, filled with a primal, cornered rage.

Your breath hitches. You know those eyes. You had seen that jagged scar near the arch of the brow. It’s Lio. The wolf from the Tunnel. The one who had cornered you, the one who had nearly ripped Jungkook apart.

Neither of the them looks like they consented to this. They are pushed into the cage like livestock, the heavy gates slamming shut with a finality that makes your teeth ache. The handlers toss the keys to their chains through the mesh: A cruel game of speed begins as the hybrids scramble for them, desperate to free their limbs just to fight against echother.

"Excuse me," you choke out, turning to the guy next to you. He’s wearing thick glasses that reflect the harsh light of the cage. "What... what is going on? What is this?"

He looks at you with a bored, obvious expression, like you’re asking why the sky is blue. "It’s an underdog ferals fight," he says, taking a sip of his drink.

"Is this even legal?" you stammer, your voice trembling.

He shrugs, completely indifferent. "Dunno. But from what I heard, the hybrids here are the ones snatched up because they’re life-threatening. Danger to society, right? Might as well use 'em for entertainment before they get put down."

The buzzer sounds, a sharp, grating noise that signals the start. Immediately, the air is filled with the sound of guttural growls and the frantic scraping of claws on metal. Lio, fueled by a terrifying, desperate adrenaline, yanks at the ginger cat hybrid who is clearly thinner, smaller, and terrified.

You watch, horrified, as Lio lunges. They must have caught him right after the police raid at the tunnel, dragging him from one hell into an even deeper one. You gulp, a hot wave of bile rising in your throat as the first splash of blood hits the floor of the cage. The crowd erupts. People are standing, shouting, gasping with a sick pleasure that makes your skin crawl. You want to look away, but you’re paralyzed, watching the monster who haunted your nightmares fight for his life in a cage.

The fight escalates into something beyond brutal. Even the cat hybrid, who looked like he was ready to faint moments ago, has shifted into a state of frantic, survival-driven fury. He’s huffing heavy, ragged breaths, his face now marked by three deep, jagged nail wounds that weep crimson across his cheek. They both circle, then collide with a sickening thud of flesh against steel. They aren’t just fighting; they are going to kill each other. There is no referee, no bell to save them, just the cold, hard certainty that only one of them leaves that cage upright.

You can’t take it anymore. The metallic tang in the air becomes a physical weight on your tongue, tasting like old coins and death. You stand up. A few people around you rise at the same time, but they’re screaming for more blood, their faces contorted into masks of feral hunger. You accidentally elbow a man in the stomach as you scramble past, ignoring his grunt of pain, and bolt for the exit.

The moment you burst through the heavy doors and back into the dim corridor, you collapse against the wall, chest heaving. You grab the cold stone to steady yourself, the sounds of the crowd’s cheering muffled but still vibrating through the floorboards.

It’s the cruelty of it that shatters you. These people: drunk off overpriced liquor, wrapped in leather jackets and designer streetwear, wrists flashing with silver watches—are watching two living, breathing beings tear each other apart like they’re nothing more than glitching software. It’s a blood sport wrapped in a VIP aesthetic.

You stumble back through the maze of hallways, your face deathly pale, your vision tunneling. When you finally spill back onto the main club floor, the neon lights feel like needles in your eyes. The music is too loud, the laughter too bright. You feel completely blanked out, a ghost moving through a room of oblivious celebrants.

Leaning against a wall, you reach out and snatch a half-full glass from a random guy’s hand.

"Hey! What the hell?" he shouts, throwing his hands up in a confused gesture, but you don't even look at him. You down liquid in one burning gulp, desperate for the alcohol to numb the bloody images.

You knew hybrid life was a nightmare. You’d seen the abandonment, seen the sexual harassment and the cold reality of the streets. But this? This was a whole different level of hell.

A memory of Danny flickers in your mind, his words bout hybrids from the time when you were still stupidly clueless: "You don’t wanna even know. Just know they fight out there. They survive. It’s not fricking lollipops and ice cream swirls.”

The bitter taste of the stolen drink lingers on your tongue and the distant roar of the underground crowd echoes in your skull, you finally understand. The world isn't just unfair to them. It's predatory.

