vro

The memory of what you were up to a few hours prior only adds to the heat already brimming in the air around you. You didn’t close the curtain, being occupied with ... other things, so now the sun is already illuminating the room and burning in your sleep-ridden retinas.

Groaning, you roll onto your back, covering your eyes with your arm. As you move, you feel a drop of sweat slithering down between your breasts, reminding you that you are in fact undressed and sprawled out on top of the bed sheets. The realization wakes you up fully - you sit up, pulling the blanket up to cover your naked torso, just as the shower turns off.

You only have a short moment to worry about whether Jungkook might regret last night or how he will act now that the literal heat of the moment has worn off, because just when you start to get nervous, he steps out of the bathroom, dripping wet. And stark naked.

You blink up at him like an idiot when he just walks over, no care in the world, not an ounce of shame dampening his carefree demeanor. Your gaze is immediately drawn to his heavy cock swinging between his thighs. It’s definitely not fully soft either. Well, the confidence to strut around with your morning wood on display is somewhat admirable, you can’t deny it as you stare at his crotch, lost in admittedly dirty thoughts that make you clench your thighs. He’s not even cocky about it, which you would forgive because, dear god, he looks like he’s been carved by skilled artful hands.

“Hey,” his amused voice interrupts your sinful musings. “Eyes up here.”

He’s standing right next to the bed, shaking his head and letting droplets of cool water rain down on you as they trickle from his wet hair. You shriek and momentarily forget about holding the duvet to your chest, making it fall down into your lap. Before you can even reach down to grab it, he swings himself over your lap and rolls on to the mattress beside you on his back. With his arms crossed behind his head and his legs outstretched, he rests against the headboard.

Your eyes wander over his body, taking it in inch by inch. How are you supposed to not stare with him just baring it all so nonchalantly? Inevitably, you linger on his cock once again, propped up on this thigh. You are startled when it suddenly twitches, making your eyes snap back up to meet his.

His mouth is pulling into a smirk and he reaches down to his dick to readjust it, letting his hand rest on it after.

“Sorry, I thought about last night in the shower and it got me a bit excited,” he explains his half-hard situation. “You’re incredible.”

Your cheeks heat up with his compliment just as he lifts his hand from his dick up to your face, stroking his thumb across your cheek gently, before letting it wander down to your chest, where he palms one of your breasts, squeezing and toying with your nipple before he retreats. Your torso involuntarily follows his touch, leaning towards him. Jungkook uses the moment to pull you down into a kiss by the back of your neck. He lazily licks into your mouth, sighing against you before breaking away.

“Come on,” he says as he sits up. “Hop in the shower. I left you the towel so you have a dry one. I’ll fix the bed.”

Oh, that’s right. You literally broke the bed fucking. That’s a first for you and you didn’t think you had many of those left.

Chuckling to yourself, you grab panties and a bra from your bag and retreat to the bathroom. Under the cool spray of the shower, you smile to yourself. That might have easily been the best one night stand of your life. Usually, the guys are gone by the morning, which is also how you prefer it to be most of the time. With Jungkook it’s chill, he’s a good time to be around and also makes you feel more relaxed than you thought you’d ever be around someone you’ve not even known for 24 hours. This will make for a fun memory. And a very hot one. You can still feel the effects of last night when your fingers trail over your sensitive pussy.

Dried off and dressed in underwear, you walk back out to the motel room. Jungkook is sprawled out on the bed again but he’s got his jeans back on now, belt still undone and shirtless.

When he notices you, he leans up on his elbows.

“All fixed,” he smiles at you brightly, patting the wooden bedframe next to his thigh.

With a hand on your chest you flutter your eyelashes at him. “My hero,” you barely manage to say without bursting into laughter. “What would I do without you?”

He snorts and grabs your hand, pulling you towards him. Once in reach, he playfully slaps your ass, making you giggle. But his touch also reignites the longing blooming between your legs, so you climb on the bed and straddle his thighs.

Jungkook breaths out a quiet moan when you settle in his lap and you drag yourself over him. You can immediately feel his dick stir back to live again, even through the denim. The bulge in his pants is pressing against your lightly clothed pussy and you suck your bottom lip between your teeth as you rub yourself against his hardening cock. The grip of his hands on your thighs intensifies as he looks up at you, your hips moving over his crotch in circles.

“Fuck,” he laughs breathlessly. “You look so good on top of me.”

Just as you’re about to grind down into him again, he flips you off him and on to the bed. Dumbfounded, you just stare at him with wide eyes.

“If you keep going, we will never leave this gross motel room,” he explains, his hand running over his denim-clad erection before he closes his belt. “Not that I would object, but I can hear your stomach growling and I promised you breakfast.”

With your slightly damp panties you pout, feeling positively blue-balled. But he’s right, you are actually hungry, you realize now that he mentioned it. And not for his cock this time. At least not only.

You laugh, rolling off the bed and finding a flowy dress to throw on. Jungkook waits in the cuck chair while you gather your things with his eyes closed, visibly trying to will his dick to relax. He only gets up once you slip your socked feet into your sneakers, the bulge in his pants almost gone. Huh. A man with self-control, that’s new.

With your backpack shouldered and Jungkook equipped with his bag and the two helmets, you make your way to check out and back to his motorcycle. You forgot about your mode of transportation and sigh, but at least you don’t feel embarrassed to clutch on to Jungkook’s waist this time around when you climb on behind him. He reaches back with one hand and places it on your bare thigh before he shuffles forward in his seat.

“The bike gets hot back there, be careful with your legs,” you hear his muffled warning through his helmet, so you scoot closer to him with your thighs spread and sling your arms around his middle tightly.

The bike roars as Jungkook starts it with a kick of his foot and he pulls into the street with you pressed against his back. The dress wasn’t the most appropriate outfit for a bike ride, it’s whipping around in the wind, threatening to expose you in an unintentional Marilyn Monroe moment. At a red stop light, you feel Jungkook’s shoulders shake from laughter before he reaches back and tucks the fabric of your dress under your thigh. He must have seen it flutter around in his sideview mirror. At least you’re not wearing a thong, you are pretty sure the truckers you passed already got a good enough view judging by their honking.

A couple miles later Jungkook stops in front of a small diner. Once off the bike, he helps you pull off the helmet and brushes the stray hairs sticking up from your head down with a gentle hand.

“Your legs are good?” he asks you, eyes drifting down your body. You nod, nothing was hurt save for your modesty.

“Jimin always burns himself ‘cause he doesn’t listen,” he shakes his head smiling as you walk up to the breakfast joint. The bell above the door chimes as he pushes the glass door open and you step inside.

“Good morning, honey,” a waitress in a baby blue apron welcomes Jungkook from behind the counter. He waves at her and immediately moves towards a booth with assured steps.

“You’re a regular, huh?” you ask him as you slide into the seat by the window. “With a usual table and all?”

“Been coming here since I was a kid,” he hums before handing you a slightly sticky menu. “Jimin and I used to come here straight after school every day.”

“So, he’s a friend of yours, this Jimin?” you wonder, looking around the diner, taking in the nostalgic atmosphere. It’s nothing special in terms of interior design, you’ve been to a million others before that apparently shop at the same furniture place. But it does feel homey and inviting. There’s only one waitress on shift currently who’s carrying around a coffee can, refilling the cups of the few people scattered around the booths. Mostly seniors and some students with their laptops, the audience you’d expect on a weekday.

“My best friend,” Jungkook lets you know while you browse the breakfast menu. “He’s usually my passenger princess,” he adds with a wink.

“Oh, so I stole his spot?” Your eyes keep returning to the pancakes with syrup. Jungkook sees your gaze linger on the faded picture and leans over the table.

“Take the ones with banana,” he suggests. “Jean makes the best ones you’ll find around here.”

“You bet I do,” the waitress's voice suddenly chimes in, as she’s walking up to take your order.

She’s smiling at the both of you, giving off lovely maternal vibes instantly.

“Who’s your new friend, sweetie pie?” she asks Jungkook who tells her your name and you greet her politely.  

“Well, nice to meet you, love. You want some coffee?” She holds out an empty mug and fills it up when you nod.

“Thank you,” you say as you take the steaming cup from her and plop a sugar cube into it. She takes your order, pancakes with banana for you and waffles for Jungkook.

“He’s always liked it sweet,” Jean winks at you, making you giggle.

“Talking of,” she continues, addressing Jungkook. “When’s the little prince coming by again?”

You assume she’s talking about Jimin, piquing your interest even more now. If he’s anything like Jungkook, you are not surprised that he’s leaving an impression. Especially if he’s just as hot.

“Pretty soon. He’ll stay with me for a few days. I’ll make sure we stop by,” he assures the waitress who hums in satisfaction with his answer before scurrying off back behind the counter and through the swinging door to the kitchen.

“So, Jimin,” you start again. “He’s not living around here anymore?”

Jungkook shakes his head. “Moved to the city basically right after high school. But he visits a few times a year. And I’m basically driving down every weekend.”

“You go out a lot then?”

“Yeah,” he huffs. “But mostly on account of Jimin. He loves clubs and dancing. I mostly just tag along to look out for him when he’s drunk.”

Ah, so he’s used to the savior role. Seems like you took Jimin’s spot in more than one way then.

“He can get a bit … reckless,” he adds in explanation, but the corners of his mouth pull up as if he’s just remembered something funny.

“What about you,” he asks you. “Are you leaving your friends behind at home right now?”

You snort.

“I left all my friends behind when I moved to live with my ex. The only person there I’m going to miss is probably my dealer.”

“Sorry, that sucks,” Jungkook somberly responds. You assure him that it’s fine, you’re going to stay with your friend for a bit now and then look for an apartment in your old hometown so you’re closer to your friends and family again. You can’t fucking wait to leave, everything there reminding you of the cheating piece of shit and all the time you wasted on him. Actually, you muse, your hometown is only about 3 hours from here, yet you’ve never set foot in this region before. The friend who you’re staying with lives even closer by.

“Well, there’s not really many reasons to take our exit,” Jungkook shrugs his shoulders. “Most people just pass by.”

“Unless their cars break down?”

Jungkook laughs. “Yeah. I got lucky it forced you to stop by my shop.” At his words, his leg rubs against yours again and it sends shivers down your spine, despite the heat. You are taken back to earlier in the motel room and you really wish you could’ve gotten in another round and you shuffle in your seat.

Jean brings out your food, placing it down on your table and when you move the cup holding the cutlery to hand it to Jungkook, you spot something on the edge of the table. Jungkook follows your gaze, curious and then his eyes suddenly light up.

“I totally forgot about this,” he laughs and leans over to take a look at the scratched letters in the wood. You look closer now and can decipher the barely there JM JK edged into the furniture. You quirk your eyebrow at Jungkook inquisitively.

“I carved this into the table back in high school when Jimin gifted me a pocketknife for my birthday,” he explains, running his finger over the indents. Oh. JM JK ... Jimin and Jungkook. That’s cute. “Jean almost ripped our heads off.”

“She still adores you though, apparently,” you grin, remembering her words of endearment when addressing him. It makes your heart ache a little, longing for this kind of familiarity. You can’t wait to get back to your people. You never really warmed up to your ex-boyfriend’s town.

You feel Jungkook’s leg stretch out in between yours as he leans back into the booth when he’s finished his waffles, sighing happily. The pancakes really are fantastic, fluffy and just the right amount of sweet. Jungkook didn’t oversell them. You bring your own legs closer together, making your calf brush against his under the table while you chew on the last bite of syrupy goodness. This might be one of the few hook-ups you won’t try to forget about. No walk of shame in the disparaging morning sun, laying bare the regretful actions of the past night for everyone to see. No trying to get an annoying dude to leave your apartment after waking up. Maybe you should go out of state more often. This night you’ll actually want to remember.

“We should probably head back to the garage,” Jungkook exclaims after checking his phone as you wipe some sticky residue from your lips. His eyes follow your fingers brushing the tissue over your mouth before he collects himself and waves over Jean for the bill.

She walks over, smiling brightly and hands you a photograph before leaving the check in front of Jungkook. “I had this up on the fridge in the kitchen,” she tells you. “Look at those babies.”

The picture shows two high school aged boys sitting in this exact booth, and you can immediately tell one of them is Jungkook. The only difference is the piercings missing and his cheeks were rounder back then, truly looking like a baby with big dark doe eyes looking into the camera, laughing.

“That’s Jimin?” you ask Jean, pointing at the kid next to him. She nods, looking like a proud mother hen.

“Those two were a wild bunch back then, always getting into trouble,” she chuckles. Jungkook just shakes his head with a shy smile.

You take a closer look at Jimin before handing the photograph back. The boy has dark hair under a backwards snap back, bangs swept over his crescent eyes, crinkled from a big smile. The two of them have a mischievous air about them, even in the photo. Something in their baby faces is telling you they probably really were little troublemakers.

You don’t argue when Jungkook pays for your food as well, figuring he wouldn’t let you take care of it anyway.

