#undone

Meeting Robby was the start of the best years of your life. He was, without a doubt, your better half. You spent months pining over him, a stranger who frequented the same bar as you, but you never imagined he’d be yours. Your romantic life had never been overflowing; you kept to yourself in hopes that the right man would eventually sweep you off your feet.

That had all paid off when a frosted winter storm brought you together. His bashful attempts at flirting were all you needed, that was the man you were going to marry. So two years later, eloped, moving into a newly renovated town-home within walking distance of the hospital, you thought the bond shared was unshakable. Michael had promised you the rest of your life, and you had every intention of following through on that. 

It was hard to pinpoint an exact moment when he stopped looking at that same goal, when he stopped looking for you in every room he walked through. It was slow at first, plenty of overtime at the hospital hides the truth, but by the time you had noticed that he had begun pulling away it was too late. 

Michael was an expert at deflection. He left hundreds of words unsaid on the tip of your tongue, waiting for the moment to unleash its concern. 

I’ll be back tonight, we’ll talk then. 

Then it’s-

I’m sorry Honey, I’m dead on my feet, let’s talk this weekend. 

And then it’s- nothing. He’s nothing, he stops asking how you are, stops inquiring about your hobbies, your work, everything. He’s a machine now, wake up, go to the hospital, come home, collapse. It was brutal, the pressure he was under, something you couldn’t seem to understand no matter how many times you asked him to let you in. 

You should’ve seen it coming, but you were younger, naive, blind with hope that eventually he’d take a deep breath and spill his feelings to you. You were the forgiving wife, letting him process how he needed, in hopes that the rubber band would snap soon and bring him back to you. It was supposed to be the monthly date night, he always had the first friday of the month off to spend with you, it was tradition. 

You should’ve suspected when he hadn’t answered your call earlier in the day. You should’ve just taken a half-day and come home. You should’ve caught him moving boxes of his clothing into the bed of Jack’s pick-up. You should’ve-

You should’ve done a lot of things, but nothing had prepared you for a dark home, all traces of your husband sterilized, and a thin folder of divorce papers sitting on the counter. He already signed them too. Your brain loves to remember the loopy illegible chicken scratch at the bottom of the page. 

And then it was the world falling out under your feet. He had promised the rest of your lives and he broke that promise as easily as he had everything else in your life. 

You’re not sure what happened next, not clearly at least. Just the feeling of your chest caving in and the overwhelming feeling of loneliness you had greeted like an old friend. The world was spinning, you're not sure how the world could possibly keep spinning, but it had. 

The first night was spent curled up on the floor of your newly renovated kitchen, one you had planned to fill with light and memories. You had hoped this space would bring him back to you, ironically serving as its final resting place. 

The thoughts swirling around you were drastic, how could he do this to you? How could he just leave like that? What had you said to him this morning? Was there someone else? 

Your brain ran through every detail picking at the past five years for clues of nefarious incidents. All you found was your husband had left you a long time before he placed those papers on the counter and you, as always, were left trailing behind begging him to understand the jagged pieces piercing through your chest. 

The first night was completely unbearable, only the uncontrollable emotional release and a threadbare kitchen rug to comfort you. It was completely pathetic, and borderline insane. It was incredible darkness, and you hadn’t felt this small in years. 

The cruelty continued with a sunrise peaking through the curtains of the bay window. In your distress you had wished for time to stop, to take away the pain and relieve the crushing weight of abandonment even for a moment. 

The world had responded in its own savage revenge, the world continued turning until the sunlight spilled over the horizon. Time passed and cemented the new reality, and whether you were ready it was pulling you alongside it. 

It’s a testament that you’re able to survive the fall from his grace. The feeling that lingered was hollow, echoes of pain radiated through you. Your body resisted the urge to move, waiting for someone to come out and shout that it was all some sick joke, that your life hadn’t been cut to pieces with the precision only a certain emergency room doctor possessed. 

Passively, a quieter voice, wondered if he was alright, if he was already working or if he was holed up somewhere shattered to pieces. If he was hunched over the on-call bed thinking of the memories he’d tainted with an exit so swift he forgot to leave his wife’s dignity behind. 

The first movement had been to reach for your phone, flipping it over. Part of you had hoped for something truly pathetic, maybe a missed call or even an I’m sorry. 

The lack of notifications had been a mockery. 

Would anyone notice if I was gone? 

You had to push the thought from your mind, selfishly he wasn’t allowed to be the reason. He was the selfish one here, he was the one in the wrong, and you needed to pull yourself together. 

You couldn’t help the thought from passing through your mind- what was it about me that made it so easy for him to leave?

The first few weeks had been an exercise in relearning. Relearning how to be a singularity. Relearning how to stand on your own two feet. Relearning to trust yourself. 

Michael had done a wonderful job in making you feel like you were blowing everything out of proportion. Ironic isn’t it. He had made everything steady so questionable, and now it was up to you to rebuild what was destroyed so spectacularly. 

It was empty days and emptier nights. It was the feeling that crossing paths again would be agony, would be suicide. Reprieved only by sleep and the occasional visit from the closest friends and family. 

He doesn’t deserve you.

He’s an idiot, you just need to move on.

It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. 

Well meaning words, but none of them know the beauty that was being known by Robby. None of them had ever felt the warm foamy bubbles of making him blush over candle lit meals and the dizzy way he’d kiss you until he’d run out of air and then kiss you some more anyways. He was an all consuming wildfire lover who had burned you inside out, there wasn’t anything about deserving the love he gave you, it was about preserving it. 

It was cheap, the way people had explained moving on, like it was something that just happened. Or, it had felt that way until one day you looked up and it was happening before your eyes. 

The first month, leaving the house meant looking out of the corner of your eye for ghosts. A single ghost really, a poltergeist slinking just out of reach from your eye, plotting the ways to finally kill you off. Everywhere was a place where he had been, and every sense was on fire searching for another clue to where he’d been. In the absence of your husband your body seemed to cry out for relief, a relief that would simply never come. 

The frame of a stranger that looked a little too similar at the gas station could set off a spiral. It was better off avoiding everywhere that was a shared place, better rip the chance away. It wasn’t worth it anymore, you couldn’t spend the rest of your life chasing after a ghost that didn’t want to be caught. 

The isle of the grocery store a few blocks out of the way had become somewhat of a safe haven. Pursuing the ice cream pints like it was life or death without the looming thought that he loves the produce selection here- it was reassuring. 

You hadn’t hardly thought twice about the slight breeze of antiseptic alcohol smell when you turned in, and you could’ve walked by if the slightly familiar voice hadn’t called out your name. 

The blood in your head rushes out, making the world seem dreamy, and your body rivals the freezers that line the isle for icy temperature. The first thing that strikes you is that it’s so unfair for him to be reaching out, to be calling out your name. He should be hiding his head deeper in the ice cream stashes and hoping you didn’t see him. He shouldn’t get to stop you, to disrupt the equilibrium you’d only just seemed to find in your new routine. 