You’re standing there, staring at nothing, when a blur of platinum hair cuts through your vision. Hands suddenly clamp down on your shoulders, startling you so hard you almost drop the empty cup.

"Y/n! Where the hell have you been?" Jimin shouts over the music, his face a mix of genuine panic. "I’ve searched everywhere! I literally got slapped in the ladies bathroom because I kicked a stall door open thinking you’d fainted inside. The girl was pushing in a tampon! It was traumatizing, y/n. For everyone involved."

You blink at him, your brain struggling to process his words through the haze of shock and alcohol. You try to speak, to tell him what you saw downstairs—the cage, Lio, the blood—but the words die in your throat. Instead, a violent, hot wave of nausea hits you like a physical blow.

Jimin’s eyes widen as he takes in your face. "Woah... WOAH. You okay? You’re fucking green."

The next thing you know, the world is a blur of neon and rushing bodies as Jimin hauls you back toward the restrooms. This time, you don't even look at the pink walls or the silver pole. You collapse into the first open stall, your knees hitting the black tile with a dull thud. You throw your whole stomach into the NVN-perfumed toilet, the scent of expensive lilies and bleach mixing sickeningly with the bile. Jimin is right there, he gathers your hair back, holding it firmly away from the carnage.

When the world finally stops heaving, you lean back, one elbow resting weakly on the rim of the toilet. Your head is throbbing. Jimin silently hands you a wad of toilet paper. You wipe your mouth, your hand trembling. You look up at him, your eyes glazed and brimming with a sudden, desperate exhaustion.

"I have to go home," you say, your voice cracking.

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You’re sprawled across the backseat of a taxi (or something that resembles it.) The city lights blurring into long, golden ribbons through the window. Now that your stomach has finally settled, a dizzying, warm euphoria has taken over. The alcohol is still humming in your veins, but the nausea is replaced by a singular, glowing thought: You’re going home. You’re going to see Jungkook. God, you missed him so much it actually aches in your chest.

"What got you smiling like that?" Jimin asks from the seat by the window, his eyes narrowed suspiciously as he watches you grin at the car’s stained ceiling.

Jimin had been a saint, honestly. He’d insisted on taking the cab home with you, refusing to let you wander off in your state. He’d practically carried you out of the stall, waited patiently while you used the NVN’s ridiculously high-end dental kits to scrub the taste of bile and vodka from your mouth, and then smoothly covered for you with Hobi. He even wrapped you in his own jacket to hide the cocktail-stained dress.

Five minutes later, the car pulls up under your apartment block. You can’t help but find it ironic; a few hours ago, you were being whisked away in a sleek, black limousine like royalty. Now, you’re arriving in a beat-up, unregistered taxi that is clearly a pizza delivery car on its off-hours.

Jimin leans over to pay the driver while you stumble out the door, gulping in the night air. It’s crisp and cool, a blessed relief from the suffocating "Double Pepperoni" scent that had filled the car's interior.

"C'mon, Cinderella," Jimin sighs, hooking his arm under yours to keep you upright.

The trek up the stairs is a stack of errors. Jimin hauls you up, steadying you when you lose a shoe halfway up the second flight. When you miraculously reach your door, your hands fumble with the keys. The lock finally clicks, and as the door swings open, you lean forward too far, nearly face-planting into the entryway.

"Whoa! I’ve got you," Jimin hisses, catching your arm just in time to keep you from crashing onto the hardwood. He steadies you, puffing out a breath of air as he looks into the dark apartment.

The silence inside is heavy, thick with the scent of home and the cheap air freshener you'd bought on sale. But it doesn't last long. It shatters a second later beneath the sound of shuffling and the heavy thud of feet against the floor. Then comes the sharp click of a door swinging open, followed by the blinding snap of the overhead light.

Jungkook is standing in the bedroom doorway, his silhouette framed by the harsh glow of the hallway. He’s wearing an oversized black hoodie, the strings pulled loose, but the casual clothes do nothing to soften the lethal tension in his frame. His hand is still frozen on the light switch, knuckles white, veins feathering across the back of his hand. He doesn't look like the sweet, needy hybrid who was whimpering into the phone two hours ago. He looks tall. Predatory.