Back out by his motorcycle, he unexpectedly slips his leather jacket over your shoulders. “I shouldn’t have let you ride with me with so much bare skin,” he nips at his bottom lip as he tells you. “Put it on, it’ll also hold your dress down,” he adds, a grin now plastered on his face again, remembering your involuntary strip show.

You oblige, even though you feel your skin immediately go damp underneath the heavy fabric from the sun burning down unrelentingly. You’ll probably be a steamed dumpling by the time you arrive at the shop. You silently thank whoever invented deodorant when you climb on and scoot close to him.

It’s only a short ride back before Jungkook parks behind his shop again and unlocks the backdoor. He ushers you inside and you are immediately hit by the relieving cool temperature of the air-conditioned repair shop.

You head straight to your previously abandoned car, stowing away your belongings after separating the worn clothing from the fresh one while Jungkook heads towards the front of the shop.

Just as you slam the trunk shut, Jungkook returns, waving around a package over his head.

“Look what’s been waiting for us,” he says as he plops the box down on the ground. He blindly reaches for a drawer of a rolling container, fishing out a cutter knife. You are surprised he found it so fast since the shop does not really look like there’s any organization of tools happening, everything is mostly just randomly strewn about. It’s chaos to you, but Jungkook seems to know his way around it.

As you obviously expected, the package contains your replacement alternator. Yay.

“Come on,” Jungkook waves you in the direction of a door to the side. “You can wait in here while I take care of your car.”

He lets you walk into the room first before following you inside. There’s a worn out couch against the wall, a small kitchen counter with a microwave and a mini fridge next to it on the opposite side. A coffee table is placed in front of the sofa and you also spot a closet tucked away in a corner.

Jungkook hands you a cold can of soda from the fridge before he pulls his shirt over his head. He discards it on the floor next to the wardrobe and grabs a fresh one off a shelf.

You watch him, enjoying the sight of his naked upper body while popping open your drink. Immediately catching you ogling him, he walks up with a smirk on his face. You take a sip and just as you swallow, Jungkook’s mouth lands on yours, gently licking away a drop of soda that was left behind right under your lower lip. The hand still holding the t-shirt reaches around you, pressing you closer to him by your lower back. Your own fingers splay over his bare sides, your face following his to close the distance that he brought between you again. He welcomes your tongue by parting his lips, the kiss growing more intense, mostly on account of your eagerness. Jungkook lets you lead but reciprocates with the same amount of hunger.

You’d actually prefer him taking care of you instead of your rust bucket right now, so you pout when he breaks the kiss, huffing a breathless laugh.

“You’re impossible,” he laughs.

“I didn’t hear you complain,” you counter, still flush against him. He places one last peck on your mouth before stepping back, adjusting the crotch of his jeans.

“I’m gonna get to work before you make me forget why we are here in the first place,” he announces before quickly shrugging on his top and walking out.

Sighing, you make yourself comfortable on the couch, phone in hand. You update your friend, letting her know that you’ll continue the journey soon. You can’t wait to tell her about what’s been going down on your unplanned stop. Giggling, you type out a text, already seeing her excited face before your eyes. Damn, you really missed her. It’s about time you move closer to your circle again. You snap a quick selfie, attaching it to your message.

The minutes tick by while you’re aimlessly scrolling through Instagram and about an hour in, Jungkook’s voice sounds from the workshop.

“Can you bring me a drink, please?” he yells, so you shuffle over to the fridge and grab a soda before making your way over to where you find him leaned over the open hood of your car. The broken alternator is already out, he lets you know as you hand him the can. He props himself up against your car, gulping down half the drink in one go, stifling a burp behind his hand when he’s done. What you’d usually find icky doesn’t bother you in the slightest. He’s hot enough to be forgiven for bodily functions, apparently. Down bad at the repair shop, how the hell did that even happen?

“Can I watch you finish this?” you ask him, gesturing to your car, when he puts the soda aside.  

“Sure,” he replies and then walks over to one of the steel rolling containers, pushing aside a bunch of tools.

“Sit,” he nods his head towards the now cleared surface, so you hop up and plop your phone down next to you.

With your feet dangling, you watch him install the replacement part, enjoying the way his muscles contract as he’s tinkering.

He turns towards you when switching out his tools. “You look like you belong right in here, between all my toys,” he tells you. “So fucking pretty.”

Before the heat rising up your neck even reaches your cheeks, he’s already diving down into the engine compartment again. You shake your head at his antics. This guy really is a threat to your composure.

After half an hour of observing his work - okay, admittedly mostly observing his ass in those jeans - he finally straightens up and lets the hood fall close. There are now a few smears of black grease and dirt scattered around his skin and on his clothing. He hauls his shirt over his head once again, using it to wipe some grime off his face and his hands.

You pick up your phone and take a snapshot of Jungkook standing there topless in front of your Buick.

He looks up when he hears your phone’s shutter. “At least give me a warning so I can strike a good pose,” he smirks before flexing his muscles while you take some more pictures. Your friend will definitely appreciate those shots.

At this point, you let your eyes openly roam over his tattooed form. The way his abs disappear into the waistband of his jeans makes you suck your lower lip between your teeth absentmindedly while he just lets you stare at him to your heart’s desire. He runs his fingers through his dark hair, his gaze never once leaving you.

Your body seems to be working on auto pilot, because without you even realizing it, your legs are parting as you look him in the eyes, exposing your panties to Jungkook in the process. His eyes fall to your lower body.

“Shit,” he mutters before finally rushing over to you in big strides.

You pull him closer by his belt buckle as soon as he’s in reach, legs wrapping around him.

“You’ve been driving me up the wall all morning,” he mouths against the skin beneath your ear. “I’m hard just from looking at you.” He brings emphasis to his words by grinding his hips against your center.

“You cockblocked yourself,” you scoff before your voice turns into a sigh as his mouth moves across your sensitive neck. He comes back up and catches your lips in a hungry kiss, immediately all tongue and messy. Oh, he’s really got it bad, huh? It’s also evident by his hard cock tenting his jeans, making the rough fabric dig into your pussy, only covered by thin cotton.

With your arms slung around his neck, you greedily lick into him until you’re both panting.

His big palms are spread over your thighs, making your dress ride up even more as he runs them up and down your skin. Without his hands leaving you, he drops into a squat and pulls your body towards him by your ass. He presses his face to your clothed pussy and you can feel his hot breath dampening up your already moistened panties even more. With your legs draped over his shoulders you arch into the touch, craving more already. Jungkook teases you through your underwear, his mouth and nose rubbing along your core. He can’t keep the act up for long though. He pushes your panties to the side with a finger and immediately dives back in, tongue licking between your folds in one long slow stripe, tasting your arousal. He groans as he swallows your wetness before he gets back to working your needy pussy. You writhe your hips around, one hand gripping the edge of the rolling container, the other tangled in the hair on Jungkook’s head as you ride his eager tongue.

When he focuses his flicks on your clit, the buildup of tension in your abdomen is fast, almost instant. Your fingers tightening against his scalp is a silent plea for him to keep going, you’re already so close, your head thrown back, huffing fast-paced breaths, eyes squeezed shut you let yourself be dragged over the edge by his mouth. It comes on so quickly, you don’t even make a sound at first before a desperate moan rips from your throat.

The grip on his hair must be hurting the way you’re pulling as you tremble against his face, legs crossing around his head too, caging him in. He doesn’t complain, in fact he seems to dive in even deeper, his tongue never stopping its dizzying licks. Your orgasm runs through you as if you’re being electrocuted, your body twitching and shaking around him as you ride out your high until it starts bordering on overstimulation and you finally loosen your hold. When your hand falls off him to steady yourself on the furniture, he looks up at you, completely covered in your arousal from chin to nose.

“I’d stay between your legs all day if I could,” he says lowly before licking the residue of your unravelling off his lips. “Your taste is driving me crazy.”

He pushes himself up on your thighs and palms his clothed erection lazily before spreading your legs and pressing up against you again. Your pussy is still sensitive so you whimper at the contact and let your hand fall between your bodies to touch him. He bucks into your hand immediately as you grip him through the denim the best you can. You get annoyed quickly though by the fabric separating you from his cock, so you fumble open his belt buckle while he’s busy running his palms under your dress, tracing patterns into your skin anywhere he can reach.

When you finally manage to pop open the button and yank the zipper down, you immediately reach into the now loose waistband and to your surprise, you don’t find another layer of clothing. You look up at him with a quirked eyebrow as you push the jeans down just enough to free his hard cock from its denim constraints, your fingers lingering lightly on his tip.

“What?” he laughs breathily, his palm cupping your tit over your bra. “Did you think I’d put yesterday’s underwear back on?”

Your shoulders shake from a quiet chuckle and he slips his fingers under your bra to play with your nipple, making you sigh and lean into the touch.

You let your finger run through his slit, smearing a bead of precum around his tip and you feel him shiver and the hand on your breast still.

“Don’t,” he whines as you wrap your fingers around his length and stroke slowly. “You touching me makes me lose it. I don’t wanna come yet. I really want to fuck you.”

His body is betraying him though, as he can’t hold himself back from moving with the teasing pumps of your hand around him while he grits out the words. You only obey because you also really want him to fuck you right now, so you let go of his cock. He lifts you off the rolling container with his arms under your thighs. As soon as your feet hit the ground, his mouth is attached to your neck and to your surprise, he doesn’t move you towards his back room. Instead, he’s walking you over to your car, startling you when the cold metal hits the back of your legs and you hear him breath out a laugh against your throat while he guides you to sit. With your hands planted on the hood of the Buick, you lean your head to the side, giving him more access as he licks and nips at your skin, drawing quiet whimpers from you every time he lets his teeth graze over you.

You can feel the bruises blooming as he sucks harder, from your collarbone to your neck to where it meets your shoulder. If he doesn’t stop, you’ll look like a damn cheetah by the time he’s done. Even though you feel more wetness gathering between your legs from his assault, you pry him off of you by his hair.

“Now you’ll have to think about me for a few days at least,” he mutters with hooded eyes while your fingers tug on his dark strands. Fucking menace. His eyes flutter shut at a particularly harsh pull and he groans.

He pushes up your dress and bra, baring your tits which he cups with both hands now, squeezing, while you feel his cock drag precum over your thigh. As he’s toying with your nipples, making your head spin from impatience, he’s looking your body up and down as if in wonder. You’re not sure he’s even realizing that he’s moving his hips and rubbing his leaking dick over your leg because he looks like he’s lost in space.

As if snapping back to reality, he removes his hands from your breasts and suddenly your body feels chilly when he steps back, leaving you on the hood of your car with a heaving chest and your dress bunched up under your armpits. After a few seconds of him hurrying to rip open one of the many drawers in this garage without having to think about it twice, he’s back in your space, a foil square between his fingers.

You are not about to question why he’s keeping condoms in the workshop. You’re just glad that he is because you can’t fucking wait for him to fill you up again.

“Ah,” you interrupt him, ripping open the packet with his teeth, a burst of clarity hitting you. “What if someone comes in?”

“Don’t worry,” he smirks and spits the bit off part of the wrapper on the ground. “I locked the front door … just in case.”

Jungkook pushes his jeans under his ass before stroking his hard, twitching cock once, twice, and finally rolls the condom on.

He leans in and pulls your panties down your legs. When you watch him put them in the back pocket of his pants, you huff out an incredulous laugh.

“What? I can’t keep a souvenir?” he jokes before his face turns serious just a moment later.

You can’t even grasp how his eyes are turning even darker than they already are by default. He's staring down at you, gaze drifting to where your pussy, aching from need, is now exposed.

“Turn around,” he whispers, voice close to a growl, hand wrapped tightly around his shaft.

So you roll over, your stomach and tits now pressed to the metal and you arch your back to lift your ass towards Jungkook, wiggling it a little to tease.

The bait seems to work, because within a second you feel his palms spreading your ass cheeks and Jungkook’s tongue is back to devour you. He licks all the way from your asshole to your clit and back up again. He pokes into your entrance with the tip of his tongue, swirling it around in your juices, humming his breath against your folds.

You feel like you’re getting vertigo from how he’s eating you, your pussy is desperately clenching around nothing and you just can’t take it anymore.

“Please,” you whine, your forehead rested against the car. “Please fuck me already.”

With one last squeeze to your ass, his mouth is gone from your core, soon replaced by the tip of his cock rubbing through your soaked slit. You can hear him hiss on each pass from behind you.

Then, without any warning or prep, he rams his cock into you until he’s balls deep in one harsh thrust, pushing a yelp out of you.

He halts once he’s buried completely, caressing your lower back as if to apologize for the sudden intrusion. But it’s exactly how you wanted it, so you start moving your ass, rocking against him to let him know you’re fine.

“Shit, you’re taking me like it’s nothing,” he sighs. “Such a good girl for me.” His voice almost turns whiny at the end as he starts to move in sync with you.

He only gives you a few controlled strokes to let you accommodate before he picks up pace and force. He’s hitting you so fucking deep from this angle, it feels like he’s spearing you on his dick, splitting you in half. And you enjoy every single second of it, a moan slipping out each time his balls slap against you.

He’s pounding you so good and hard, drool is dripping on to your Buick where your cheek is squished against the hood. For the first time in your life you really feel like you are actually getting your brains fucked out, your mind completely void of any coherent thoughts.