Jack looked tired, he stood with a painfully obvious lean, and every movement seemed to grate against his skin. The bags under his eyes seemed to rival the inky scrubs that still wrapped his frame. His hair was disheveled wild, in a way that contradicted the tense regimented posture he usually sports. He looked surprised too, to see you, and it seems like he’s surprised by his own action. He hadn’t really made a move towards you, and you wondered if you could pretend you hadn’t heard him. 

“How are you doing?” He asked gently, moving to close the chamber to the fridge. 

It’s a fair enough question, one you’d been asked more times in the last month than you had your entire life. It was the first thing anyone always asked, but it hadn’t made responding any easier. It’s a non-question, really, because if you’re asking it usually it means- you look like you’re not doing well, let’s talk about that. 

And suddenly it’s a completely unfair question. It’s a completely unfair question for your soon to be ex-husband’s best friend to ask you in the middle of the day in an ice cream aisle. It’s completely ridiculous to even be asking, and it sparks something that had been dormant inside for a long time, anger. 

Jack had really made you nervous when you first met. He was the first person Robby had asked her to meet, the only person he really cared about. He’d been around the bar when you met Robby, but he was always more interested in nursing his beer then walking home. You were convinced he was going to hate you. 

Robby, for all his reassurance, was convinced of the opposite. He spent days dispelling your anxiety leading up to the dinner he had planned for the only night off they both had all month. 

“He’s going to love you, Honey.” Robby placed chaste kisses across your hairline and down your jaw. “I’m pretty sure he already loves you.” 

“You have to think that Michael,” Your nose scrunches, and he leans in to kiss it, “You’re blinded by the honeymoon phase.” He silences you with a kiss. The wired tendrils of his beard brush softly against you as you melt into him. He tilts your head just right until he can deepen the kiss, just the way that made your stomach flip. 

He brushes the hair out of your face, savoring the taste of your sweet hums of approval. The grip of breathlessness creeps up your neck until it wraps its way across the base of your skull. You grip Michaels shirt, he squeezes you to him just until you think you might become dizzy from the lack of oxygen. Then, as suddenly as he was there, he pulls away and the pleasure of airflow is euphoric. It wraps around you like a warm blanket fresh from the dryer and you find a home in the crook of your boyfriend’s shoulder. 

“Jack’s going to love you because I do.” 

Your breath caught, a heat creeping up your spine, he loves you. He loves you. 

You love him back, so much it hurts. He smiles at you and it feels like finally, everything in the disorganized chaotic rotation of the stores makes sense. You were absolutely meant to spend the rest of your life with him. 

Jack did love you. Jack, over the years, became a friend. You conspired with him for Michael’s birthday gifts and confided in him when things at the hospital had been hard for your husband. He was always going on about how you two were a team, because ‘we both want what’s best for him’. 

You wonder now, what had changed, because you suddenly realized you were no longer on that team. Another identity stripped. It pricked at the back of your eyes, and talking was silenced. You were thankful for the cart between the two of you, perhaps the distance would disguise the urge to suddenly lay down and cry. 

“I’m…” Is all you can get out before you have to look away completely. “I’m fine.” 

You don’t attempt to elaborate. You know any information will only trickle back. You attempt to steel yourself to look him in the eye again. 

“That’s good,” It sounds patronizing and you glare at him “I’m glad to hear that.” He gives you a pathetic smile, and you consider walking away entirely. 

“I’ve been, um, meaning to call-” You can’t help but let out a humorless laugh, “to see how you’ve been holding up.” 

“I’m sure you have Jack.” 

“Seriously, we-I’ve been worried about you.” He scratches the back of his head in shame, he looks like a kid being sent to the principal's office. 

His stumble didn’t go unnoticed. The anger that had finally- finally- unsheathed itself was indiscriminate. It doesn’t matter what he, Michael, or anyone else thought about you anymore. You were in the middle of building your life when Michael came crashing into it, you hadn’t asked him to come up to you in a bar, you hadn’t begged him to take you out to dinner after, nor did you throw grand gestures of forever at him. 

He had done this, he had made that choice. The fact of the matter is Michael had made his choice, he was in your life and now he chose to leave it. He didn’t get to have anything to do with you. So for Jack to earnestly stand here in front of you asking how you were was ridiculous. 

Your arms repositioned the cart so there was even more distance between the two of you. You could see his jaw set, the hackles in him rising, he takes a step back, and for the first time he looks away first. 

“I’m not having this conversion-” You gesture wildly around you, “In a freezer aisle.” 

Jack raises his hands up in defense. 

“Fair enough.” 

Neither one of you move to say anything else. The burning fire, seeming less of a wildfire and more of a flash paper, dissipates in the silence. Indignance slips away leaving the evidence of a poorly healing wound, freshly opened by the proof of Robby’s existence. 

Until now, the memory of your husband felt similarly to death, he was here and then suddenly ripped from you. Your brain, in a sick attempt at comfort you’re sure, had almost detached reality from the truth that sat heavy in the back of your head. 

Michael was still out there, living, breathing, existing, and he wants to do it without you.

And that sober reality plays through on your face. It suddenly becomes useless to walk through the empty shelves to fill even emptier shelves at home. Being angry with Jack, picking fights with him, wouldn’t magically bring Robby back into your life. Even if it did, how could he possibly fix the gashes he left behind. 

Michael was still alive, people saw him every day, but not you. You were still alive and people would fly in and out your orbit, but the Michael who had promised to be a bright shining star had been more of an asteroid, just passing through. 

You don’t really bother saying goodbye. It really doesn’t feel like there was ever a hello, and you don’t have the energy for small pleasantries that might lead you to the new life your husband leads. So, abandoning the groceries in the middle of the aisle, you turn to leave. 

Jack makes no attempts to stop you. It hurts more than you’d expected. 

When you’re home that evening there’s a knock at the door, you hesitate to answer at first. You knew it couldn’t be Michael, it was before he’d be off for work. You knew that but you still hesitated, because now there will always be that ‘what-if’ behind every door. There will always be a small voice wondering if he was finally coming home. 

At your doorstep was the groceries you’d abandoned in the store, a small note tucked under one of the bags. Your head shot up to look for some evidence, just as Jack’s truck sweeps quietly around the corner out of the small street. 

It’s not until you’ve curled yourself in bed that you can stomach the thought of opening the letter left behind. Its edges jagged, like it was ripped from a spiral notebook, likely some sort of journal he kept for his cases. Robby had something similar, although you had never dared peak inside lest there was something far too private for your eyes. Maybe you should’ve peaked. 

The note was simple, clear, very like Jack. At first you wanted to rip it, or throw it in the antique fireplace at the foot of your bed maybe. You settled for letting it slip into the drawer of your bedside, and tried not to look at the eyes of your husband framed and hidden away until you can stomach boxing it up. 

You feel something lighten that night, but moving on feels a lot like lying to yourself. 