His eyes, dark and flinty, don't go to you first. Instead, they snap to Jimin, narrow into dangerous slits, and rake over the intruder with a cold, silent judgment that makes the air in the room turn to ice. Then, his gaze drops to you. He takes in the sight of you standing there: Disheveled, swaying dangerously, and most unforgivably, with Jimin’s hand still wrapped firmly around your upper arm for support. The stranger's fingers are dug into the sleeve of a jacket that isn't even yours.

"Kook," you breathe, the name tripping over your tongue. You gently shrug off Jimin’s support, trying to prove you can stand on your own. "You aren't asleep? I thought you’d be out by now." You glance back at Jimin and lift a hand toward him in a loose, clumsy gesture. "This is Ji—"

Jungkook doesn't even let you finish the name. He steps back and slams the bedroom door with a violent, resounding crack that echoes through the small apartment, like a gunshot.

"—min," you finish in a whisper, your heart sinking into your stomach.

Jimin stands there, his eyebrows shot up to his hairline. He looks between you and the closed door, his voice dropping to a low, bewildered murmur. "Isn't he the hybrid from the bar?

"He is," you sigh, rubbing your temples as the room does a slow, nauseating tilt. You look at Jimin, trying to summon enough sobriety to be polite. "I have to deal with... that. I’m so sorry, Jimin. Thank you for tonight. Really. You are a lifesaver."

"Hey, don't worry about it," Jimin says, though he casts one last wary glance at the bedroom. "I’ll be off. Lock the door. And maybe... wear a helmet."

Once he’s gone, the silence feels even louder. You kick your shoes off, and take a deep, stabilizing breath, bracing yourself against the wall before you march toward the bedroom.

You knock once, twice.

"Go away," comes the muffled, dry rasp from inside.

You ignore his warning, pushing the door open anyway. The room is bathed in the dim, orange glow of the nightstand lamp. Jungkook is perched on the bed. You recognize the pattern. It’s a mirror image of your own past tantrum, your own moment of withdrawal. He’s leaning his back against the headboard with his knees pulled up to his chest, occupying the exact same spot where you had so sat, ignoring his pleas and earning his soft, whiny apologies. But the roles have flipped with a cruel irony. This time, he is the one holding the silence like a weapon, and your heart honeys with a sticky, painful guilt as you realize he is waiting for an apology you aren't quite sober enough to articulate.

He has a dark hood pulled so low that his eyes are nothing but hollow pits of shadow, but his hands give him away. They are restless, fumbling with a clump of dark fabric, his fingers knotting and unknotting into the material with a frantic, obsessive rhythm. As you step closer, you realize it’s your favorite oversized sweater—the one that smells most like you. He isn't just holding it; he’s clutching it like a lifeline.

"What's with you?" you ask, your voice sounding soft and frayed to your own ears. "You were the one blowing up my phone, Kook. Didn't you want me back?"

"No,"

You stop beside the end of the bed, your head tilting as you stand there swaying a little, the alcohol still making the floor feel like the deck of a ship. You look down at the top of his hood, your heart feeling heavy and warm at the same time.

"I missed you," you say in a sweet, honeyed voice, your bottom lip poking out in a genuine pout.

"Bullshit." The word barks out of him, sharp and jagged, making you flinch.

You’re genuinely surprised by the bite in his tone; you’re still tipsy enough that your emotions are raw and right on the surface. You desperately want him to just look at you, but he stays frozen, acting so cold while his hands keep up that frantic fumbling with the sweater. This must be exactly how it felt for him when you ignored him. The silence, the agonizing wait for a single glance... how the tables have turned.

"Kooook," you whine, taking a stumbling step closer until your knees hit the frame of the bed. "Come on. Don't make things hard again," you plea.

He lets out a sharp, frustrated huff and suddenly hurls the sweater across the room. It hits the carpet with a soft, pathetic thud, landing directly under your feet. You watch it fall, looking down at the heap of wool that was just resting against his heart, and you feel your own patience go with it. You aren't stupid; you saw the look in his eyes when he saw Jimin. It was the look of someone who had just seen their only possession being handled by a stranger. Jealousy doesn't suit him; it makes him look bratty and erratic, a dangerous edge sharpening his usually soft, submissive features.