The axles of your old car are squeaking from the harsh rocking of your bodies against it.

His palm slaps across your ass, just hard enough to make you jump, before he pulls out completely, your pussy throbbing around air now. You try to look over your shoulder through wet lashes to see what he’s up to but he’s already pulling on your shoulder and hip to turn you on your back.

“I need to see you,” he breathlessly grunts and pushes one of your legs up the hood, holding it in place with his hand under your knee.

You stretch your arms out, trying to find any kind of grip on the sleek surface to no avail. When he slips his cock back into you, your walls are immediately clamping around him and he sucks his lower lip between his teeth in concentration, as if to not lose it immediately.

Picking up his pace again quickly, your ass is riding up the car further with each snap of his hips, until the back of your head thumps against the windshield. You try to hold on for dear life through the pounding, helplessly grabbing at the side view mirror to get any kind of leverage. Your high-pitched yelps are mixing with Jungkook’s increasing moans as the car bounces under you, almost giving him more power as his thrusts hit all the right spots inside you.  

At this rate, your bumpers will need replacing next.

You already feel like exploding out of your body, a coil twisting tighter in your abdomen with each passing second and then his hand is suddenly on your pussy as well. Twisting his wrist, he manages to massage your clit without stopping the pumps of his hips into you.

A choked-out fuck is all the warning you can give him before you come on his cock, hard. Your moans are almost turning into screams as you dig your nails into his arm that’s popping out veins from working you through it. His hips don’t relent as you arch off the car beneath him, all your limbs trembling. The only steady thing is the leg he’s still pressing into the car as he keeps fucking you. He only pulls his hand away from your pussy when you stop twitching and go limp instead, all power drained out of you from the intense orgasm he gave you. When you are finally able to open your squeezed shut eyes again, they immediately catch his, already staring at your face with his mouth slightly agape, breathing hard.

The hand previously on your pussy finds your face, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip as he struggles to speak through his moaning.

“You’re so fucking beautiful when you come,” he presses out, his movements now going more choppy as he’s definitely about to lose control.

“You want to come on my face?” you ask him, still out of breath but with a lazy, fucked-out smile.

His fingers tighten around your jaw.

“God, yes,” he exhales, his fingers now squishing your cheeks.

After a few more hard thrusts, he pulls out of you and rips off the condom. The hand on your face immediately goes to his cock, grabbing his shaft, squeezing.

You slide down the hood a bit to get your face closer to him, pumping his length furiously when he lets go of your leg and instead holds himself up on the car for support.

He’s leaned over you, face contorted from pleasure and desperation, but his hazy gaze never leaves your face, even when his moans suddenly stop and he straightens back up. The hand on his cock stills and then hot ropes of cum are painting your face. He’s twitching so hard, a few spurts miss you completely and land on the windshield behind you. His voice comes out in agonized, stuttered moans as he tries his hardest to keep his eyes open to watch his seed cover your skin and the tongue you stretched out to catch some of his release.

With a final tug on his spent dick and a whimpery exhale he collapses back on to the hood, catching himself with his hands so he doesn’t crush you under him. You want to feel him close though so you pull him down, your bodies sliding together creating a squelching sound from the sweat and cum being squished between you.

You want to kiss him, but he keeps some distance between your faces and just looks at you. When you pout, he pulls back even more, chuckling.

“Do you have any idea how hot you look with my cum on your face?” He detaches himself from you with shaky legs. “Wish you could see yourself.”

Then his eyes suddenly light up and you can basically see an idea pop into his pretty head. Gosh, what now?

He stumbles a bit, jeans still around his thighs, as he frantically looks over the surfaces around you until he spots what he was looking for. When he returns to you still sprawled out on the hood of your Buick, he’s got your phone in his hand, swiping up his thumb before holding the camera towards you. Oh my fucking god.

You hear the shutter click a few more times as you laugh incredulously.

“Now you’ve got a souvenir too,” he smiles down at you before leaning in and finally kissing you.

A little while later, the cum on you and also his torso now slowly drying into a gross crust, Jungkook helps you off your car.

Thankfully, Jungkook also has a small bathroom tucked away in the back so you can actually clean up. The thought of driving around with dried semen on you doesn’t sound too appealing.

So, equipped with fresh clothes, you are now standing in front of the mirror, checking out the array of hickeys he left on you. You scoff to yourself. Your friend will so love this.

When you turn on the shower, Jungkook pops his head in.

“Mind if I join?”

You wave him into the shower stall and you wash up together, exchanging a few languid kisses between scrubbing the nasty remains off your skin. It’s a tight fit in there, but at least you get to enjoy him rubbing shower gel into your shoulders while nipping at your earlobe. Just because you can, you let your fingers brush over his flaccid dick, making it immediately stir back to life.

“Gosh, stop,” he groans. “You’re such a tease.”

You giggle but retreat your hand obligingly. You couldn’t survive another go anyway, your pussy is fucking spent, still all puffy and sensitive when you touch it to clean up.

After a very inefficient shower, you are finally dressed and ready to resume your road trip.

Jungkook comes out of his back room towel-drying his hair as you’re digging through your bag to ready everything for the drive.

“Come on to the front,” he nods his head in the direction of the door to the shop. “I’ll print out the paperwork and stuff.”

While he’s bent over his desk, doing whatever on his computer, you sit down in the swivelling chair beside him and take another look at this wall of porny calendars.

You flip through some pages of the naked biker one, humming appreciatively at the pictures before moving on to the pin-up girls.

“Pretty,” you quietly muse at a beautiful redhead with big tits. Just as you let the pages flutter down again you spot another poster that you haven’t taken notice of before.

You move up closer, that face somehow seems so familiar to you. Oh. You realize where you know the face from. This is the same one you saw on the childhood photo the waitress showed you at the diner. Only around 10 years older. So this is Jimin. Posing on the floor topless in leather pants with little hot wheels toy cars strewn around him.

Suddenly Jungkook’s voice chimes up close behind you.

“Oh god,” he groans. “Don’t even ask.” He’s trying to turn you away from the weirdly suggestive poster of his supposed best friend.

Okay, so you won’t ask but you still raise your eyebrows at him with a sly grin.

“He forced me to hang this up. Actually the worst birthday gift he’s ever given me. Well, maybe not…” His expression gives you the impression that he just thought of another worse present.

You just laugh. Whatever weird relationship they have, it’s not your concern anyway. But you take another peek at the poster anyway. Jimin is really hot too actually. His hair’s not the dark Justin Bieber cut from high school anymore, it’s long and blonde, splayed out around his head.

“Seems like a good gift to me,” you wink at him before letting him hand you the printouts he prepared and you swipe your credit card to pay for the repair. 

You stow them away in your glove compartment while Jungkook waits for you, leaned against the side of the Buick.

“Well,” he closes the distance between you. “Save travels then. Glad you got stranded in my little hick town.”

He kisses the scoff right off you, his tongue giving you a final farewell.

You hop into the driver’s seat then, and thankfully, it starts up totally fine now. With a rumbling engine, you lower your window. 

Jungkook leans into it.

“I’ll give you my number,” he holds his hand out. “Let me know when you arrive.”

You unhook your phone from the charger and let him type his number into it.

“You know what,” he starts as he returns it through the window. “Shoot me a message when you’re on your way back too. Oh, and let me have one of the pics I took.”

You nod before he retreats and lets you roll up the window again. He sends you off with a wave as you back up out of the workshop.

Pulling out of the repair shop, you switch on your wipers to clean the windshield of the cum still on there before you finally turn into the road with a big fat smile on your face.

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A/N: Surprise! And guess what? Part 3 is already being planned, featuring Jimin. Wouldn't be a Bunny fic if there's not at least one mlm scene ;) Thank you so much for reading :] Please consider reblogging or commenting if you enjoyed, or if you're shy, feel free to send us an anonymous ask! <3

a/n: hi pretties! I've had this story drafted for a while and finally finally finally finished it up! currently obsessed with biker jungkook so I thought why not write something with this baddie vibe. also I have dark&wild on repeat and it's sooo west coast coded, hence the 2000s socal aesthetic for the story. my next post will be part 2 for what happens in vegas, for those of you that are interested in reading it! well I hope you enjoy reading this and don't forget to heart and reblog ⋆. 𐙚 ˚<3

The phone book page is soft with humidity, yellow edges curling where you've gripped it too hard. You started with the full-page ads, the ones with motorcycles silhouetted against sunsets and 24-hour towing promises, but they're all the way out in Riverside or asking questions you don't want to answer about make and model. So you went to the small print, the entries that are just names and numbers, and found him third from the bottom in a column of locksmiths and septic tank services.

JK MOTOR REPAIR. No address listed, but the exchange is local.

You memorized the directions he gave you over the phone, repeating them back while standing in your kitchen with the cordless pressed to your ear, certain you're going to end up in someone's backyard being murdered. But the street is real, the building is real, a narrow storefront wedged between a check-cashing place and a store that sells quinceañera dresses in neon pink and electric blue. The garage door is open when you pull up, late afternoon sun cutting hard shadows across the concrete.

You kill the engine. The bike ticks cooling, and you sit there a second longer than you need to, watching the interior.

The shop is deeper than it looks from the street, a tunnel of tool chests and hanging parts and a hydraulic lift that hasn't been raised in a while. There's a radio playing somewhere, something you don't recognize, guitar and a man's voice that sounds like it's coming through a wall. You can smell oil, the particular sweet rot of gasoline that means someone spilled it and cleaned it up but not really.

"Help you?"

You didn't see him. He's in the shadow near the back, bent over something on a workbench that catches the light in pieces. He doesn't straighten up all the way, just enough to look at you, and you see grease on his forearms where he's pushed his sleeves up, and a streak across his jaw you suspect he doesn't know about.

"Phone book," you say, which is not an answer. "I called. About the steering."

He comes toward you then, wiping his hands on a rag that doesn't look like it's helping. He's younger than you expected from his voice, maybe twenty-five, twenty-six, with hair pushed back from his face, an arm full of tattoos, and the kind of tan that comes from being outside at the wrong hours. He looks at your bike, not at you, and you feel the strange relief of being assessed as a mechanical problem first.

"Bring it in."

You wheel it up the slight incline, the concrete uneven where years of tires have worn channels. He meets you at the bench and takes the handlebars without asking, straddling the seat to test the weight, and you watch his thighs spread against the leather, the shift of his shoulders as he turns the front fork back and forth.

"Gritty," he says.

"That's the word."

"Only when you steer?"

"Yeah. I mean, I think so. It's hard to tell when you're actually riding it."

He makes a small sound, not quite agreement, and keeps working the handlebars. The motion is rhythmic, hypnotic, his body rocking with the resistance. You can hear it now, the catch in the steering column, a grinding that isn't quite mechanical failure but isn't right either.

"How long's it been doing this?"

"A week. Maybe two."

He looks up at you then, direct, and you see that his eyes are very dark, and that he has a small scar through his left eyebrow that breaks the hair into two distinct sections.

"You ride it every day?"

"Most days."

"And you waited two weeks."

"I was busy."

"Busy."

"Yes."

He goes back to the bike, but you think you see something shift in his mouth, not quite a smile. He releases the handlebars and steps back, and you miss the motion of him immediately, the way he made your machine into something he was touching with intention.

"I can look at it. Leave it overnight."

You hadn't planned on that. You look around the shop, the single window in the back that's probably an office, the door that probably leads to an alley or nowhere. You think about being without your bike, about coming back tomorrow, about the fact that you don't know his name and he hasn't asked for yours.

"Is that necessary?"

"Not if you want to keep hearing that noise."

You watch him watch you, his expression patient in a way that feels practiced, like he's used to people deciding whether to trust him. The radio has moved on to something else, slower, a woman singing about wanting someone who's bad for her.

"I can wait," you say. "If it's something you can do now."

He looks at the bike, then at the street outside where the light is starting to turn gold, the long shadows of palm trees you can't see but know are there, everywhere in this city, marking the hours.

"Hour till I close," he says. "I can look. But I'm not stopping if you change your mind."

"I won't."

He nods, once, and reaches for a tool on the bench, some kind of wrench you don't recognize. "There's a chair. Or you can stand there. Your choice."

You stay standing. You tell yourself it's because the chair looks like it was salvaged from a dentist's office in the seventies, cracked vinyl and exposed springs, but really it's because you want to see his hands on your bike, the way he moves around it, the way he knows exactly where to touch.

He works in silence for a while, the radio filling the space. You learn things about him without meaning to: he's left-handed, he has a habit of holding screws in his mouth when he needs both hands, he doesn't wear a watch but checks the time on a clock you can't see, somewhere in the back. When he finally speaks again, you startle.

"You found me in the phone book."

"Yeah."

"Nobody uses the phone book."

"I do."

He looks up at you, the screw still between his teeth, and you see that thing in his mouth again, not quite a smile, something more knowing.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why me? Big ad, three pages back. Mike's Cycle. They do free estimates."

You feel your face heat, the specific embarrassment of being caught in a choice you can't fully explain. "You were closer."