I’m still here anytime, Kid. 

Please keep taking care of yourself, I couldn’t handle seeing you in my Trauma room. 

I’m worried t

Jack

And then time goes on. You re-learn yourself, what you like, what you want, what you need from other people to feel safe again. You go to therapy, and while it’s slow and you constantly feel like you’re drowning under the weight of your own life, it helps. 

You don’t remember the last time you had this much time to yourself just to think. It leaves a lot of time to wonder about your husband. It leaves time to contemplate every option of recovery before you realize it’s all futile anyways. 

The only reprieve you get is short updates from a lawyer you had, one who communicated exclusively on Michael’s behalf. One that delivered far more agreeable terms than you had expected.

At first you were upset, thinking Michael can just throw his attending money around like it would soothe any of the burn. But you knew him, you knew deep down this was the only way he’d be able to sleep at night, if he can make sure you’re taken care of in some way. 

And, as much as you’d like to strike down your own vanity in favor of making a big scene, the money softens the blow slightly. Before meeting Michael, money was a precious good, hard earned, and rationed carefully. It would make you anxious, how much money was spent where and when and how and on who. Michael had shown you the benefits of attending money, he’d shown you the benefits of relaxing in it, enjoying it. 

The comfort it brings to know at least you would still have your life, your home, and the luxury of time was an unexpected kindness considering the frosty exit he had taken from your life. So, while the shame of a once perfectly happy couple communicating exclusively through divorce lawyers had its sardonic upsides. 

With every step forward in proceedings your friends and family made use of the financial upswings. Friends taking you out for drinks, ‘on him’ of course, and your family had encouraged you to redecorate some aspects of the shared home. 

Michael’s old office that held copious medical textbooks had become a beautiful guest room for your parents to stay over. The hall closet that was storage for his old memorabilia he wasn’t sure if he wanted to display had been reorganized into a mini library of sorts. All the pictures came down from the hallway, slowly, like they melted down the walls, and replaced themselves with art. 

The only room that had remained untouched was the main bedroom. You had no intention of ever eradicating Michael’s touch from this space. It would be disrespectful to the touch he’d had on you in that space. His moody blue aura drowned here and you were desperate to keep the small reminders of him perfectly intact here. 

“You’re late.” Your voice called out to the figure stumbling through the hallway, his shadow silhouetted both in light and exhaustion. You can see his shoulders slump and he can hardly drop his bag at the doorway before he’s collapsing on top of you. 

“M’sorry, Honey.” He murmured into your sternum. Your hands wind through his hair and soothe his scalp. His body pressing deeper into yours, the soft cotton of his hoodie rubbing against the silk of your nightdress. 

“Today was just-” His hands brace themselves on your ribcage, pulling his body up until he can tuck himself into your neck instead. “Today was a nightmare.” 

You hum, giving him the space to talk if he wanted to. He only tries to bring his body closer into yours.

“I’m so sorry, Honey, you were waiting for me.” He presses chaste kisses to the skin in front of him.  

“It’s going to be ok, baby, you’re home.” You soothe.

After a few moments of comfortable silence, when you feel the wisps of the day start to leave him, you press his shoulder until he’s laying flat on the bed. He admires you, in the soft light of the beside lamp casting a warm glow across your skin, as you swing your legs across his hips. 

His hands anchor themselves on your hips, slipping under the gathers of your nightgown that pooled at the crease of your leg. The rough callus hands sweeping over your soft skin, his feet prop up forcing you to tip forward, giving him ample view of your cleavage. 

“You look so beautiful in this dress baby.” 

Your hands move to unzip his jacket, to expose more of his chest underneath. 

“Wore it for you Michael.” You let your fingers trace circles down his chest until your lips are hovering above his. “You’ve had such a long day, let me make it better?” 

The sound that escapes him is obscene. Your kiss is bruising and passionate, his mouth moves unforgiving against yours. He wastes no time trying to flip the two of you back over so he could look at you properly. But you had bigger plans. Distracted by the feel of your tongue tangled against him you take the hands once anchored to your hips and pin them down by his side. 

“Let me make you feel good.” You murmur against his mouth, before climbing off of him to strip in the lowlight of the bedroom. 

Michael, propped up, already out of his mind with lust popping out of his scrub pants, can’t take his eyes off of you. Not even when you reach for him to strip his clothes, he can hardly take the milliseconds you are out of view. 

Michael had always worshiped your body, he could hardly believe how lucky he was in your presence and made it known to you. The sight of his bare body propped against the large pillows of your shared bed had been so worthy of the worship. 

“C’mere baby, want to kiss you more.” He admitted, one hand propped up behind his head, the other lazily stroking over his erection. 

Michael kisses you reverently, pressing you into him, relishing in the sensation of your soft curves melding into his weary frame. The rough texture of his beard scraping against your skin was hypnotic, contrasted by the soft lips that soothed your aching burn. He was no stranger to using the different textures to his advantage, pulling you into him further and further. His hands trail up your legs to your ass, pressing you down, and another steady at the back of your neck, angling you just right to be worshiped with his mouth. 

“Want to kiss you, Baby.” You murmured against him. “Want to kiss you everywhere.” 

Michael hums against you, pressing his sturdy chest into yours, trying to catch your lips one more time. You turn your head, trailing kisses down his neck, to his chest, before you try swinging back to kiss down his stomach to where his cock sat ruddy and red against his stomach. 

“Won’t last-” His voice is cut off from the feeling of your hand wrapped around his aching erection. “Just want to be in you- please!” 

His desperation brings you to another level of arousal, and you can’t help but admire the sight laid out before you. Dr. Michael Robinavitch, Chief ER Attending, living breathing hero, laid out on your martial bed desperate for your touch. 

You don’t let him wait any longer, it would be a crime to make him wait any longer for the soft warmth and safety only you can bring him. When you sink down on him, the feeling of his thick shaft stretching you open is unlike anything else. He throws his head back whether it be from relief or pleasure, his hips buck up uncontrolled, he fills you completely. 

As you sit back adjusting to the feeling of being complete, of feeling completely filled, you can’t help but let out your own sigh of relief.

“Fuck, Michael!” You cry out, “Feels so good.” 

He lets out his own chuckle, his hands returning to anchor your hips to his own. “Feels like forever, doesn’t it Honey?”

A/N: Guys, I'm not sure how I feel about this one, but I have about 4k more already written, and I knew if I didn't put it out, I'd never do it. So please let me know if you like it, it's my first time writing for Robby, and it's like a lot less Robby in this than I intended.

If it sucks, I can scrap! But idk I went down a huge spiral in the last month, and this is all I could get out.

No one knows what to do with Jungkook.

Omega attendants greet him at the palace gates, some to carry his belongings inside, others to escort his horses and carriages to the barn. They stare at the cobblestone pathway when he thanks them, murmuring his royal title with quick bows that ensure they never turn their backs to him until they’re several paces away.