Deep down, you know you should be wiser. You should be more careful, more tender. He is still so new to the complex, crushing weight of these emotions. He was thrown into a wave of uncertainty, then into a whirlwind of affection, and just as the two of you had finally found a steady track, you came home draped in the scent of a man he was already weary of. You invited a stranger’s shadow into the only sanctuary he has ever known. But the alcohol is a dull fog in your brain, making you hope for a shortcut. You want to skip the fight, go straight to the hug, and let the night end in peace. But Jungkook isn't going to let you off that easy.

You sit down on the edge of the mattress, the springs groaning under the sudden weight. "Kook, listen to me. I told you Jimin is just a friend. He helped me because I was—"

"Come closer," he interrupts, his voice dropping to a low, vibrating rasp that sends a shiver down your spine.

"What?" You stop in your tracks, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Jungkook finally looks at you, tilting his head back so the light catches the moisture in his eyes. His dark hair shifts slightly with the frantic blink of his eyes, the strands leaning heavily against his long, dark lashes. He doesn't look like someone who wants you in the same room right now. God forbid even closer. He looks like he’s bracing for an impact.

But you do as he pleases. You scoot over, moving from the edge of the mattress until you are kneeling on the bed in front of him instead of sitting beside him. Your hands rest uncertainly on your thighs, your fingers twitching. The room feels too warm suddenly. Too small.

Before you can breathe, his hand shoots up. His fingers bunch into the fabric of the borrowed jacket at your chest level, forcefully yanking you toward him. Your view tilts for a terrifying second as the alcohol sloshes in your head. You find yourself practically hanging in his grasp, leaning back at a sharp angle while his face looms inches from yours. You are suspended by his fist, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, staring into eyes that are no longer those of a pet, but of a protector who feels utterly betrayed.

"Is this his jacket?" He breathes the question, the words ghosting over your lips.

"No," you lie.

It’s a weak, clumsy thing, a desperate attempt to smooth over the jagged edges of the night. You hope, perhaps foolishly, that he’ll just swallow it. That his trust in you will override the biological evidence screaming at his heightened senses.

But Jungkook knows better. He’s spent his life reading the subtle shifts in the air to survive, and right now, the air is thick with another man’s identity. He looks at you with a mixture of despise and profound hurt, his grip on the lapels tightening until the fabric groans.

"Don't lie to me, Y/N," he rasps, his lower lip trembling just enough to betray the bite in his voice. "You reek of him. His scent is all over you. It’s caught in your hair. Clothes. It’s everywhere."

Your lower lip wobbles into another pout, your guilt finally catching up to your wandering mind. You look him straight in the eyes, foundering in that dark, soul-piercing stare, unable to disconnect. Even as he growls at you, his nose twitching with distaste and his shoulders bunched with tension, you find your heart swelling. Through the hazy, golden filter of the alcohol, you don’t see a threat—you see a pouting, territorial puppy. The way his ears are pressed back and his big, dark eyes are shimmering, makes him look so impossibly cute in your eyes. Your drunkenness only amplifies the feeling, turning your fear into a wave of gooey, misplaced adoration.

"I was cold," you whisper. "It’s just a jacket, Kook. It doesn't mean anything. Just fabric."

He searches your face then, and the look that settles over him is one you’ve never seen before. It’s an agonizingly raw expression that transcends simple anger or hurt. It’s a profound, terrifying doubt. You can see the gears turning behind his eyes as he re-evaluates every touch, every soft word, every promise of safety you’ve ever given him. It’s as if he’s trying to peer through your skull to see if your feelings are truthful, or if he’s just another 'project' you’ve picked up. Jungkook’s hand remains balled in the material of the jacket, holding you in that strained, leaning position.

"If it's just fabric," His voice dropping into a low register that vibrates right through your chest, "then you won't mind if I get rid of it."

His eyes never leave yours, holding you captive in that soul-piercing stare. Slowly, deliberately, his hand reaches for the zipper. You can feel the heat of his knuckles through the denim. Your breath hitches, the air catching painfully in your lungs. Your eyes twitch as you track the predatory precision of his movements.

With a sharp, jagged motion, he zips it down, the metallic screech sounding like a final warning.

Jungkook doesn't just pull the jacket off. His fingers hook into the collar, his muscles tensing as he gives a sudden, forceful yank. There’s a sickening crack of a seam popping near the shoulder as he literally rips the jacket away from your body. He peels the heavy material down your arms with a strength that makes your head swim, and with a final, disgusted movement of his wrist, he hurls Jimin's jacket across the room.