"To where?"

"Home."

He takes the screw from his mouth and turns back to the bike, but you know he's filed the information away, that he's thinking about where you live now, mapping it, probably knowing the neighborhoods better than you do.

"You're lucky," he says.

"Yeah?"

"Could've been worse than gritty steering. Could've been your brakes."

"I check my brakes."

"Course you do."

He says it like he doesn't believe you, like he's teasing you, and you feel the strange urge to prove yourself, to list the maintenance you do, the way you know your own machine. But he's moving again, rolling the bike onto a stand, and you watch the shift of his shoulders under his thin t-shirt, the way his jeans hang low on his hips, the dark line of a waistband you can see when he reaches up for something.

The sun is lower now, cutting across the floor in a band of orange light that catches dust and makes it look like something intentional, like stage lighting. You're aware of your own breathing, of the fact that you haven't moved in several minutes, of the way he hasn't asked you to leave or offered you anything to drink or done any of the things that would have made this feel like a normal transaction between strangers.

"What's your name?" you ask.

He doesn't answer right away. He's bent over the front fork, his face close to the metal, and you can see him listening to something, feeling for something with his fingers that you can't see.

"Jungkook," he says finally, like he's deciding to give it to you. "Shop's mine."

"Just you?"

"Just me."

You wait for him to ask your name in return, but he doesn't. He keeps working, and you keep watching, and the hour he promised stretches longer in the golden light, the radio playing songs you don't know, the city outside moving toward evening without you.

⊹₊ ⋆🏍₊˚⊹♡

It's been nine days. You counted, though you won't admit that to anyone, not even to yourself in the quiet of your apartment where the number sits like something shameful. You told yourself you were giving it a week to make sure the repair held, that you weren't being the kind of customer who hovers, who doubts. But you knew the truth on day three, when you took a long route home just to pass the street, when you slowed at the intersection and saw the garage door closed, the neon OPEN sign unlit, and felt something like disappointment settle in your chest.

You told yourself the noise was back on day five. It wasn't, not really, but you convinced yourself you heard something, a faint catch in the steering that hadn't been there before, or had always been there, or you were imagining. You rode anyway, to work, to the store, to your friend's apartment in Echo Park where you drank cheap wine on her fire escape and didn't mention the mechanic once, not his name, not his shop, not the way he'd looked at you like he was waiting for you to reveal your real reason for being there.

Day six you almost went. You got dressed to go, stood in front of your bathroom mirror with your keys in your hand, and realized you had no pretext. The bike ran fine. Better than fine, smoother than it had in months, the steering clean and responsive in a way that made you think he hadn't just fixed the problem but improved something, tuned something you hadn't asked for. You put the keys down. You told yourself you were being ridiculous.

But now it's day nine, and you're pulling up to the same narrow storefront, and the gritty sound is real this time, unmistakable, a grinding that matches the rhythm of your heartbeat as you kill the engine. You're not sure if you're relieved or terrified that you have a legitimate reason to be here.

The garage door is open. The radio is playing, louder than before, something with drums that you can feel in your sternum before you even step inside. He's in the same spot, bent over the same workbench, but he looks up before you can announce yourself, like he heard you over the music, or like he's been listening for the sound of your bike.

"Back," he says. Not a question.

"The noise," you say, and your voice sounds wrong, too high, defensive. "It's back."

He straightens up, wipes his hands on the same rag, though you can't tell if it's the same rag from nine days ago or if he has a stack of them, all equally useless. He doesn't move toward you right away. He looks at your bike, then at you, and you feel the weight of his attention like a hand on your throat.

"Riding it hard?"

"No. Normal."

"Normal for you."

"Yes."

He crosses the space between you, and you smell him before he touches the bike, oil and soap and something underneath that might be sweat, the particular salt of a body that's been working in heat. He's wearing a different shirt, you notice, black this time - the sleeves pushed up to the same place on his forearms, revealing his tattoos. The scar through his eyebrow catches the light when he angles his head to look at your front fork.

"Same sound?"

"Yeah. I think. It sounds the same."

"You think."

"It sounds the same," you repeat, firmer, and he makes that small sound again, not quite agreement, something that might be amusement or might be skepticism. He straddles the bike the way he did before, thighs spreading, and you watch the fabric of his jeans pull tight across his hips. He works the handlebars back and forth, listening, and you listen too, but all you can hear is the radio and your own breathing and the faint scrape of his boots on the concrete.

"I don't hear it," he says.

"It's there. It was there this morning."

He looks up at you, his hands still on the grips, his body still angled over your machine. "This morning."

"On my way to work."

"Where's work?"

You tell him, the name of the street, the building, and you see him place it mentally, the map of the city he carries in his head. He nods, once, like the information confirms something for him.

"Road's rough there. Potholes."

"Not that rough."

"Could've knocked something loose."

"It was fine when you fixed it."

He stands up, steps back from the bike, and you feel the loss of him like a physical thing, the space where his body was suddenly empty and cold. "I can look," he says. "But I'm not finding what I can't hear."

You nod, though you want to argue, want to insist, want to make him understand that you heard it, that you're not making this up, that you're not here for reasons you can't name. He moves to his tool chest, opens a drawer with a sound of metal on metal, and you watch him select something, a wrench or a driver, you're still learning the names.

"Nine days," he says, not looking at you.

"What?"

"Nine days. Most people, something comes back, they're here the next day. Suspicious, angry. You waited nine days."

"I was busy."

"Busy," he repeats, and now you know he's mocking you, the same word you used before, the same excuse. He comes back to the bike and crouches down, his face level with the front wheel, and you see the shift of muscle in his back, the way his shirt pulls up slightly from his jeans, a strip of skin you shouldn't be looking at.

"Or maybe," he says, his voice coming from somewhere near the axle, "you wanted to make sure it was real. The noise. Before you brought it back."

Your mouth goes dry. You open it to deny it, to laugh, to say something about customer service and warranty work, but nothing comes out. He stays crouched, his hands moving over the bike with a familiarity that makes you jealous, and you realize you're holding your breath.

He stands up suddenly, too close, and you step back, your shoulder blades hitting the edge of his workbench. He doesn't move away. He looks at you with those dark eyes, the scar bisecting his eyebrow, and you see something there you didn't see before, a heat that matches the heat in your own chest.

"Or maybe," he says, softer now, almost gentle, "you just wanted to see if I'd remember you."

You should say something. You should step away, should reassert the distance between customer and mechanic, between stranger and stranger. But his hand is on the bench beside your hip, his body angled to trap you without touching you, and you can smell him again, closer now, the oil and the salt and something else, something clean underneath, soap or shampoo or the faint chemical bite of the shop itself.

"I remembered," you say, and your voice is barely above a whisper.

"Yeah?"

"Your name. Jungkook."

Something shifts in his face, the almost-smile becoming real, small and sharp and directed at you alone. "You looked it up?"

"No. I just... remembered."

He leans in, not much, just enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the heat radiating from his skin after hours of work. "Most people don't," he says. "Remember. They come in, they pay, they forget my face before they're out the door."

"I'm not most people."

"No," he agrees. "You're not."

The radio moves to a different song, slower, something with a bass line that vibrates in your chest. You realize your hands are gripping the edge of the bench behind you, white-knuckled, and you force them to relax. He notices, his eyes flicking down, and when he looks back up there's a question in his face, or permission, or both.

"You want me to find the noise?" he asks.

"I want you to find it."

"Even if it's not there?"

"Especially if it's not there."

He holds your gaze for a long moment, and you see him decide something, see the shift in his shoulders as he steps back, puts space between you that feels like a wound. He turns back to the bike, but the energy has changed, charged, and you know he felt it too, the thing that passed between you, the acknowledgment that this is no longer about the machine.

"Hour," he says, the same promise as before. "Maybe less, if I'm not being careful."

"Be careful," you say, and you don't mean the bike.

He looks back at you, and this time the smile is wider, knowing, and you feel it in your stomach, low and hot. "Careful," he repeats. "That's not what I thought you wanted."

You don't answer. You don't have to. He goes back to work, but differently now, his movements slower, more deliberate, and you watch him the way you did before, but without the pretense of casual interest. You watch the flex of his hands, the shift of his weight, the way he looks up at you every few minutes like he's checking to make sure you're still there, still watching, still wanting.

The sun moves across the floor, the same orange light, the same dust made beautiful. You don't sit in the chair. You don't look at your phone. You stand where you are, pressed against his workbench, and you wait for him to find what you're both pretending is broken, or to admit that some things can't be fixed with tools, that some noises only stop when you stop listening for them, when you let yourself hear something else instead.

He works for twenty minutes, maybe thirty, and the shop grows darker as the sun sets, the radio playing songs you don't know, songs that feel like they belong to this moment, to the two of you alone in this space with the door open to the cooling evening. He stands up finally, wipes his hands on the rag, and comes toward you, and you see in his face that he hasn't found anything, that he knew he wouldn't, that this was always going to end with the two of you standing too close, breathing the same air, waiting to see who moves first.

"Couldn't find it," he says.

"It was there."

"Maybe." He stops in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him. "Or maybe you just wanted to come back."

"Maybe."

"You could've said."

"So could you."

He laughs, a short sound, surprised. "What was I supposed to say? Hey, customer with the mysterious bike problem, you free for dinner?"

"Something like that."

"I'm not good at that. Asking."

"I noticed."

"But I'm good at other things."

You feel your pulse in your throat, your wrists, everywhere. "Yeah?"

"Finding problems," he says, but his voice is low, intimate, and you know he doesn't mean the bike. "Fixing things. Being patient. Waiting for people to figure out what they want."

"And if they already know?"

He leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath on your face, warm and faintly metallic. "Then they should say."

"I want-" you start, but he interrupts you, not with words, with his hand on your jaw, his thumb pressing against your cheekbone, and you stop breathing entirely.

"Not here," he says. "Not like this. You come back tomorrow. Come back when the shop is closed, when there's no pretending, when you can say what you want without an audience."

"Tomorrow," you repeat, and it sounds like a promise, like a threat, like the only word you know how to say.

He steps back, releases you, and you feel the air rush in where his hand was, cold and empty. He goes to the bench, writes something on a scrap of paper, and holds it out to you. An address, you realize, not the shop, a street you don't recognize in a neighborhood you don't know.

"Seven," he says. "Or don't come. Your choice."

You take the paper. You fold it into your pocket without looking at it again. You know you won't lose it, won't forget, won't convince yourself this didn't happen. You meet his eyes, and you see the uncertainty there, the vulnerability he didn't mean to show you, and it makes you brave.

"I'll be there," you say.

He nods, once, and turns back to your bike, rolling it off the stand, checking the tire pressure with a gauge you didn't see him pick up. "Ride careful," he says, not looking at you. "That noise you heard. Might be nothing. Might be something important. Hard to tell from the outside."

You understand what he's telling you. You understand that he's talking about himself, about the two of you, about the risk of wanting something you're not sure you can name. You swing your leg over the seat, start the engine, feel the familiar vibration between your thighs that will never feel the same now that you've imagined his hands there, his weight, his mouth.

You pull away from the shop without looking back, but you feel him watching you go, feel his eyes on your back until you turn the corner and lose him in the gathering dark. The address is burning in your pocket. The noise, you realize, is gone, has been gone since you arrived, was probably never there at all. You don't care. You'll be back tomorrow. You'll be back every day, if that's what it takes, until there's no pretense left, until he touches you for real, until the only gritty sound is the two of you breathing together in the dark.

⊹₊ ⋆🏍₊˚⊹♡

You don't go to the address.

Not because you're scared. Because you don't chase. Because he gave you his time and his location and the expectation that you'd show, grateful, eager, and something in you resists that shape, that story. You want him, but you want him on different terms.

So you go to the beach. It's Saturday, late afternoon, the light turning gold and pink, and you tell yourself it's for the air, the space, the cold shock of the Pacific. You don't admit that you chose this beach because it's close to the neighborhood he mentioned.

You park. You walk down in your boots because you didn't plan this, and you stand at the waterline watching the last surfers. You're not thinking about him. You're not.

Then you see him.

Walking up from the water with a board under his arm, no wetsuit, just board shorts and a rash guard, and you know the way he moves before you see his face. The economy of it. The way he carries his weight like he owns whatever ground he's standing on.

He stops when he sees you. Twenty feet away, water dripping from his hair, and you watch him process it, the coincidence that isn't one. Something shifts in his face. Not tenderness. Something sharper.

"You didn't come," he says.

"Did you want me to?"

"Seven o'clock. I waited."

"Sounds like you wanted me to."

He sets down his board and walks toward you with that same unhurried pace. Stops close. Too close. Close enough that you can smell the salt on him, the ocean, the faint residue of wax on his skin.

"You're here now," he says.

"Coincidence."

"Bullshit."

You smile. "You don't believe in coincidence?"

"I believe in you looking up my neighborhood and picking the closest beach." He tilts his head, studying you. "I believe in you wanting to run into me without admitting you were looking."

"And if I was?"

"Then you should've just come to the shop." He steps closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head back. "Saved yourself the trouble."