Jungkook’s entourage disregards them. His older brother has already taken the stairs to the palace entrance, uninterested in pleasantries and too arrogant to worry about customs. His parents bark orders to Jungkook’s attendants, who watch the omegas with uncertainty. Jungkook can’t blame them for hesitating. All of his royal attendants are alphas. 

Jungkook thinks he hears one of the omegas speak, his words carrying over the sound of hooves and the Jeon family’s noise. 

“The new Prince is an alpha?” the omega whispers to another royal attendant. He’s young, can’t be much older than Jungkook. “Is that allowed?”

Jungkook doesn’t hear the other royal attendant’s response. His attention is claimed by a far nobler member of the royal court, who descends the palace stairs wearing the first smile Jungkook has seen today. 

“Jung Hoseok, personal advisor to Prince Taehyung.” The beta bends at the waist in a deep bow pointed at Jungkook. The direct attention startles Jungkook, who is the youngest Jeon child and accustomed to the rest of his royal lineage being the focal point. Still, he recovers quickly, head held high by the time Hoseok straightens from his bow. 

“I remember you, Hoseok-ssi,” Jungkook says softly, returning Hoseok’s smile. 

“Is that so?” Hoseok’s dark hair flutters in the sudden summer breeze, blowing his neatly slicked back hair into his eyes. When he lifts his hand to fix the loose strands, his sapphire rings of the Kim dynasty sparkle in the morning sun.

Jungkook nods, looking away until Hoseok has made himself presentable again. It has been a few years since the Kim family traveled to the Jeon empire to plan what is the most important thing to happen in Jungkook’s life. 

“You were so shy then,” Hoseok continues, his kind eyes settling on Jungkook’s face. “Certainly not the impressive young alpha standing before me now.”

Hoseok’s words carry no malice, but they sting Jungkook with shame. His presentation was never supposed to feel like the burden it has become. Luckily, Jungkook’s parents intervene before he can embarrass himself further, with his lips parted and nothing meaningful to utter from them. 

“The journey here is exhausting,” Jungkook’s mother sighs, touching the back of her hand to her forehead. “Must we talk about nonsense out in the heat?” 

For the ruler of a patriarchy, Jungkook’s father remains surprisingly silent at his queen’s side.

Hoseok seems unaffected by her confrontational tone. His friendly smile never wavers, though Jungkook notices the brightness of it doesn’t always reach his eyes. 

“Let me show you to your chambers,” Hoseok gestures to the palace’s entryway. “Of course, this will be temporary for you, Prince Jungkook. We have already made the necessary adjustments for your smooth transition to Prince Taehyung’s chambers after the wedding.” 

Jungkook’s pulse flutters in his throat as he follows Hoseok up the stairs. The palace’s double doors are a toothless, gaping mouth ready to suck Jungkook into its void. It was inevitable, but as Jungkook steps across the threshold into the unknown, he realizes no amount of fantasizing could have ever prepared him for how this feels. 

Before the arrangement, Jungkook lived life rather aimlessly, as most young people do. He did his studies, learned to recite dead languages and wield a sword. He attended court meetings, danced at galas, and socialized with the Jeon empire’s finest nobility. He crossed his list of royal duties and did as he was told. He never worried about life beyond the day he was currently living. 

Meeting Taehyung changed all of that. 

-

From the periphery, the wedding celebration is breathtaking. The ballroom glows with a dozen chandeliers illuminated by fairy lights, twinkling across polished marble floors and catching on the gold stitching of Jungkook’s suit jacket. An orchestra fills the room with heartachingly beautiful music. Guests dance around each other in pairs, tracing figure-eights to honor the newly wed’s lifetime of partnership and duty. Everything is cream, gold, and sky blue—from gowns and suits to bouquets flanking the thrones and the crown atop Jungkook’s head. A living, breathing reenactment of sunrise. 

And there, in the center, is Jungkook. 

The ceremony orbits him, everyone drawn to the young prince from a faraway land with a strange scent like an omega and an alpha’s fire in his doe eyes. 

Like the sun cycles through the days, Jungkook cycles through alphas. Royal attendants pass them through his hands to the rhythm of the music. By the third hour, he feels as though he’s the one being passed along, guided from guest to guest, dancing steps he learned only days ago.

Alphas from both the Jeon and Kim kingdoms take their turns dancing with the new prince, as is custom. What isn’t customary is that the new prince isn’t an omega. Jungkook is sure if it were any other royal family with an unconventional alpha-alpha arrangement, no one would line the ballroom waiting for a chance to dance with him. The public would at best mock him. In a way, he’s lucky the Kim dynasty is feared and revered. Rather than find their union unfortunate, it seems the kingdom’s nobility want to see the little alpha prince for themselves.

Well, the other alphas do. They paw at Jungkook when it’s their turn, their grip too tight, their touch too generous. Their behavior reminds him that he has yet to dance with his husband. 

Taehyung is somewhere in the sea of blue and gold. Jungkook hasn’t seen him since they changed out of their traditional ceremonial garb into the suits they wear now for the reception.

Despite the heat of each alpha’s hands on his waist and in his palm, anxiety clutches Jungkook’s heart in an icy grip. He has never attended a wedding before. Frequent illness as a child kept him from attending his elder brother’s, and none of his friends are currently of age to marry. All Jungkook knows is what family and royal advisors have taught him.

So Jungkook smiles, brightly but not to where it seems ungenuine. Never once does he show discomfort from the barrage of scents that flood him with each new dance partner. He makes small talk, polite but measured.

“You look stunning, Prince Jungkook.”

“The Moon goddess blessed Prince Taehyung when she gifted you to him, Prince Jungkook.”

“Are you ready for your first night as a mate, Prince Jungkook?”

Inexperience makes Jungkook’s embarrassment burn hotter. Unsure of how to respond, he stares, a practiced smile on his face, as they shuffle across the polished marble.

On the next beat, the alpha falters. His eyes flick past Jungkook’s shoulder, and Jungkook feels it—the shift in the air, the ballroom bending itself around the steady, alpha presence behind him. 

“I believe you’ve overextended your time with our Prince, Lord Hwan,” Taehyung says, his canines catching the fairy lights as he smiles.

“My apologies, Your Highness.” Lord Hwan bows and holds just a second too long. 

Taehyung pays Lord Hwan little attention as he retreats, instead letting his gaze fall on Jungkook. His eyes are piercing, and just as fiery as Jungkook’s. They wander Jungkook’s body, taking in his form-fitting suit that accentuates the lankiness of his youth. Jungkook feels most aware of his age when he stands beside Taehyung. Taehyung, who is broad and lean and carries himself with a quiet confidence that makes Jungkook want to know him beyond the crown nestled in his silky hair. 

“May I have this dance?”

When Taehyung speaks, his gaze lingers on Jungkook’s throat, where his mating bite is fresh from the start of their wedding ceremony.