It hits the far wall with a heavy, dull thud before slumping into a heap on the floor.

Now, there is nothing between you but the thin, fragile fabric of your dress and the suffocating heat radiating off his body.

His hand shoots forward then, sliding from your chest up to your neck, his thumbs hooking under your jaw to tilt your head back. It’s an aggressive movement, possessive and sharp, but as he looms over you, his forehead drops to rest against yours. His breath is shaky, hitching in his throat, and you realize he’s trembling.

"I thought you were mine," he chokes, the words cracking with a raw, ugly vulnerability. "I thought we were... I thought humans understood."

He nuzzles the side of your neck, not with a kiss, but with a frantic, desperate sort of searching. He’s huffing against your skin, his nose brushing your pulse point as he tries to drown out the lingering scent of Jimin with his own.

"Do humans not understand loyalty?" he asks against your skin. "Do you just go out and let other males mark you the moment I’m not looking? And then you... you bring him here?

"Stop it," you murmur, your hand sliding under the thick fabric of his hood to find the heat of his neck. You tangle your fingers in his soft hair, pulling him closer as the world spins. "I’m right here. I’m yours. I told you he’s just a friend, so why are you treating me like a traitor?"

Jungkook’s breath hitches against your skin. Slowly, he disconnects his face from your neck, head tilting back just enough to meet your gaze.

You look in his eyes, your heart aching at his distress.

"I care for you the same way you do for me, Jungkook. I would never do anything to purposely hurt you. I got drunk, I was stupid, and I forgot my common sense for a second, because I just wanted to get home to you."

As he searches your face, you think about how hard it is to master him. You try so hard to navigate the storm of his instincts, struggling to keep pace with emotions that run deeper than anything you've ever known. You can’t tell him how overwhelming it is, but you know there’s nothing wrong with feeling too much; his heart is just as wild as he is.

His jaw tightens, his gaze dropping to your lips before snapping back to yours. "Why did you let him in?"

“I had a really hard time... walking,” you admit, your voice dropping into a shamed whisper. “I drank too much… and I just wanted to get inside. That was all I was thinking about. My head was spinning so fast, Jungkook. I wasn’t thinking about anything else—not letting him in or anything like that. He was just there, and I needed help getting up the stairs. I only focused on getting inside.”

Jungkook almost rolls his eyes, a flicker of his bratty attitude returning, but then he recoils, his gaze softening as he really looks at your pale face and the way your pulse throbs frantically under his hand where he is still holding your neck. The aggressive lines of his shoulders drop an inch, and his hand suddenly leaves your skin.

The loss of contact makes you desperate. Before he can pull away entirely, you lunge forward, scrambling into his lap. The sudden weight and momentum catch him off guard; Jungkook lets out a soft, startled huff as he falls back onto his elbows, the mattress giving way beneath him and cushioning you both. He stares up at you, completely surprised, his pupils blown so wide they look like twin eclipses as you hover over him.

"But I would never let someone inside who was a threat to us," you continue, your voice trembling as you try to reach him through the wall of his hybrid instincts. Your hands rest on his chest, feeling the thudding, rhythmic heat of his heart. "I trust him, but he's just a guy from work. He wouldn’t even look at me the way you think he does. He’s seen me on my worst shifts, looking uglier than ever—

"You never look ugly," he mumbles, the words slipping out involuntary as he stares up at you from the mattress.

You see the conflict in the set of his mouth; the way he still wants to be mad, still wants to be the wronged protector, but is failing because he loves you too much to keep up the act.

Seeing his resolve crumble, you take advantage of his hesitation as you lean down, your hair falling around your faces like a curtain. You press your lips to his in a soft plea for peace. For a moment, you linger there, your lips molding against his with desperate tenderness, trying to taste the forgiveness you’re so aching for. His lips part beneath yours, a soft, broken sound catching in the back of his throat that feels dangerously close to surrender.

He finally starts to melt. Jungkook sits up straighter, shifting his weight so you are both straightening up together, closing the awkward distance of you hovering over him. You feel his fingers twitch against your waist before digging in, his breath hitching as he finally gives in and kisses you back with a hunger that’s been building all night. It's a jagged, possessive response that says he’s been starving for you since the moment you walked out the door.