"Where's the fun in that?"

He laughs, short and surprised. "Fun. That's what this is?"

"Isn't it?"

He steps closer still, close enough that his chest almost brushes yours. "I thought you were scared," he says, soft, mocking. "Too much wanting. Too dangerous."

"I changed my mind."

"Or you just like the chase better when you think you're the one doing it."

You feel the heat of him, the sun-warmed skin, the cold water still evaporating off his shoulders. "You're wet," you say.

"Ocean does that."

"Cold?"

"Warm enough."

"You should dry off."

He raises an eyebrow, the scar catching the last light. "You offering to help?"

"I'm offering to watch."

He stares at you for a long moment. Then he reaches down, grabs the bottom of his rash guard, and pulls it over his head in one motion.

You watch. You don't pretend not to. His chest is tan, defined, the muscle of someone who works with his body. There's a smattering of hair, darker than on his head, trailing down to his shorts, and you follow it with your eyes.

"Better?" he asks.

"Getting there."

He drops the shirt on his board. Stands there in nothing but the shorts, the wind picking up, cold against his wet skin, and you see the goosebumps rise on his arms and you want to warm them, want to put your mouth on his shoulder and feel him shiver.

"You always this forward?" he asks.

"Only when I know what I want."

"And what do you want?"

You look at him, at the mouth that has said your name zero times, at the hands that fixed your bike with a familiarity you envied. "I want you to stop pretending you don't know why I'm here."

"And why are you here?"

"Same reason you waited at seven." You step closer, close enough that your mouth is near his ear. "Same reason you're standing there freezing and hard and waiting for me to notice."

Something flickers in his eyes. "Hard," he repeats.

"Aren't you?"

He doesn't answer. He steps toward you, close again, and his hand comes up to your jaw, his thumb pressing against your cheekbone, rough with calluses. "You're playing a game," he says.

"So are you."

"What's the prize?"

You lean in, your mouth near his ear. "Whoever breaks first."

His hand tightens, not painful, just present. "And if I don't break?"

"Then you win." You pull back, meet his eyes. "But you don't get to fuck me."

He stares at you. Then he laughs, sharp and surprised. "You're cold," he says.

"I'm fine."

"You're shivering."

"It's the wind."

"Or it's me."

"Could be."

His other hand comes up, rests on your waist, heavy through your jacket. "I could warm you up," he says.

"Could you?"

"Find somewhere private. Somewhere with heat." He leans in, his breath warm against your cold skin. "See how long you last before you're begging."

You pull back, meet his eyes, and you see the challenge there. You smile, slow and deliberate, and you put your hand on his chest, feel the muscle jump under your palm. "You think I'd beg?"

"I think you'd love it."

"And if I don't?"

He shrugs, the motion shifting the muscle under your hand. "Then I lose. But at least I'd have you naked."

You stare at him. He stares back, patient, waiting for you to decide, to break, to give him the satisfaction. The wind picks up, colder now, and you feel your nipples harden against your jacket, and you know he notices, know his eyes flick down and back up, know he's cataloging every reaction.

"Not tonight," you say.

He raises an eyebrow. "No?"

"I don't fuck on first dates."

"This a date?"

"Isn't it?"

He laughs again, softer this time. "Next time, then."

"Next time?"

"You come to the shop. Real problem this time, no pretending." He steps back, releases you, and you feel the cold rush in where his hands were. "I'll fix it. Then I'll fix you."

"Big talk."

"I'll back it up."

He grabs his shirt, his board, and walks toward the parking lot without looking back. You watch him go, the shape of him in the dying light, and you feel the wanting like a physical thing, the game unresolved, the prize still in play.

⊹₊ ⋆🏍₊˚⊹♡

It's been six days. You know because you counted, not because you care, not because you keep replaying the beach in your head, the way he looked at you, the way he touched you, the way he walked away like he knew you'd follow.

You don't follow. You don't go to the shop. You ride your bike and you feel the wanting every time you grip the handlebars, every time you pass a street that might lead to his neighborhood, and you resist, you resist, you resist.

But now there's a noise.

Not the old noise, the one you invented. Something new. A whine in the engine that climbs with the RPMs, a vibration you can feel in your thighs that wasn't there before, that shouldn't be there, that makes you think of metal grinding against metal, of something about to give.

You ignore it for a day. You tell yourself it's nothing, paranoia, your mind playing tricks because you want an excuse. But it gets worse, louder, and by the second morning you know you're not making this up, know it in the way the bike feels wrong beneath you, the way it resists when you lean into turns.

You pull up to the shop at four in the afternoon, the garage door open, the radio playing something with bass you can feel in your chest. He's in the back, bent over a workbench, and he looks up when you kill the engine, and you see him register you, the bike, the expression on your face.

"Back," he says. Not a question.

"There's a noise."

"Different noise?"

"Different noise."

He wipes his hands on a rag and walks toward you, and you watch him move, the same economy, the same certainty, and you feel it in your stomach, the wanting you thought you'd finished with.

He stops by your bike, doesn't touch it yet, looks at you instead. "Six days," he says.

"Yeah."

"No beach."

"You didn't invite me."

He smiles, small and sharp. "Didn't want to seem eager."

"And now?"

He looks at your bike, then back at you. "Now you came to me."

"With a real problem this time."

"That so?"

"Listen," you say, and you start the engine, let it idle, and you see him hear it, the whine, the vibration, his head tilting.

He kills the engine. He straddles the bike, thighs spreading, and you watch him work the throttle, listening, feeling, and you feel the absurdity of it, the way your body responds to him on your machine.

"Engine mount," he says finally. "Loose. Could've gone another week, maybe two. Then real damage."

"So I came in time."

"You came." He looks up at you, and you see something in his eyes, heat and amusement. "Lucky for you I'm not busy."

"Lucky for me."

He stands up, steps close, too close, the bike between you. "Hour to fix," he says. "Maybe less if I rush."

"Don't rush."

He raises an eyebrow.

"I want to watch," you say. "Like before."

"That so?"

"That so."

He holds your gaze. Then he smiles, the real one, hungry. "Chair's still there," he says. "Or you can stand. Your choice."

You stay standing. He goes back to your bike, selects tools, and you watch his forearms flex, remember those hands on your jaw, the roughness of his calluses.

"Six days," he says, not looking up.

"Yeah."

"You think about me?"

"Do you want me to say yes?"

"I want you to say whatever's true."

"Yes," you say. "I thought about you."

"Doing what?"

"Riding my bike. Working. Sleeping."

"Sleeping?"

"Not much."

He looks up, and you see the satisfaction in his face, male and uncomplicated. "Me neither," he says.

"That so?"

"That so." He goes back to the bike, tightening something. "Kept thinking about your mouth," he says, casual. "The way you looked at me when I took my shirt off. Like you wanted to bite."

"I wanted to do more than bite."

He pauses, the wrench still in his hand. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He stands up, steps around the bike, close enough that you can smell him, oil and soap and the faint salt still in his hair. "I could stop working," he says. "Lock the door. Take you in the back."

"And my bike?"

"Fuck your bike."

You laugh, surprised. "You said an hour."

"I said maybe less." He steps closer, his hand coming to your waist. "I could make you wait. Make you watch me work. See how desperate you get."

"And if I'm not desperate?"

He smiles, sharp. "Then I'll have to try harder."

He goes back to the bike, and you watch him work, and the minutes stretch, and you feel the wanting build like a physical thing. At five thirty, he stands up. Rolls the bike off the stand, tests the throttle. The engine sounds clean, smooth, the noise gone.

"Done," he says.

"That fast?"

"That fast." He looks at you, the heat banked but present. "You pay at the counter. Cash or card."

"That's it?"

"That's the job."

You stare at him. He stares back, patient, waiting for you to make the move. You feel the urge to step forward, to put your hands on him, to make him stop pretending.

But you don't. You reach for your wallet, pull out cash. You hand it to him, and his fingers brush yours, deliberate, and you feel the spark of it.

"Receipt?" he asks.

"Keep it."

He folds the bills, puts them in his pocket, and he walks toward the big garage door, and you think he's going to open it, let you leave. But he stops. He pulls the door down, the metal screeching, and the shop goes dim.

He turns back to you. "Door's locked," he says. "Owner's strict, but he makes exceptions."

"Exceptions?"

"For customers who can't wait."

You feel your pulse everywhere. "And if I can wait?"

He smiles, the game cracking open. "Then you wait," he says. "But I'm closing in fifteen minutes either way. Your choice."

You look at him, the grease on his hands, the sweat on his neck. "I can wait," you say.

He nods, once, and he walks back to his workbench, picks up a tool, keeps working on something that doesn't need working on. You watch him, and the minutes stretch, and you feel the wanting build like the noise in your engine, like something about to break.

At six, he puts down the tool. Turns off the radio. The silence is heavy, expectant, and he looks at you across the dim shop.

He pulls the door down, metal screeching, and the shop goes dim except for the single bulb over his workbench and the red glow of the exit sign. He turns back to you, and you see the shift in him, the game dissolving into something hungrier, more direct.

"Still here," he says.

"Still here."

He crosses the space between you in three strides, and his hands are on your jaw, his mouth on yours, rough and claiming. You taste salt on his lips, the ocean still on his skin, and you arch into him, wanting more, wanting everything he's been holding back.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "Take this off," he says, tugging at your jacket.

You shrug out of it, let it fall to the concrete floor. He watches you, his eyes dark, and you feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. He reaches out, runs his hands down your sides, over your shirt, and you shiver under the roughness of his palms, the calluses catching on the fabric.

"And this," he says, fingers finding the hem of your shirt.

You lift your arms, let him pull it over your head. The air is cool against your skin, and you feel your nipples harden, feel him notice, his eyes dropping to your chest and staying there.

"Fuck," he breathes, and there's reverence in it, hunger, the sound of a man seeing something he's been imagining. He reaches out, cups you through your bra, and you gasp at the pressure, the heat of his palms through the thin fabric.

"These," he says, squeezing, testing the weight of you in his hands. "I've been thinking about these."

"Yeah?"

"Every night since you walked into my shop." He thumbs over your nipples, and you feel the jolt of it straight to your core, your knees weakening. "Wondering what color they are. How they'd feel in my mouth."

He doesn't wait for an answer. He reaches behind you, unclasps your bra with practiced efficiency, and pulls it off, drops it on top of your jacket. He looks at you, really looks, and you see him swallow, see the muscle in his jaw jump.

"Perfect," he says, and then his hands are on you, skin to skin, and you moan at the contact, the roughness of his palms, the grease that's still on his fingers from working. He doesn't care, or he likes it, you can't tell, because he's squeezing, kneading, spreading his fingers to capture as much of you as he can.

"Look at you," he murmurs, and he pushes your breasts together, creates cleavage with his palms, and you look down, see the smear of grease he's leaving on your skin, the dark marks of his work against your pale skin. "Marked you already."

"More," you breathe, and he smiles, sharp and knowing.

He lowers his head, takes one nipple into his mouth, and you cry out at the wet heat of it, the way he sucks, the way his tongue circles and flicks. He switches to the other, gives it the same attention, and you're holding his head, your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, wanting him to devour you.

He pulls back, looks up at you with dark eyes, his mouth wet. "You like that?"

"You know I do."

"Good." He stands up, and before you can protest, he's lifting you, his hands under your thighs, and you wrap your legs around his waist, feel the hard line of him through his jeans, through your own. "We're not done."

He carries you to your bike, still sitting on the stand where he left it, and he sets you down on the seat, your back against the tank. He positions you, spreads your legs wide around the machine, and you feel the leather of the seat against your bare skin, the vibration of the engine still warm beneath you.

"Stay there," he commands, and you do, watching as he walks around to the front of the bike, to the handlebars, to the mirrors.

He adjusts them, angles them until he can see you, and you realize what he's doing, understand the view he has from where he stands. He looks at you in the mirror, meets your eyes, and you see the satisfaction in his face.

"Look," he says. "Don't look at me. Look at yourself."

You turn your head, look into the mirror, and you see yourself, naked from the waist up, your breasts heavy and marked with his grease, your nipples hard and wet from his mouth. You look wrecked already, and he's barely started.

He steps behind you, out of sight, and you feel his hands on your shoulders, sliding down your arms, and then they're on your breasts again, lifting, squeezing, and you watch in the mirror, watch him play with you, watch your own face as he pinches your nipples, rolls them between his fingers.

"Fuck," you whisper, and you see yourself say it, see your mouth open, your eyes half-closed.

"Watch," he commands, his voice low in your ear, and you do, you watch his hands work you, watch him push your breasts together, create cleavage that he then fucks with his fingers, sliding them between, the motion you want from him elsewhere. "You see how good you look? How fucking pretty you are like this?"

"Please," you breathe, not sure what you're asking for, just knowing you need more.

"Please what?"

"Touch me. Actually touch me."

"I am touching you." He pinches your nipples hard, and you cry out, arch your back, push yourself into his hands. "I'm touching you exactly how I want to. And you're going to watch. You're going to see what I see when I look at you."