“You may,” Jungkook says with a shy smile and a gasp when Taehyung holds him by the waist and draws him close. 

“My empire’s colors are becoming on you, Jungkook-ah,” Taehyung murmurs along the curve of Jungkook’s ear.

Nervous embarrassment heats Jungkook’s face, but he manages a polite thank you in response. The moment he first laid eyes on Taehyung at eighteen, he thought about his wedding every day. Now that it has come, no matter how awkward things have been, Jungkook thinks being held by Prince Taehyung feels just as nice as he always imagined it would. 

-

There is something wrong with Jungkook.

Ever since his wedding night, his body has ached. Perhaps for most newly-weds, such an ache would be a good thing, a sign that their new mate is an adventurous lover—or whatever it is that new mates want in each other. Jungkook wouldn’t know; he has never slept with anyone, not even Taehyung. 

No, this ache is something else entirely. The pain feels different each day, as do the sensitive parts that flare up the worst, but the day always begins and ends with the wound at his throat. 

Normally, fatigue follows the pain, then the mood swings, which catapult Jungkook into a state of persistent irritation. He isn’t sure anyone has noticed. How could they? No one here knows him, not beyond the blue and gold crown that watches him from the ornate dresser beside Taehyung’s bed—his bed. It has been a week in the Kim palace, and he still forgets to wear it.

Back home, Jungkook only ever wore his crown in public. What sense does it make to wear it in his own home? Everyone knows he’s the prince. 

The Kim family’s formality irritates him. As he gets out of bed to rummage through his dresser, he considers walking out of his chambers in his pajamas. Imagining the horrified look on the queen’s face brings him enough glee to propel him through the rest of his morning routine—though he still slips on proper clothing before leaving. This week has felt like the longest of Jungkook’s life, but he knows it isn’t long enough to test the waters of his new family. The king and queen don’t seem like the type to be trifled with. After all, they raised Taehyung. 

A deep, aching pain pulses inside Jungkook’s chest as he makes his way through the palace’s south wing. He hopes he hides it well, keeping his back straight and his chin high. Walking may be painful, but only if he needs to turn too quickly or bow. 

Luckily, he doesn’t cross paths with anyone in the royal family, just a beta guard who follows him for a few paces before he has to dismiss her with a tone snappier than he means to use. If the omega servants whispering and fumbling around him weren’t annoying enough, the guards make it worse with their constant hovering. Perhaps Jungkook would be less offended if they were preventing him from running away, rather than treating him like some fragile little thing because everyone forgets that he’s an alpha.

Or wants to pretend that he isn’t. 

The essential oils Taehyung gave Jungkook after their first night have helped him survive the complexities of palace life far more than he expected. Jungkook massages the oil into his skin every morning as a scent blocker—or a muddler, as Taehyung called it with a small smile. The oils make Jungkook smell softer, something sweet to cut the heaviness of his naturally musky alpha scent. He knows Taehyung gave him the oils as a temporary solution while the royal alchemists develop a new scent blocker potion for him. They mustn’t have been told that their new young prince would need their medicine for managing his explosive alpha scent, not inducing heats. 

None of it matters. 

Jungkook reassures himself of this as he crosses the open courtyard of the south wing. Taehyung has been busy with political troubles that aren’t Jungkook’s responsibility—yet—to give him a proper tour of the grounds. The palace sits on a massive expanse of land, a rolling ocean of green grass and islands thick with dark forests spotting the distance. 

Taking a summer morning stroll will do Jungkook some good. Being out in the open air, away from the heaviness of the palace, helps him feel less like a caged bird. 

The painful ache in his chest lessens, though some of it migrates rather than disappears. As he follows the stone path leading to the garden maze, the ache turns into a throb once it reaches his neck. By now, the mating bite is healed, though his skin is bruised a deep bluish-purple. He has heard that bruising and itchiness are normal side effects. Pain lasting a week seems excessive, but Jungkook wouldn’t know. No one prepared him to receive a mating bite; alphas do the biting. 

Brushing his fingers along the sensitive skin, Jungkook tries to think about how thankful he is that the skin healed, rather than how strange the bite feels. He swears it hurts more during the day, and eases at night. 

Maybe he should tell Taehyung. He considers the possibility as he kicks loose rocks from the path, scuffing up the toe of his boots. 

If he told Taehyung, then Taehyung might tell his parents, which means they would likely tell Jungkook’s parents. The last thing Jungkook needs is his parents sticking their noses in his married life. 

A shudder ripples up his spine at the thought. Married life—whatever that means. It’s obvious that Taehyung will treat him as an equal, which is all Jungkook can truly ask of him. But romance? Jungkook could laugh. He does, honestly! A good snort into the wind.

Taehyung can’t even hold Jungkook’s hand without looking as though he’s squeezing hot coals.

Of course, Taehyung’s rejection doesn’t hurt Jungkook’s feelings. Perhaps if he had presented as an omega, he could have found a home in his husband’s arms. The moment he woke up in a hot sweat, nineteen with a full-blown rut seething in his veins, he knew he had to give up his fantasies of Taehyung.

By the time Jungkook reaches the maze, his interest in playing around is gone. Mazes aren’t fun to run through alone.

“Well…” he sighs, contemplating going back to the palace. Perhaps he’ll find Hoseok-ssi to trail behind. It beats sulking about the halls while the royal court gossips about him.

But as he turns his back to the maze, he notices the white shine of sunlight catching on the roof of a glass building adjoined to the palace’s west wing. 

He follows an alternative path, one he makes on his own, cutting across walking gardens and picnic spots. No one ever mentioned the palace greenhouse. 

The warmth of moist air clings to Jungkook’s clothing and skin as he yanks open the metal-framed glass door. Sun streams through the clear roof, lighting up beads of condensation trickling down the foggy walls. Jungkook slips inside, carefully closing the door behind him with a thud that echoes through the quiet building. 

Through the greenhouse runs a different type of maze—one of shallow water that snakes around the plant beds and leads to a small pool at the center of the building. In the pool, a stone fountain of a young man pouring water back into the stream creates a never-ending flow of water. 

As Jungkook approaches, he finds that the fountain statue shares Taehyung’s boxy smile and asymmetrical eyes. 

“Taehyung has his own greenhouse, and didn’t tell me?” Jungkook asks the stone prince. 

Just as stoic as the real prince, the stone prince silently stares back. 

Annoyed that he’s annoyed by a piece of rock, Jungkook continues following the stream. There must be something to the power of nature because, as Jungkook inhales the pungent aroma of herbs, vegetables, and damp soil, he feels the pain in his body melt away.

There’s another scent Jungkook picks up, subtle beneath the other smells of the greenhouse—floral and sweet. It grows stronger as Jungkook wanders further until he comes to a large patch of unfamiliar flowers. 

“Smeraldo?” he reads aloud the little tag sticking out of the soil to identify the plant. Blue with purple accents around the edge of the petals, the flowers look almost iridescent in the sunlight. Jungkook squats beside the patch and reaches for the shiny green leaves. “They almost look fake...”