You shift your weight over him, trying to get even closer, the hem of your thin dress rides up high on your thighs, your bare skin pressing against the cold fabric of his shorts. You reach up, your long sleeve sliding back to reveal your trembling, bandaged wrist as you cup his face, wanting to drown out the rest of the world.

But then, the air shifts. The scent of Jimin’s citrus-and-spice cologne—still clinging to your hair and ghosting over your collarbone—crashes back into his senses like a physical blow. Jungkook stiffens beneath you, the pleasure in his eyes snapping back into a sharp, wounded clarity.

He breaks the kiss with a sudden, jerky movement, turning his head sharply to the side. Your lips, which had been so close to winning him over, slide uselessly across his skin to land against the heated, smooth curve of his cheek. You can feel the tension radiating off him, his jaw set so tight it looks like it might snap.

He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving against yours in a frantic, uneven rhythm, but he refuses to look at you. His hands, which had been beginning to soften against your waist, suddenly tighten again. The rejection feels like a physical blow, leaving you hovering over him with your heart exposed and your lips still tingling from the ghost of his touch.

"Kook..." you whisper, your voice thick with lingering alcohol and the sting of his rejection.

You try to nudge your nose against his jaw, desperate to bring his focus back to you, but he stays frozen, his gaze fixed on the shadows of the far wall. Underneath you, he’s vibrating with a mix of desire and deep-seated offense. You look down at him with a pleading, watery gaze, your hands tentatively reaching for the collar of his hoodie, bunching the fabric between your trembling fingers.

"Please forgive me?" you ask, your voice small and hopeful. "Can we stop fighting now? I'm home. I'm right here"

For a moment, he looks like he's going to break. Like he's going to wrap his arms around you and never let go. The tension holds, suspended, before his hands on your waist tighten and he firmly pushes you off him, creating a gap between you that feels miles wide.

You bounce a little on the mattress from the sudden force of the fall, your hands coming down to steady yourself as you prop yourself up.

Jungkook looks at you from his position on the bed, his pupils still slightly blown, his heart likely still thundering in his chest. He looks like he wants to reach out and pull you back into his lap, to scent-mark every inch of you until the other man's presence is nothing but a distant, erased memory, but he stays rooted to the spot. The stubbornness hasn't entirely faded, but the cruelty has. He lets out a long, shuddering sigh.

"Go wash yourself, Y/N," he rasps, his voice still infected with the remnants of his jealousy, but it's more of a tired plea than a command. "Get that smell off you. "

You wince, but at this point, you want peace more than you want to argue. Like a kid whose mom just told them to take a bath, you scramble up from the bed and head for the bathroom, your steps still a little clumsy from the lingering haze.

Before you can make it out of the room, you hear the rustle of heavy fabric and a quiet, frustrated breath hitch in his throat.

"Y/N."

You stop, and look back over your shoulder to see Jungkook standing next to the bed. His hands are already bunched in the collar of his black hoodie, and with a quick, fluid tug, he pulls it over his head. He’s left in a simple white t-shirt that hugs his frame, his hair messy from the friction of the fabric.

You wait curiously, wondering what he’s doing. Suddenly, the hoodie is launched through the air, and it hits you straight in the face, the heavy cotton momentarily blinding you and forcing you to take a startled step back. You pull it off, clutching the warm material to your chest, and give him a long, disapprobating look. At this point, you are frankly tired of him throwing clothes at you all night like a territorial bird building a nest. But Jungkook doesn’t apologize. He just stands there, jaw set, giving you a look that clearly says: Put it on.

You let out a small scoff, rolling your eyes, but you don't fight him. You turn and head into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind you.

Inside, the heater struggles to find its rhythm, leaving the water biting and cold. You shiver as the spray hits your shoulders, the freezing shock acting like a bucket of ice to your system, dragging you toward sobriety with a brutal hand. But you don't turn it off.

You don’t just rinse; you scrub. You take the sponge and scour every inch of your skin until it’s pink and tingling, desperate to peel away the phantom layers of the night. You wash your hair three times just to be safe, massaging the scalp until your fingers ache, lathering up over and over until the air smells only of your soap. And it's all for him—the boy currently sitting in the other room, nursing his wounded pride and refusing to even look at you until every last particle of another man's presence has been washed down the drain.