He keeps working you, his hands rough and sure, and you watch in the mirror, mesmerized by the sight of yourself, by the way you respond to him, the way your body moves without your permission. He's hard against your back, you can feel him, and you grind against him, wanting friction, wanting more.

"Greedy," he murmurs, but he doesn't stop you, just keeps playing with your breasts, his fingers slick now with more than grease, with your own arousal, with the wetness he's drawing from you just from this.

"Need you," you gasp, and you feel him smile against your neck, feel his teeth graze your shoulder.

"You'll get me," he says. "When I'm ready. When I've had my fill of looking at you like this."

He keeps you there, straddling your own bike, watching in the mirror as he plays with your tits, marks you with his grease, makes you watch yourself come apart just from his hands on your breasts. 

He holds you through the aftershocks, his hands still cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples until you whimper and push at his wrists. He laughs, low and satisfied, and finally releases you, but only to slide his hands down your sides, grip your hips, hold you steady on the bike.

"Look at you," he murmurs against your neck, and you feel his breath, hot and damp. "Already coming apart and I haven't even started."

"You started," you manage, your voice wrecked.

He doesn't answer. He presses his mouth to your throat, open and wet, and you feel his teeth, the scrape of his stubble, and then he's sucking, hard, marking you where your pulse beats frantic beneath the skin. You gasp, arching into it, offering yourself to his mouth, and he takes it, moves lower, finds the hollow above your collarbone and leaves another bruise there, dark and claiming.

"Everyone's going to know," he says between presses of his lips, between bites that make you shiver and clutch at his forearms. "Everyone's going to see what I did to you."

"Good," you breathe, and he laughs again, pleased, and keeps working down your shoulder, your chest, back up to your throat where he sucks another mark, higher this time, visible above any shirt you own.

He spends time on your breasts again, not gentle now, sucking your nipples until they're swollen and aching, leaving hickies in the soft skin above, below, branding you with his mouth everywhere he can reach. You watch in the mirror, can't stop watching, your body marked and mottled with him, his dark hair against your pale skin, his hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise.

When he finally lifts his head, your chest is a map of him, grease and spit and bite marks, and he looks at his work with dark, satisfied eyes.

"Up," he commands, and his hands are under your arms, lifting you off the bike like you weigh nothing.

Your legs are shaky, unsteady, and he holds you until you find your balance, then steps back. He looks at you, at the mess he's made of you, and his jaw tightens, his hand going to the front of his jeans to adjust himself, the outline of him straining against the denim.

"Strip," he says.

You stare at him. "You first."

He shakes his head, slow, deliberate. "You. I want to look at you. I want to see what I've been imagining."

You hold his gaze for a long moment, the challenge in it, the power he's taking and you're giving. Then you reach for the button of your own jeans, pop it open, slide the zipper down. You push them over your hips, let them fall, step out of them and your boots together, standing there in nothing but your underwear, your skin flushed and marked and his.

"All of it," he says, his voice rough.

You hook your thumbs in your waistband, pull your panties down, let them fall. You're naked in his shop, surrounded by tools and grease and the smell of gasoline, and you feel more exposed than you ever have, more seen.

He looks at you, his eyes traveling down your body like a touch, lingering on your breasts, your stomach, lower. He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing, and you see his hands twitch at his sides, the restraint costing him.

"Beautiful," he says, and the word sounds like worship, like prayer. "Fucking beautiful."

He steps toward you, and you think he's going to touch you, finally, but he doesn't. He drops to his knees in front of you, still fully dressed, his jeans dark with oil in places, his shirt hanging loose, and he looks up at you from below, and the angle of it, the submission in his posture while his eyes stay dominant and hungry, makes your breath catch.

He puts his hands on your hips, gentle now, reverent, and he presses his face to your stomach, inhales, groans like you're something sacred. He kisses you there, soft, open-mouthed, and you feel his stubble against your skin, the heat of his breath, and you sway, your hands finding his hair, holding on.

"Stay standing," he murmurs against your hip, and then he's moving lower, kissing down your pelvis, your thigh, skipping where you want him most, teasing, building. He nudges your legs apart, and you widen your stance, exposed and vulnerable and trusting him to hold you up.

He looks up at you again, his eyes dark and endless, and he kisses the inside of your thigh, high, close enough that you feel his breath, feel the promise of it. "Going to worship you," he says, his voice vibrating against your skin. "Going to take my time. Going to make you forget your name."

He lowers his mouth finally, licks a slow stripe through you, and your head falls back, your hands tightening in his hair, and he groans against you, the sound of a man who has found his religion, who plans to pray at your altar until you're both ruined for anything else.

He groans against you, the vibration traveling through your core, and you feel his hands grip your thighs, spread you wider. He lifts one of your legs, guides your foot onto the bike's foot peg, opening you completely to him, and you balance there, one leg braced high, the other trembling on the concrete floor, exposed and vulnerable and his.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his breath hot against your most sensitive skin, and you look down, see him kneeling between your thighs, his dark hair messy from your hands, his eyes fixed on you with single-minded hunger. "Perfect. Fucking perfect."

He dives back in, and this time there's no teasing, no building. His tongue finds your clit, circles it, sucks it between his lips, and you cry out, your hips bucking, but he holds you steady, his hands iron on your thighs, controlling your movement, your pleasure, everything.

He eats you like he's starving, like he's been waiting for this, for you, his mouth relentless, his tongue working you in patterns that make your vision blur. You feel the wetness of him, the roughness of his stubble, the sheer filthy intimacy of his face buried between your legs, and you grip his hair harder, pulling, guiding, desperate for more.

Then his hand moves, his fingers finding your entrance, and he slides one inside you, slow and thick, while his tongue keeps working your clit, and you moan, long and broken, your leg on the bike shaking with the effort of holding yourself up.

"Good?" he asks against you, the word muffled, and you can only nod, gasping, your head thrown back.

He adds another finger, stretching you, and starts to fuck you with them, hard and deep, curling to find the spot that makes you see stars, while his mouth never stops, never relents. The combination of it, the wet heat of his tongue, the thick pressure of his fingers, the way he's holding you open, using you, worshipping you with his mouth and his hands, builds you fast, too fast, your orgasm gathering like a storm at your center.

You feel it coming, the edge approaching, your body tensing, your breath hitching, and you tug at his hair, warn him, "I'm going to-"

He pulls back instantly, his fingers stilling inside you, his mouth leaving you, and you cry out at the loss, at the sudden emptiness, your hips chasing his face, desperate for the friction, the pressure, anything.

"Not yet," he says, his voice rough, his chin wet with you, his eyes dark and wild. "Not until I say."

"Please," you beg, shameless, your body throbbing, your leg shaking on the bike. "Please, I need-"

"I know what you need." He leans in, presses a soft, cruel kiss to your inner thigh, his fingers still buried inside you, motionless, keeping you full but unsatisfied. "And you're going to wait for it."

He waits until your breathing slows, until the edge recedes, just barely, and then he starts again. His mouth returns to your clit, softer now, teasing, and his fingers begin to move, slow and deliberate, dragging against your walls, finding every sensitive spot, building you back up with agonizing patience.

You moan, your hands finding your own breasts, pinching your nipples, trying to give yourself what he's denying you, and he looks up, sees you touching yourself, and his eyes darken, his rhythm faltering for just a moment.

"That's it," he murmurs against you, the vibration making you shiver. "Touch yourself. Show me what you like."

You roll your nipples between your fingers, arch your back, and he watches you, his tongue working you in slow, devastating circles, his fingers fucking you harder now, deeper, and you feel the edge approaching again, faster this time, your body desperate for the release he's withholding.

"Please," you gasp, "please, let me, I can't-"

He pulls back again, his fingers stilling, his mouth leaving you, and you sob, actual tears pricking your eyes, your body on fire, your core aching with unfulfilled need.

"Not yet," he repeats, and his voice is gentler now, almost tender, but the command is absolute. "One more time. Let me feel you get there again. Let me taste how desperate you are."

He waits, kissing your thighs, your hips, your stomach, his fingers still inside you, stretching you, reminding you of what he can give you, what he's choosing to withhold. When your breathing slows, when the edge retreats just enough, he starts again.

This time he's merciless, his tongue flicking your clit in rapid, relentless strokes, his fingers fucking you hard and fast, curling to press against your g-spot with every thrust, and you scream, your voice echoing off the concrete walls, your body trembling, your vision going white at the edges.

You feel it building, unstoppable this time, your orgasm inevitable, your body beyond his control, beyond your own, and you warn him, "I'm going to come, I can't stop, please-"

He pulls back a third time, his fingers withdrawing completely, his mouth leaving you, and you collapse against the bike, sobbing, your body shaking, your core throbbing with denied pleasure so intense it borders on pain.

"Please," you whimper, broken, "please, I need you, please-"

He stands up, finally, his face wet with you, his eyes wild, and he looks at you, spread and wrecked and his, and he smiles, slow and predatory and full of promise.

"Now," he says, "you're ready for me."

You push yourself off the bike, your legs still shaking, and you reach for him, your hands finding the hem of his shirt, yanking it up. He lets you, raises his arms, and you pull it over his head, revealing his chest, his stomach, the defined muscle of his shoulders. You toss it aside and your hands are on him immediately, greedy, mapping the heat of his skin, the faint scars, the dark hair trailing down to his jeans.

He watches you, patient now, letting you take, and you unbutton his jeans, pull the zipper down, and push them over his hips, his briefs with them, and he steps out, kicks them aside, and he's naked in front of you, hard and heavy and perfect.

You reach for him, wrap your hand around his length, and he hisses, his head falling back, his hips bucking into your touch. He's hot, thick, and you stroke him once, twice, watching his face, the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes close.

Then his hand is in your hair, gripping tight, pulling your head back, and you gasp, your mouth opening, and he spits into it, hot and filthy and claiming, and you moan, swallowing, tasting him, and he groans, watching you, his grip in your hair unforgiving.

"Fuck," he breathes, and he pulls you toward him, his mouth crashing into yours, his tongue sweeping in, tasting himself, tasting you, and you melt against him, your bodies pressed together, skin to skin, his hardness trapped between your stomachs.

He pulls back, his hand still fisted in your hair, and he walks you backward, guiding you, and you stumble, follow, your legs weak, your body throbbing with need. He backs you up to the workbench, the same one where you watched him work, where you imagined his hands on you, and he lifts you onto it, the metal cold against your bare skin, and spreads your legs, steps between them.

He looks at you, spread out on his workbench, naked and marked and his, and he groans, his hand finding himself, stroking once, twice, his eyes dark and endless.

"Condom," he manages, and he reaches past you, fumbles in a drawer, pulls one out, tears it open with his teeth. You watch him roll it on, your breath shallow, your body aching, and then he's there, pressing against your entrance, and he meets your eyes.

"Look at me," he commands, and you do, and he pushes into you, slow and thick and perfect, and you cry out, your head falling back, but his hand is in your hair again, pulling you back, forcing your eyes to his.

"Look at me," he repeats, and you do, you watch him as he fills you, as he bottoms out, as he holds there, throbbing inside you, and you feel complete, stretched, owned.

He starts to move, slow at first, deep strokes that drag against every sensitive spot, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pull him closer, and he groans, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath hot and fast.

"So tight," he murmurs, "so fucking perfect," and he speeds up, his hips snapping, the workbench creaking beneath you, and you moan, your nails digging into his back, your body climbing again, the denied orgasms making you sensitive, desperate.

He fucks you like that, missionary on his workbench, his eyes locked on yours, his hand still in your hair, controlling you, using you, and you feel it building again, inevitable, and you beg him, "Please, please, let me come, I can't-"

"Not yet," he grits out, his jaw tight, his rhythm faltering, and he pulls out, leaves you empty and aching, and you sob, but he's already turning you, flipping you onto your stomach, pulling your hips back, and you scramble onto your knees, your cheek pressed to the cold metal, your hands gripping the far edge.

He enters you from behind, deep and hard, and you scream, your back arching, and he groans, his hands on your hips, gripping tight, and he starts to fuck you, brutal and relentless, the sound of skin on skin filling the shop, your moans and his grunts and the creak of the bench.

He reaches around, finds your clit, rubs it in rough, desperate circles, and you cry out, your body shaking, your orgasm looming, and he feels it, feels you tightening around him, and he pulls his hand away, slows his strokes, denies you again.

"Please," you whimper, your voice broken, "please, please, I need to come, please-"

He pulls out, and you sob, but he's already moving, pulling you off the bench, turning you around, and he lifts you, his hands under your thighs, and you wrap your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, and he presses you against the wall, the concrete cold against your back, and he enters you again, holding you up, your weight on him, and you feel him deep, so deep, hitting places he hadn't before.

He fucks you against the wall, his hands gripping your ass, his mouth on your neck, your breasts, leaving more marks, and you hold on, your nails in his shoulders, your head thrown back, and you feel it building, unstoppable, your body beyond his control, beyond your own.

"Now," he growls against your ear, "come for me now," and he reaches between you, finds your clit, rubs it hard and fast, and you explode, your orgasm crashing through you, your scream echoing off the walls, your body convulsing around him, and he keeps fucking you, keeps rubbing you, drawing it out, making you come and come until you're sobbing, limp against him.