Just as the tip of Jungkook’s thumb brushes the soft curve of a leaf, a backdoor he hadn’t noticed swings open. 

He sees Taehyung’s pointed boots first, inky black next to the white and green cobblestone they step on. Long legs follow, carrying an enviable waist and broad shoulders through the threshold. But it’s the expression on Taehyung’s face that startles Jungkook. 

“What are you doing?” Taehyung’s dark eyes shift between Jungkook’s outstretched arm and the charming flowerbed. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

Blood rushing to Jungkook’s ears drowns out the rest of Taehyung’s scolding. Pain blossoms in Jungkook once again. He opens his mouth to speak, but his breath catches in his throat as the skin near his mating bite tingles. The sensation develops into a subtle burning that spreads downward from his chest. It sweeps over his body, rivaling the heat of the greenhouse itself and dampening his forehead with sweat. 

“Jungkook?”

“Sorry, Taehyung-ssi,” Jungkook coughs out his apology from behind his hand. “I went for a walk.” 

With a frown, Taehyung takes a step toward Jungkook. The backdoor slams into its frame when he lets go of it. 

The sudden sound startles Jungkook as he stands. A loose cobblestone sends him tumbling backward, his nails clawing at Taehyung's arms and hands as he struggles to avoid ‌landing in the vibrant bed of flowers.

Jungkook’s fall sends a cloud of pollen to the ceiling. It shimmers in the sunlight, little falling stars floating back down to sprinkle him in gold glitter that stains his skin when he tries wiping it off. He can feel the pollen coating his nostrils and the back of his throat when he inhales. It thickens the air in his lungs, makes him cough until his chest hurts. 

But what concerns Jungkook the most is how the flowers’ prickly vines catch on his shirt and trousers. The harder he yanks his limbs to free them, the tighter the vines wrap around him.

“Taehyung.” Panic forces Jungkook to speak inappropriately, dropping the honorifics Taehyung has already told him not to use.

“You mustn’t move so much,” Taehyung’s tone is stern, close enough to an alpha command that the weak mating bond between them actually makes Jungkook’s body tremble. “I need to cut you loose.” 

From pollen coating his throat and vines squeezing his ribs, Jungkook’s breathing grows ragged. Each gasp makes him dizzier, knocking his eyes out of focus, until there are two Taehyungs standing in front of him holding two knives to his sternum. 

“Jungkook-ah,” Taehyung calls to him. “Do not move.”

Taehyung is so close, Jungkook can smell his scent through the pollen. Cedar and petrichor, an uncharted forest after a thunderstorm—it’s the calming scent Jungkook swaths himself in as he drifts to sleep every night. 

“Taehyung-ah,” Jungkook mimics the seriousness of Taehyung’s tone. He can’t hold the joke for long, though, and he wheezes a cloud of laughter into Taehyung’s face. 

Taehyung cuts the vine wrapped around Jungkook’s chest and ignores his inappropriate outburst. 

Below the surface of Jungkook’s sudden sense of humor, there is something deeply wrong happening to him. He can feel it, how the ache in his body melts into a pulsing heat that makes him want to crawl out of his skin and into Taehyung’s. 

“Our wedding,” Jungkook licks his lips and tastes something sweet, “was the only time you have ever laid your hands on me.”

For a moment, Taehyung stills. He lifts his gaze from where he holds Jungkook’s wrist to meet his eyes. 

“This is true,” Taehyung murmurs, his gaze dropping to the bruise on Jungkook’s neck. “And I am sorry for that.”

Jungkook doesn’t know what that means, nor does he want to wonder. So he keeps quiet while Taehyung removes more vines. Some are so tightly wrapped around his limbs and their thorns so deeply hooked into his clothes that Taehyung has to cut into the fabric as well.

After cutting the final vine, Taehyung slips his knife into the leather holster strapped around his calf and crouches in front of Jungkook again. 

“I’ll lift you out, and we must wash this pollen off of you before it gets worse.”

Jungkook doesn’t mean to slump like dead weight in Taehyung’s arms, but he loses himself in the earthiness of his scent. Jungkook’s own scent spikes once Taehyung carries him to the center of the greenhouse. Despite the overwhelming strength of their alpha scents, Jungkook thinks they go well together.

Heat pools low in Jungkook’s body as he breathes in the calming pheromones Taehyung releases. He wonders if it’s intentional, or if Taehyung is unsure whether he’ll have an effect on another alpha. 

Jungkook isn’t just any alpha. He’s Taehyung’s mate, no matter what. 

Inhaling deeply, Jungkook presses his face into the most vulnerable part of Taehyung. He noses at the collar of his shirt, trying to push away the restrictive fabric to reveal Taehyung’s scent gland. 

Any respectable alpha, especially a prince, would push Jungkook away. But Taehyung tilts his head, just a fraction, barely enough for Jungkook to notice. It gives Jungkook the room he needs to nuzzle into the crook of Taehyung’s neck. Running the tip of his nose against the smooth skin, Jungkook sniffles like he’s trying to cleanse himself of the pollen by breathing Taehyung in instead. 

“Almost there,” Taehyung murmurs. Jungkook can feel his pulse underneath his skin, a steady thrum so different from the erratic beat of Jungkook’s.

Needing to be closer, Jungkook switches from nuzzling Taehyung with his nose to licking his skin. 

“Jungkook,” Taehyung hisses as Jungkook flattens his tongue and licks a fat stripe up his scent gland. He tightens his grip on Jungkook, muscles going rigid. 

“You don’t smell like me.” 

Taehyung grits his teeth but remains silent. 

“I hate it,” Jungkook says truthfully, but it comes out of him unwillingly, as though he has taken a serum to spill his secrets to the very man they’re about. “My mate should smell like me.”

Taehyung doesn’t respond immediately. He takes his time setting Jungkook down at the stone fountain, then crouches in front of him with hands hovering between them like the secrets Jungkook can’t keep. 

“You need to undress,” Taehyung says quietly, his eyes never leaving Jungkook’s. “Can you do it on your own?”

The bond between them is weak, but it tugs, hot and demanding. There are too many things happening to Jungkook, inside of him, around him. The pollen makes him dizzy and sweaty. His mating bond calls to him. His old, childish dreams of happily marrying the prince with a boxy smile and asymmetrical eyes taunt him. 

Embarrassment, or at least the abhorrent etiquette lessons his mother forced on him, should stop Jungkook from tugging his clothes off. Yet he feels nothing but a sense of relief when he tosses his shirt on the ground, then his trousers and undergarments with it, until he’s standing before Taehyung as naked as he came into the world.

Taehyung stares into Jungkook’s eyes with what looks like a determination so fierce it’s scary. But Jungkook doesn’t care. He’s painfully hard, covered in glittery gold pollen, and dizzy with the desire to make Taehyung see him. 