Once you’re sure you are immaculately clean, you pull Jungkook’s oversized hoodie over your damp skin. It swallows you whole, the heavy fabric settling over you like a weighted blanket.

When you finally emerge, the apartment is quiet. You linger by the living room, glancing at the still-shut bedroom door. Instead of going back in there to face the tension, you decide to sprawl on the sofa. You want to see if he’s actually still offended or if Jungkook's need for you will win out. It feels a little mean, testing him like this, but you need a break. You swallow an aspirin on your way, already fighting off the headache of tomorrow’s hangover.

You’re huddled under the blanket when you hear the bedroom door creak open. You hide a secret smile behind the edge of the blankets fabric as Jungkook steps out. He walks toward the kitchenette with a forced casualness, as if this was his plan all along. He takes a glass from the dryer rack and turns on the tap. While the water runs, he sneaks a peak at you over his shoulder, but the second he catches you watching him, he snaps his head back stubbornly, drinking the water while facing the sink. He’s so transparently adorable that it hurts.

When he’s finished, he lingers by the counter for a moment. You expect him to retreat to the bedroom, but instead, he turns and walks toward you. He keeps his gaze on the floor, his shoulders finally losing that rigid, defensive set. He stops at the coffee table, looking hesitant, and you don't make him wait. You pull the blanket up, offering a silent, warm invitation.

He doesn't hesitate for a second. Jungkook dives under the covers, sprawled in a heap of heavy, radiating warmth. He settles between your legs, his face stuffing itself deep into the hollow of your collarbone, his arms snaking around your waist to anchor you to him.

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, your fingers instinctively finding the silken hair at the back of his head. "Aw, is my bunny okay?"

"No," he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick, muffled, and entirely stripped of its earlier bite. "I need you."

You giggle softly, shifting to make yourself comfortable under his weight. He lets out a long, satisfied purr as he realizes the only scent left on you is your own soap and the heavy musk of his hoodie. He begins to scent you properly then, his nose brushing against your collarbone, his hair tickling your chin as he nuzzles into you with rhythmic, needy movements. His hands roam over your back and shoulders, marking you with his touch, and you let him. You know how vital this is for his instincts, to feel like you are his sanctuary again, untainted and home.

As his throat brushes against your face, you smile into his warmth, but the quiet allows your mind to wander. Suddenly, the flashing, violent images of the underground club flicker behind your eyes. You think of the blood on the cage floor and the desperate snarls of those left behind. Your heart sinks into your stomach at the thought of what hybrids endure in the city’s shadows. You can't save them all, but as you tighten your hold on the boy in your arms, a fierce, protective wave of gratitude washes over you. At least you could give this one a home.

And you decide, quietly, that you won’t tell Jungkook what you saw tonight. Maybe he already knows what’s happening out there—maybe he doesn’t—but if he doesn’t, it feels kinder to leave it that way.

"I'm sorry," Jungkook whispers suddenly.

The sound of his voice pulls you sharply out of your thoughts, snapping the thread of those dark memories. He shifts, his chin digging into your chest as he looks up at you, revealing wide, liquid eyes that are brimming with a soft apology.

"I accept your apology," you say, giving him a soft, tired smile as you run your thumb over his cheek. "Just... try not to shut down on me every time I have to interact with my friends, okay?"

He huffs, burying his face back into your neck, clearly not ready to promise he won't be a brat next time, but the edge is gone.

"Hey..." you murmur, your voice trailing off. "I really don't want any more fights between us. It’s exhausting."

"Okay," he breathes, his grip tightening just a fraction as if promising to try.

You let out a soft sigh, the puff of your breath making the dark strands of his hair flutter slightly. "And I'm sorry, too," you say quietly.

In response, Jungkook shifts slightly, his lips pressing a tender, lingering peck into the side of your neck. The gentle touch sends a wave of warmth through you, a silent seal of forgiveness that speaks louder than any words

You both lay like that for a while, the silence finally feeling peaceful. He relaxes entirely, lulled by the steady thrum of your heartbeat while you scratch the sweet spot behind his ears. He nuzzles closer, his eyes fluttering closed as he drifts into that half-conscious state of bliss. You aren't even sure if he’s fallen asleep or not, but your own mind remains awake, hovering on the edge of the dark alley where you first found him, eternally grateful that the only thing he's fighting now is sleep.