He slows, still hard inside you, his breath ragged, his forehead pressed to yours. You feel him throbbing, feel how close he is, how he's holding back, and you tighten around him, wanting to draw it out, wanting to feel him lose control.

But he pulls out, sets you down, your legs barely holding you, and you stumble, catch yourself on the workbench, and he looks at you, dark and wild and commanding.

"On your knees," he says, his voice rough.

You drop, the concrete hard against your knees, and you look up at him, his length inches from your face, heavy and wet and perfect. You reach for him, want to taste him, want to take him into your mouth and finish him there, but he catches your wrist, stops you, his grip firm.

You look up, confused, desperate, and he smiles, slow and cruel and full of promise.

"Maybe next time, princess," he says, and he takes himself in hand, strokes once, twice, his eyes locked on yours, on your face, on your body marked and naked and his.

He comes with a groan, his head falling back, his spend hot across your breasts, your nipples, your throat, marking you one final time, and you watch him, watch the pleasure wash over him, the way his jaw tightens, his muscles clench.

He looks down at you, at his mess on your skin, and he smiles, satisfied, sated, already planning.

"Next time," he repeats, and you know there will be one.

You don't even need to break your bike.

The engine light had already lit up some miles back, but you decided to ignore it and just pray you’d make it to your destination. But now, after driving along empty country roads, seemingly endless, with only a few small towns in between breaking the monotony of the scenery, the lights on your dashboard start to flicker and the radio keeps cutting out.

“Shit,” you curse out loud before asking your phone for the directions to the nearest auto repair shop.

Your already shitty air con has totally given up. Beads of sweat are starting to collect on your upper lip as you follow google maps through the scorching heat. Thank god it’s only a few more miles until you pull into a small town off the desert road. This little hick town seems to just be made up of one main road, with a few homes off to the side.

“In 0,2 miles your destination will be on the left,” your navigation lets you know. A minute later you pull up in front of the repair shop with your Buick Century and turn off the ignition. You exhale in relief, at least you made it to the garage. You don’t want to imagine being stranded at the side of the road in the desert, not in this weather.

You let your head fall on the steering wheel that you are gripping with both hands, already worried about how much money you’re going to have to throw at your rust bucket. You step out of your vehicle finally, looking around. There’s what seems to be a small convenience store across the street, a man in denim dungarees and cowboy boots sitting in front of it, smoking. You snort - all that’s missing is a damn banjo.

What comes to your mind immediately is the horror movie cliché of a car breaking down in some rural backwater town and what happens after. You’ve watched countless of them - Wrong Turn, House of Wax, The Hills have Eyes. You don’t have any plans to end up as a final girl to a clan of inbred hillbilly psychos. Hopefully, whatever is wrong with your Buick is fixed quickly so you can be on your way.

You walk into the repair shop through a glass door next to a bigger gate for cars to enter and look around for an employee, unsuccessfully.

“Hello?” you ask into the empty space. There’s a front desk, but it’s unoccupied.  Please, don’t let this place be actually closed down already for the day.

“Back here,” you suddenly hear a voice sounding from further back. Relieved, you scan the perimeters to find the source, peeking around a corner.

You find the actual workshop of the garage, multiple cars with open hoods standing around, but you don’t see anyone. Reluctantly, you walk between vehicles, not sure if you are even allowed in here, until you almost stumble over legs sticking out from under some Toyota sedan.

“Um, hi?” you address the jeans-clad legs.

“One sec,” a voice replies and a moment later you hear tools clanking to the floor before a man emerges from under the car.

And, well, he’s really not someone you expected to find in a rural backwater town. It’s not the outfit either, he’s just wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, both smeared with motor oil and grease. What surprises you is the fact that one of his arms is covered in tattoos, down to his fingers, and his ears are decked out in multiple silver hoops. He smiles at you, a piercing through the side of his lower lip, while he wipes his hands on the bandana tied to his pants.

Usually, when you have to bring in your rust bucket, the mechanics crack some sort of unfunny misogynistic joke at your expense before trying to rip you off with unnecessary repairs you didn’t ask for. So that is what you steel yourself for when you tell the dude that your Buick started breaking down as he walks you to the front of the shop.

He clicks open the automatic garage door and tells you to drive your car inside for him to inspect it.

But, shit. When you try to switch on the ignition, it’s dead.

The mechanic comes up to your rolled-down window. “Doesn’t start huh?”, he correctly assesses. “Put it in neutral, I can just push it inside.”

“Sorry,” you mumble, trying to move the shift stick to neutral, without success. It doesn’t budge without the engine being on.

You shrug your shoulders at him in a helpless manner, making him laugh. “Ah, automatic,” he hums before opening the driver door and pulling a screwdriver from the back pocket of his jeans.

Without warning, he’s suddenly in your lap, leaning over you to access the middle console. You would’ve moved out of the way had he warned you. But now this, admittedly very attractive, guy is brushing his tattooed arm against your thighs all non-chalant as he wriggles his screwdriver around the plastic by the gear stick. With one last satisfied hum, he finally moves the stick to the neutral position.

You just dumbly stare at him with hot cheeks when he retreats from your space again and he tells you about some manual switch he pushed. “Oh, sorry,” he apologizes when he sees your startled expression. “I didn’t get dirt on you, did I?” He wipes at the fabric of your pants with his hands, grimacing at himself as in the process, as he actually does brush some grease on it, making him panic slightly. “Shit,” he mutters but you stop him before he can apologize again or spread even more black gunk on you.

“Don’t worry about it,” you laugh, his display of sudden clumsiness making you relax again. He stands up straight, scratching at his neck before collecting himself and moving to the back of your Buick.

“It’s good to go now. Just let go of the brake and steer, alright?” he yells from the back and then the car is slowly rolling. You can’t help stealing a glance at him through your rearview mirror.

His brows are furrowed and the muscles in his shoulders are tensed as he’s pushing the car by its bumper. You can even make out the vein on his forehead popping out a little. The fact that you’ve always had a thing for feats of strength is almost making you forget to steer until his voice forces your eyes to snap back to the garage in front of you.

“Little to the left,” he yells and you comply, maneuvering your car into the workspace.

You pull the handbrake and get out of the driver's seat once you’re in a good spot.

“I’ll pay to get your jeans cleaned,” he tells you with a lopsided smile as he eyes your soiled pants before he walks to the front of your Buick.

“Let’s take a look at your baby,” he says as he yanks open the hood. “I already have a suspicion.”

While he’s checking out the engine compartment, you take a stroll around the shop, trying to pass the time and ignore the dread blooming in your chest about how much this repair is going to cost you.

On the wall behind the counter you spot the usual sexy calendars of women in pin up clothing posing on the hoods of old-timers. Maybe he’s just like all the other mechanics you encountered after all. You quietly chuckle just as you spot another poster among the sexy ladies though. This one has a half-naked man propped against some motorcycle, probably a Harley Davidson. Oh, a man of varied tastes apparently. Feels a little out of place for this small town, once again.

When you hear the hood of your vehicle being slammed shut, you hurry back to the mechanic.

“Yup, I was right,” he tells you, trying to wipe some of his dark hair out of his face with the back of his hand, smearing grease on his forehead in the process. “Alternator’s shot.”

“That sounds … bad?” you reluctantly more so ask than state.

“It just needs to be replaced. Good news first, it’s not a lot of work so I’ll be done in like an hour,” he lets you know. “Bad news - I need to order it in.”

You groan, but you are relieved to learn that at least it’s not as expensive as you feared. The fact that this part will only come in tomorrow though - Shit.

He types your information into his computer and places the order for the new alternator.

“Are there any hotels or something close by?” you ask him once he’s done and comes back around the counter to lean on it.

He shakes his head with an apologetic look on his face. “The closest motel is like two towns over. And it’s a bit of a shit hole.”

That doesn’t sound too inviting, but given your choices, what else are you supposed to do?

“Can you give me the address? I’ll get an Uber to drive me there I guess.”

“Good luck on finding any Ubers out here. We’re basically out of their operating zone.”

Your shoulders slump in defeat as you let your hand holding your phone drop to your side again.

“I’ll take you,” he offers, already on his way to your Buick. “Get your bag.”

You would usually not consider getting into a car with a stranger, but your options are kind of limited here. He can probably sense your hesitation, because he cocks his head to the side and smiles. “Wouldn’t advise accepting rides from strangers, but I can’t have you stay on the street,” he speaks up. “I’m Jungkook, by the way. I’ll give you my ID and everything, you can send it to a friend with your location.”

This won’t help you if he decides to murder you, but you are tired and in need of a shower, so you just sigh and open your car, quickly packing some things you need for an overnight stay into your backpack before shouldering it.

Apparently it’s time to close shop, or maybe he can just decide since he’s the only one in here, but he leads you out the back and locks the door behind him. You won’t question it, you are just glad that you will be able to rest soon. The long drive was becoming torturous anyway.

“Where’s your car?” you ask, looking around the street behind the garage.

Jungkook grins and points towards - oh please - a motorcycle. No way. Well, maybe that explains the leather jacket that he put on just before. You were wondering why he needed it in this scorching heat.

“Pretty, huh?” he muses when you look at him with wide eyes. “It’s a Fat Bob 114.”

Oh sure, whatever that string of random words means. He can’t seriously expect you to get on the back of this. For a moment, you reconsider just walking the streets tonight.

“I don’t even have a helmet,” you try to weasel your way out.

To no avail, since he produces one from behind his back and hands it to you. “Good thing I keep a spare around.”

He’s already stuffing his own backpack into the satchel on the side of the bike, while you fiddle with the helmet. You’ve never even put one on before and when you plop it down over your head, your hair gets caught in front of your eyes.

You hear Jungkook’s muffled laugh and then he steps in front of you, pulling the helmet back off.

“Lemme help,” he mutters while pushing your hair behind your ears while he clamps the headgear between his thighs to free his hands.

The intimate gesture brings heat up your neck and all you muster is a quiet “Thank you.” Then he gently pulls the helmet down and closes the plastic visor with a grin.

“All set,” he pats the top of the protective headwear before putting on his own. He swings his leg over the bike and motions for you to get on behind him.

“Just hold on to me,” he tells you.

You somewhat clumsily climb on and consider just gripping the side of the machine, but as soon as he turns his keys and the bike roars to life, your survival instinct kicks in and you sling your arms around his waist. 

He pulls off into the street and soon you’re leaving behind the small town and with it your broken-down car.

Jungkook, thankfully, seems to be considerate of his passenger, because you are pretty sure he’s not even going the speed limit. You still cling on to him for dear life, probably choking him out, but he does not complain. You’re not particularly fond of not being encased in metal while on the road is what you’re learning right now.

After a few miles and your body starting to cramp from clutching on to Jungkook and the bike, you pull up in front of a motel. The parking lot is full of trucks, rarely any regular cars. Jungkook helps you off the motorcycle and takes off his helmet. He seems to be wondering about the amount of trucks, as he raises his eyebrow. Carefully, he removes your helmet for you as well before you can even try to do it yourself. Your hair feels damp and matted, making you cringe slightly as you run your fingers through it.

Jungkook retrieves his backpack from the satchel and pockets the keys.

“This must be a regular stop for truckers to rest, huh?” you wonder out loud to which Jungkook shakes his head.

“Not usually.”

Picking through the small compartment of your backpack, you finally find some tissues. 

“Can I just..?” you ask Jungkook, gesturing towards his face with the towelette. 

He seems to be confused but doesn’t stop you from wiping at his forehead. You clean the smear of grease off his skin and pocket the tissue. 

“That’s better,” you smile at him and when he locks his big soft eyes with you, the corners of his mouth upturned, it makes you gulp. His gaze flickers down to your lips for just a fleeting moment. 

With both helmets in hand, he walks you to the check-in counter, where you find the most unenthusiastic-looking clerk you’ve seen in your life.

“Hello,” you address him. “I need a room, please.”

“Really?” he responds in a mocking tone. “Who would’ve guessed that?”

Jungkook slams one of the helmets on the counter, startling the guy.

“Mind checking if you have any available?” he intervenes, a fake smile plastered on his face. One could mistake it for a snarl if it wasn’t for his politeness. With his hand planted firmly on the counter and the muscles in his arm tensed, the clerk seems to have taken the hint. 

Woah. Apparently he’s not one to mess around with. It’s kind of hot.

“Alright, alright,” the clerk gives in, suddenly very meek and sheepish, and checks his computer.

“Seems like you’re out of luck, everything’s booked,” he shrugs his shoulders. “There’s some trucker meet-up happening close by, they basically overran the motel.”

Jungkook and you sigh simultaneously. What the hell are you supposed to do now? You really don’t want to go on another road trip if you can avoid it. He pulls out his phone, scrolling furiously, probably trying to figure out an alternative as well.

“Ah, wait,” the clerk suddenly perks up. “There’s someone checking out in a bit. Once we’ve cleaned up the room, it’s yours.”