“Touch me again,” Jungkook says softly. He holds Taehyung’s stare as he reaches for him, pressing his fingers against the pulse in his inner wrists, then skating them along his palms. When he gets to Taehyung’s fingers, he laces them with his own, and tugs. 

“Jungkook-ah, I cannot.”

Anger flares up in Jungkook’s chest.

“Why?” he demands, tugging Taehyung’s fingers again. He thinks he might cry—not out of sadness, but because he has nowhere to put these feelings that he doesn’t understand. 

Taehyung doesn’t move any closer, but he doesn’t pull away. 

“The Smeraldo flower is an aphrodisiac,” Taehyung says calmly, “that alchemists use to help with…” he closes his eyes and keeps them closed as he finishes, “the consummation of mating.”

That is what this heat is that pillages Jungkook’s already weary body. Desire. It makes him want to laugh, even in the desperate state he’s in. He’d never needed a stupid plant to make him want Taehyung. 

“It isn’t working on you…” The realization hits Jungkook like the Smeraldo pollen had: slowly, but full-force. It shouldn’t surprise him that Taehyung does not want him. His presentation sealed their fate. Still, it hurts. He yanks his arms back, releasing Taehyung’s hands, as anger turns to tears welling in his eyes. The most frustrating part is how badly his body still wants him. 

“Get this stuff off of me,” Jungkook takes a step into the pool, shooting his arms out to keep himself steady when he wobbles, “get this off me and take me home.”

Behind him, Taehyung lets out a long sigh. “I’m unaffected by the Smeraldo flower because it doesn’t work on mated alphas.” 

“How can that be true?” Jungkook glares at Taehyung, one hand clutching the stone statue as he lowers himself into the water. “I’m a mated alpha. Or did you forget that is what you’ve made me?” 

Taehyung flinches and finally casts his gaze away from Jungkook. He keeps his head down to pick at the buttons along his shirt, undoing them so slowly Jungkook can’t watch with how terribly his heart batters his ribs. 

As Jungkook had, Taehyung strips bare, leaving his clothes in a pile beside the pool. 

And unlike Taehyung, Jungkook lets his eyes wander. He can’t stop himself from looking, is nearly frantic as he takes in the tan, lean body before him. Every ripple of muscle, smattering of freckles, he draws a map in his mind, considers all the places he’d want to touch and kiss and lick and bite. He wants to mark Taehyung until they have matching bruises, wants his scent mixed into Taehyung’s DNA. And as his gaze falls on Taehyung’s cock, half-hard, Jungkook imagines what his knot would look like, maybe how it would feel swollen and pressed against him.

The pool is shallow, only reaching the middle of Taehyung’s thighs. He sinks down to sit beside Jungkook, who has turned the water gold with pollen.

“You are a virgin.”

Jungkook barks a laugh. He feels as though he’s going mad.

The frown Taehyung wears makes it clear that he doesn’t find the situation funny. 

“I wanted your first time to be special,” he says quietly. His eyes flicker, like he’s scanning Jungkook’s face. “Spent with someone you love, who can give you what an alpha needs.”

Jungkook opens his mouth, but Taehyung cuts him off with a shake of his head. 

“It should not be spent with another alpha, ten years your senior and a stranger to you. I have already taken too much. It would have been selfish of me.”

Beckoned by Taehyung to come closer, Jungkook lets him take his arm. It’s achingly gentle how Taehyung uses a cut strip of his own shirt to scrub off the pollen from his skin.

“You can say you are uninterested,” Jungkook mumbles. He feels calmer now, with most of the pollen off of him. But he’s still aroused, painfully so, and he still desires. 

Taehyung scoffs as he cleans off Jungkook’s neck. He’s careful not to press too hard on the mating bite bruise.

“I would have happily taken you on our wedding night,” Taehyung runs a wet thumb along Jungkook’s jaw, using the pressure to tilt his chin so their eyes meet. “And now that I see how this pollen has affected you, I know I was selfish for not doing so.”

Jungkook’s eyes flutter, and he leans into Taehyung’s touch. He doesn’t want to latch onto the hope Taehyung’s words bring him, even if he doesn’t fully understand them.

“What is wrong with me?” he asks, and for the first time in the greenhouse, shame licks hot at his skin, hotter than his desire. 

“Nothing, my prince.” Taehyung tickles the underside of Jungkook’s chin to encourage him to open his eyes. “Without consummation, I’ve left you only half-bonded. Not only that, but you are an alpha who never got to claim his mate.”

The implication of Taehyung’s words isn’t lost on Jungkook, even with the pollen’s influence muddling his brain. 

“I can’t claim you.” Jungkook’s eyes fly open, pupils blown wide. “This is your empire.”

Taehyung shrugs and drops the strip of cloth into the water. “It’s now your empire, too.”

“But that isn’t how this works.”

“I’m the prince, am I not?” Taehyung cocks his head to the side. “What social rules must I follow, really?”

Jungkook’s fingers find Taehyung’s in the water. “So, we consummate our mating, and then…” 

“I will spend the rest of my life showing you how much you are wanted, Jungkook-ah,” Taehyung smiles, lacing their fingers together, “and ensuring your happiness as my mate.” 

Staring into Taehyung’s sparkling eyes, Jungkook feels warm and floaty from the idea of a happily-ever-after he gave up on too early in life. Though Taehyung’s words may sound too good to be true, Jungkook feels his sincerity flicker in the bond between them and notices it in the happy spike of his scent. 

“And I will do the same for you,” Jungkook says, a bit of embarrassment catching up with him despite the fog in his brain. 

Taehyung allows Jungkook to guide his hand through the water. He’s kind, letting Jungkook move him slowly and not commenting on how his hand trembles, even underwater. They keep their gazes locked on one another as Taehyung’s hand wraps around Jungkook’s cock. 

“Oh,” Jungkook leans forward until his forehead rests against Taehyung’s shoulder. 

Taehyung’s fist glides over his cock easily in the water, though it doesn’t last for long. Jungkook gets on his knees, overwhelmed by the swiftness of Taehyung’s movements. He nearly climbs into Taehyung’s lap, trembling and sweating worse than he had before.

“What’s wrong?” Taehyung tilts his head back to look up at Jungkook, who is sure his face is splotchy and embarrassing. 

How can Jungkook know if this is a normal reaction to the overwhelming reality of losing one’s virginity, or if the pollen is making him oversensitive? He supposes it doesn’t matter. 

That is, until Taehyung runs his palms up the backs of Jungkook’s legs in a comforting touch, only to pull away with something wet and slippery covering his hands. 

“Fuck,” Taehyung’s cursing sounds so foreign to Jungkook. He wants to make Taehyung do it again.

“What?” he asks through a shiver as Taehyung rubs his legs again. This time, he travels higher, until his hands rest just beneath Jungkook’s butt. 

“It’s… slick,” Taehyung slips his fingers between Jungkook’s ass cheeks and groans when more slick leaks out of him. 