"... Kook." You whisper.

He lets out a small, questioning hum deep in his throat, letting you know he’s still awake.

"Do you have any good memories?" you ask softly. "Like... before you were on the streets?"

You feel him shift against you, the steady vibration of his purr faltering for a moment as he thinks. The silence stretches out, heavy and thoughtful. Finally, he exhales a long, slow breath against your neck. "I don't know," he mumbles, his voice thick with drowsiness. "It’s all... blurry."

"Nothing at all?" you press gently, your fingers slowing their movement through his hair. "Before all of the bad stuff? Like, how was your life when you were a kid? When you were little?"

He doesn't say anything for a long time. Instead, he just nuzzles deeper into the curve of your shoulder, seeking the warmth there. His hand, which had been resting on your covered waist, slides slowly beneath the hem of the hoodie. His warm palm settles against your bare skin, fingers splaying flat across your stomach. The contact is grounding, sparking a surge of protective warmth that makes you relax.

"I was taken when I was an infant," he says suddenly. "Straight to the shelter. I don't remember ever having a... home. Not like this."

You feel yourself wake up more at that, the dull ache of the alcohol-induced fatigue replaced by a sharp pang of sympathy. You look down at the top of his head, your heart squeezing. "A shelter? Since you were a baby?"

"It wasn't that bad," he says, shrugging against you as if trying to minimize the weight of it. "Young hybrids are treated okay. They keep us fed. They want us to look good so someone will buy us."

He pauses, a faint, distant smile ghosting over his lips that you can feel more than see. "I remember getting transported once. From one shelter to another. I was small. They put us in this big caravan with crates. I had a friend there... another hybrid. A puppy-type, I think. His name was Taehyung."

A small, genuine memory seems to flicker in his mind, softening the lines of his face against your shoulder. "There was a hole in the wooden floor of the crate. A tiny knot in the wood that had fallen out. We spent the whole trip taking turns looking through it, watching the road move underneath us. It was fun. We’d laugh every time we hit a bump."

You pull back just a fraction to look at him, your brow furrowed. "That’s your happy moment? Looking at the pavement through a hole in a box?"

Jungkook shrugs, his breathing becoming deeper, more rhythmic as sleep finally begins to win the battle. "It felt like one back then," he breathes, his voice trailing off into a tired whisper

The weight of his words settles over the room. You tighten your arms around him, wishing you could reach back through time and pull that small, lonely hybrid out of that caravan and straight into this living room.

The silence stretches, peaceful and thick with the scent of clean cotton and safety. You think he’s finally gone under, but then he stirs, a faint, contented hum vibrating in his chest against your own.

"I’m happy now," he whispers into the crook of your neck.

"You are?" you breathe, your voice barely audible.

Jungkook shifts, his nose nudging softly against your skin as he settles his weight fully into you, his hand twitching once against your stomach before going limp.

"Yes," he murmurs, his eyes finally fluttering closed for good. "I have you. I'm happy."

PREVIOUS NEXT

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Another A/N: Hiiiiiiiii

I know the first half of the chapter was lacking some Jungkook. Sorry about that! I promise you’ll be getting much more of him in the next one <3 also… i did a reread of this story before writing and realized i completely forgot what i originally planned for Hoseok’s birthday plot... so I had to improvise on the spot lol but yeah I really wanted to pull back the curtain and show the hidden, even grittier side of hybrid life. I thought it was important to see the world a bit clearer, even if it’s uncomfortable.

Anyway Im back from my lil break and im already working on the next part !💓

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Tag list: @lolfccfvvvvbbbb @achbbys000 @reicoolboy @junglekookz @ttipa @strawberryberrygirl @kyljjk @viillamilla @junkookloverinfinity @hellomate1234 @lindsayjoy444 @canarystwin, @svnk1ssd @sleepyeclipes @doublebunv @lunaryoongie @mochiminiee @aestheticalime @namroo (if you wanna be tagged, just let me know 💌)

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