Jungkook wraps his arms around Taehyung’s shoulders and buries his face in his neck as Taehyung circles his hole. It flutters with each touch, Taehyung coaxing more slick out of him. 

“The Smeraldo flower,” Taehyung murmurs, mostly to himself, to wrap his head around what’s happening. “It must impact you differently as an alpha who has been bitten.”

Whatever the reason, Jungkook doesn’t care. He reaches behind himself to grab Taehyung’s wrist. “Please, Taehyung.” 

Despite Jungkook’s fantasies about marriage and a happily-ever-after, he never lingered on the moment he would consummate his bond with his mate. Perhaps it was because he simply believed he would be an omega, and his alpha would know what to do. Once he presented as an alpha, he refused to consider what the moment would be like—for he believed it would never come. 

Still, it’s safe to say that Jungkook would have never thought he would make love for the first time under the influence of a strange sex plant, atop his vine-torn clothes, on the floor of a greenhouse. Jungkook is sure he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

“Do you remember the day we met?” Taehyung asks from between Jungkook’s legs. 

“Y-yes,” Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut at the first touch of Taehyung’s cock pressed against his hole. 

Taehyung rubs the head of his cock against it a few times, coating his cock with slick. He assured Jungkook that, with how slippery his slick is, taking a knot won’t be as painful. That was after attempting to convince Jungkook not to take a knot at all—an idea Jungkook firmly rejected. His body aches for all of Taehyung, and he means it. 

“You refused to look at me,” Taehyung smiles, gentle and sweet, even as he slides the head of his cock inside Jungkook. He leans forward to adjust the clothes bunched into a makeshift pillow behind Jungkook’s head, then adjusts the clothes supporting Jungkook’s waist. 

“I was nervous.”

“I thought you hated me.”

Jungkook digs his fingers into Taehyung’s forearm as he sinks his cock a little deeper inside him. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels odd, too full. Slick gushes from Jungkook’s hole as Taehyung pulls back only to ease in again, sliding more of his cock in with the next slow thrust. 

“You were the smartest and most handsome person I had ever met,” Jungkook gasps through the halfway mark of taking Taehyung. 

Taehyung’s necklaces dangle above Jungkook’s face, swinging back and forth with each thrust. Jungkook feels like ‌‌jewelry, at the mercy of Taehyung, going wherever Taehyung takes him. It’s less scary than one would think. 

“Am I still?” Taehyung grins, boxy and wide. It’s a smile Jungkook has seen only a handful of times. When more slick leaks from him, Taehyung’s grin grows bigger. 

“Please, Taehyung.” Jungkook slides his fingers into Taehyung’s hair at the back of his head to gently encourage him forward. “Please don’t make me talk.”

“I am doing my best to distract you,” Taehyung murmurs against Jungkook’s mouth before biting his bottom lip. Taehyung bites it into his mouth, licking and sucking, and eventually pulling it back to lightly rake his teeth across it before letting go. 

Jungkook shakes his head before tilting it backward in a silent request for more kisses. “I want to feel you.”

Taehyung bottoms out after a few more thrusts. He keeps his promise to Jungkook by only taking a moment to pause, let them adjust and catch their breath. Then he fucks Jungkook with slow, long thrusts that pull back far and slide in deep. 

“How does it feel?” Taehyung doesn’t seek compliments; he checks in. 

Jungkook nods with a low groan. He can’t bring himself to say more, but the pleasant spike in his scent and the way his legs shake can tell Taehyung everything he needs to know. 

Perhaps one day Jungkook will see another side of Taehyung, one that isn’t as romantic or slow. But for Jungkook’s first time, after an emotionally tense day, week, two years, Jungkook relishes the pace Taehyung has set. He wraps his arms around Jungkook, pulling them close, until he’s almost completely on top of him. 

Each stroke stimulates the part of Jungkook that Taehyung said would feel good. No one teaches alphas about pleasure beyond knots. Jungkook had assumed only omegas had such a spot. It makes his body tremble, feeling that spot pressed and rubbed over and over. A warm, tingling sensation overtakes him, not too different from the pollen when he first fell into it.

“You’re about to come,” Taehyung breathes with his face tucked against Jungkook’s throat. “I can feel your body tensing up.”

“Mhm, yeah, yeah.”

“I want you to bite me when you do, okay, jagi?” Taehyung pulls back slightly to position his neck so Jungkook can more easily bite him. 

Excitement buzzes through Jungkook like an electric wave that mingles with the pleasurable sensation of Taehyung fucking him, deep and intentional. He wraps his legs around Taehyung’s waist and gasps from the added sensation of his cock rubbing against Taehyung’s abdomen from how pressed together they are. 

It only takes a few more thrusts before Jungkook comes without even needing his knot to fully form. He latches onto Taehyung’s neck, leaving puncture wounds behind when he eventually releases his hold.

“Fuck, Jungkook-ah,” Taehyung growls. Jungkook can feel it rumble through his body. “Shit, it hurts.” 

Blood leaks into Jungkook’s mouth and drips down Taehyung’s neck. It leaves an iron taste that would have disturbed Jungkook if it weren’t for the fact that it’s the blood of the man he hopes to cherish and, one day, love beyond an arranged marriage and a mutual crush.

Taehyung whimpers when Jungkook finally lets him go. His arms shake, forcing him to sit up on his knees. When he moves, Jungkook feels his knot tug at his hole. He’d been so focused on his own orgasm and mating bite that he hadn’t realized Taehyung had orgasmed, too. 

“Your knot,” Jungkook feels like his tongue is too heavy to speak properly, and his eyelids keep drooping. Despite being right above his face, Jungkook watches Taehyung flicker in and out of his vision.

“Does it hurt?” Taehyung reaches down to touch the spot where they connect. “It will go down soon. Only a few more minutes, and then I’ll clean you up.” 

“It doesn’t hurt,” Jungkook says with his eyes fluttering closed. Not just the knot; Jungkook’s body no longer aches with the pain of an incomplete mating. “Feels nice, you feel nice.” 

Jungkook smiles with bloody teeth that don’t make Taehyung so much as flinch. On the contrary, he leans in to kiss Jungkook despite the blood in the cracks of his lips and the metallic taste of iron on his tongue. 

Later, when the pollen is fully out of his system and Taehyung has shown his parents what he has done with Jungkook, the panic and embarrassment might hit Jungkook a little harder. But he knows that, regardless of how others view their relationship, Jungkook can trust Taehyung. He already feels the strength of their bond, even without giving themselves time to settle into the new connection they have. He can smell himself on Taehyung, feel the swell of pride in his chest for being mated to an alpha unafraid of being claimed. 

It’s almost too much for Jungkook to comprehend. But for now, he is content with his bloody kisses atop soiled clothes ripped to shreds. He can bask in the warm glow of the sunlight streaming through the greenhouse’s glass room, watch the sun light up Taehyung’s pretty, tan skin, and feel happy for the first time in a long time.