Oh, thank god. You couldn’t care less that the place is run-down and the employee is a shithead. You’ll just shower and head to bed anyway, maybe scroll a bit on your phone. The aesthetic or lack thereof doesn’t really matter, unless you’ll find suspicious stains on the pillows. Which, to be fair, is not that unlikely, now that you think about it.

“We have a bar,” the employee tells you with an exasperated sigh, as if this was the hardest he’s ever had to work. “You can wait there. It’s gonna be like 2 hours max.”

You nod and turn to Jungkook, who looks a little disgruntled.

“Uhm, will you come pick me up again tomorrow? I kinda don’t have a ride.” The fact that he has to drive you again is gnawing at your pride, but he said it himself, no Ubers around.

He looks at you, quizzically.

“I’m not gonna let you wait around here by yourself,” he shakes his head. “I’ll stay with you until the room’s ready.”

Before you can even start arguing that you don’t need an escort, he’s already placed his hand on the small of your back to guide you towards the bar. For whatever reason you just let it happen. You’re a grown woman, you don’t need a white knight to look out for you. But also, some company would be nice instead of sitting around all alone, just waiting for time to pass. Since he’s also nice to look at, why shouldn’t you indulge a bit longer.

The bar is just as dingy as the rest of the place. All the seats are worn, tears across the old leather.  The room reeks of stale smoke and cigars so bad that you scrunch your nose as you step in.

There’s two guys sitting at the bar drinking beer. By the looks of it it’s not the first one of the day either. Probably some of the truckers the clerk mentioned.

Jungkook pushes you into the booth of a table, sliding in next to you without taking his eyes off the dudes at the bar, and shrugs off his leather jacket. Sitting next to each other when you’re only two people has always been weird to you, makes it kind of awkward to chat.

“What do you want to drink?” he asks from beside you.

You take out your phone, checking the time. It’s 7 pm. You could do with a beer as well, so you tell him and he moves out of the seat to get your drinks.

You watch him from your table, only to realize that the two men are staring you down, one even cocks his eyebrows at you. Disgusting. You pull a face at him, but that doesn’t seem to deter him at all, grabbing at his junk while his mate laughs along.

Jungkook is watching this play out, you can tell when his back stiffens. He’s coming back with two beers in hand, immediately sitting down next to you on the bench again, so close this time that your thighs are touching.

“What are you doing?” you ask him, surprised when he puts his arm on the backrest behind you.

“Sorry, but I’m not gonna let those two sleazebags get the impression that you’re here by yourself, no chance,” he grumbles before picking up his glass and taking a big gulp.

The fact that he’s doing this only for show makes you feel a tinge of disappointment, which is just dumb. He’s just being nice, you tell yourself, also reaching for your beer, trying to relax with him being so close to you. It’s not because he’s making you uncomfortable, rather the opposite. You just seriously need to chill.

“How much was it?” you ask him, pointing to your drink, to which he just waves you off.

“Take it as compensation for me putting grease all over your jeans,” he smiles at you.

For a while you two just sit there, his arm around you, sipping away on your beer quietly. Jungkook shoots the gross dudes death glares every now and then. To which you are thankful because the thought of being in here alone with them makes you shiver. Maybe you were in need of a white knight actually. Just this once.

“So,” Jungkook breaks the surprisingly comfortable silence. “Judging by your plates, you’ve been on the road for a while, huh?”

You hum in agreement. “Just a road trip to visit an old friend of mine. Never been to this part of the country.”

“I can tell,” he laughs.

“And you?” you proceed to ask. “Have you ever been out of these parts?”

Jungkook’s fingers tapping away softly on your shoulder while he talks makes blood rush to your cheeks. 

“Not really, I grew up around here. Only gone as far as the surrounding cities.”

“So you like living here then?”

He shrugs his shoulders as if he doesn’t really have an opinion on it.

“It’s just, you don’t seem like a small town kinda guy,” you continue when he stays silent.

“Now, why’s that?” he looks at you with a smirk, visibly amused now.

You just motion at his tattooed arm and the piercings, trying not to say anything he might take offense to. It’s his home after all.

Luckily, he doesn’t seem to be offended at all, because he chuckles at your assessment.

“You know, the next city is just like an hour’s drive away,” he lets you know between laughs. “We’re not cut off from civilization. Not totally.”

You chat away for a while, mostly just small talk. He never takes his arm off your shoulder while you learn that he owns and runs the repair shop by himself and you tell him that you’re in between jobs right now.

You’re laughing at a funny remark Jungkook dropped when the clerk pops his head in.

“Room’s ready,” he lets you know before he trudges away again.

“Before you try to argue - I’m walking you to the room.”

You figured.

So after picking up the key from the front desk, you make your way outside and up some stairs to find your assigned room with Jungkook close behind. On your way there, you can hear some loud bellowing laughter from behind doors as well as a smashing sound, as if a vase or something broke. This really doesn’t feel that welcoming after all, you think as you yank open the dilapidated door. It’s not even hanging straight in its hinges, so you have to lift it up slightly so it doesn’t catch on the floor. Yikes.

Both of you walk inside and Jungkook looks around the room after putting the helmets on a wobbly sideboard.

“What a nice view,” you joke, having walked up behind him to the window, looking down at the parking lot. The laughter gets caught in your throat when you can hear someone loudly fighting outside. When you peek out the window again, you see that it’s two big guys shoving each other and yelling, beer bottles in hand. Please let this night go by fast, you plead silently. You brought your earphones so hopefully you can drown out anything that might go on outside, be it murder or an orgy. You thank whoever invented noise cancelling in advance.

Jungkook turns to you. “Look,” he starts with a serious expression. You have a feeling you know where this is going, so you walk up to the sideboard and push his helmet towards him.

“Thank you for everything, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Jungkook shakes his head and doesn’t move even an inch.

“I can’t let you stay here,” he says, decidedly. “Not by yourself. You’ve seen the kind of guys that hang around here!”

You liked his savior antics earlier, but you still have some pride left.

“I’m not some damsel in distress in need of saving,” you scoff and walk to the door. “I’ll just lock up and sleep by myself like a big girl.” You jokingly wiggle the lock around before realizing it’s almost falling apart at your touch. Oh. This actually doesn’t bode well with you.

Jungkook looks at your wide eyes with a quirked brow, waiting for you to reconsider what you just told him. And you do. Damn.

Then there’s suddenly more clamor seemingly right outside your door. As if someone was crashing into the wall. The look in your eyes turns to pleading. Now you’re actually hoping Jungkook’s offer, whatever exactly it entails, still stands.

“I’ll stay. Don’t worry,” he reassures you as if he just read your mind. Probably not that hard, considering the situation.

“Thanks,” you mumble while looking around the room. There’s exactly one bed, a dresser with a tiny TV on it and what you assume to be the door to the bathroom. And a worn-out leather arm chair.

Jungkook follows your gaze and takes the words out of your mouth when he speaks up.

“I’ll just stay in the cuck chair, you can go ahead and go to sleep.”

The good old cuck chair, a must-have of any rented room that’s worth anything. What would people do without it? Although this one actually seems like it’s been in heavy use. Ew. At least you’re not the one having to sit in it.

To your horror, this stuffy room has no air conditioning, only a ceiling fan above the bed that barely does its job. Opening the window is no use at this time of night either, as it’s still hot out.

“I could never get used to this heat,” you huff and sit down at the edge of the mattress, causing the bedframe to squeak. “Don’t think I can even sleep while it’s this hot,” you add, groaning.

Jungkook brings his stuff over to his designated spot for the night to keep watch of the door or whatever his plan actually is. Your knight in shining armor, you scoff to yourself. The fact that you’re sharing a motel room with some stranger is outrageous and very much out of scope of what you had planned for this trip. Even if said stranger is nice to look at. You watch him from the corner of your eyes as you kick off your sneakers and pull your legs up on the bed into a criss-cross position. His white shirt has gone see-through in the back from sweat and it’s sticking to him. No wonder - he’s been wearing a leather jacket and also you clung to his back earlier like a koala while driving here.

It's only around 9 pm when you check your phone and start scrolling through various social media apps, quickly getting bored. Beads of sweat are forming on your forehead, you feel like you’re being boiled alive sitting here in jeans, but you’re not about to strip in front of Jungkook, who’s also taken his spot in the chair with his phone in hand.

“Hey, you want to get some more beer?” you ask him, sure that you’ll be up for quite a while and beer always makes you sleepy, so that might help.

“Sure,” he nods, walking over to you and holding his hand out. “We can get some from the bar.”

You let him help you off the bed and slip back into your shoes. It’s a quick trip, Jungkook never taking his arm off your waist as he walks you through the premises.

Equipped with 4 cold bottles of beer you return to your room where Jungkook immediately opens one for you with a lighter from his back pocket.

The cool liquid goes down smoothly, making you sigh in content as you sit down on the end of the bed so you can actually face him in his spot where he is currently holding the bottle against his neck in an effort to cool off.

Striking up a conversation while you down the first drink, you inquire further about his repair shop.

“It’s been in the family for a few generations,” he lets you know. “I’ve been around cars since I was little, back when it was my grandfather’s still.”

“Did you ever consider doing anything else? College or something?” you wonder.

Jungkook laughs at the idea. “I’m way too dumb for a degree. And I like getting my hands dirty. Manual labor takes my mind off of things. I enjoy it.”

You get it, the road trip was supposed to serve the same purpose - taking your mind off what’s been troubling you. Could’ve figured that driving by yourself for hours makes your thoughts race instead. Maybe you’re dumb too.

Jungkook asks about you being in between jobs then, since you mentioned it to him earlier.

“I quit so I could leave my place for a while. Wasn’t that great of a job anyway, so no loss there.”

You put the now empty bottle on the ground and flop back on the mattress with your eyes closed, letting the ceiling fan blow hot air around you for a bit.

“You alright?” Jungkook’s voice chimes up.

“Yeah,” you hum out from your horizontal position. Mostly thanks to him, you ponder and find yourself glad your car started going to shit in his vicinity and not some place else. You just chill for a moment, trying to drown out the ruckus outside of your room. You’re in here, safe, protected. Jungkook is pretty beefy, so you’re not too worried about any truckers trying to bust their way into here. The ones that crossed your way so far looked out of shape. Not that you’re judging, you probably wouldn’t opt for a gym session after driving for hours on end either.

“Thank you again,” you sit back up, feeling like you're admitting defeat. “For staying with me. I’m sorry for all the troubles.”

Jungkook only replies with a smile and hands you the second bottle of beer. “I didn’t have any plans for tonight anyway. Your company beats watching TV alone by miles.”

He’d probably have air conditioning though and wouldn’t have to swelter in this dump. His face is shiny from the sheen of sweat, making his dark hair stick to his forehead, which he brushes away with his fingers continuously. Actually, maybe you got lucky having him stuck here with you, cause the fabric sticking to his chest is … really something. You reluctantly peel your eyes away from his muscles, not trying to be a creep after all he’s done for you. Can’t be ogling him like one of those sleazy truckers did to you earlier. Maybe it’s the beer finding its way to your brain or you’re just really not better than a man.

Your body doesn’t feel much drier than him, though you are sure the sweat doesn’t look even half as attractive on you.

While sipping on your third beer, you talk about more benign things, discovering that Jungkook and you share a lot of favorite bands and musicians. During your conversation, he keeps putting the glass bottle up to his face like he did earlier, obviously uncomfortable from being hot.

The ceiling fan only swirls the hot air around, but on the bed and directly under it, it provides at least some relief from the unrelenting heat while he’s suffering in the cuck chair.

“You know you could just come sit on the bed, right?” you interrupt him waving his hand in front of his face like a makeshift fan.

He pauses, considering your offer, and then sighs. “Nah, I’m stinky from working, don’t want to make it all gross.”

“Please, I don’t want to find you melted into a puddle in that fucking chair tomorrow morning,” you joke. “Sounds like one hell of a clean-up. Also, who’s gonna fix my car if you perish from overheating?”

“I might not be the first dead body in that chair, now that I look at it,” he wrinkles his nose as he gets up and eyes the worn-out leather.

“But I’ll take a shower first, if that’s alright with you,” he finally gives in.

“Sure,” you nod. “Go ahead. Haven’t checked out the bathroom - hope you won’t come out dirtier than before.”

Jungkook chuckles as he makes his way into the little side-room.

While you hear the shower run, you empty your beer and shoot your friend a message that your arrival will be delayed because of your shitty car.

Shortly after the water turns off, Jungkook sheepishly peeks around the corner.

“My shirt is soaked,” he tells you with an apologetic smile. “I’ll air it out and put it back on, yeah?”

His coyness makes you burst into laughter. How cute.

“Jungkook, your shirt has been see-through for the last 2 hours, I’ve seen it all. Now don’t be stupid and come sit with me.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh and throws his moist t-shirt on the sideboard, hoping it will dry down, before putting his shoes and socks next to yours by the door.

“Which side are you gonna sleep on?” he asks you, making you raise an eyebrow.

“I’m not going to put my greasy ass down where you have to sleep,” he explains and gestures at the smears on his pants. “This bed is probably already gross enough.”

You take a tentative whiff of the pillowcase on your side. “It’s actually not so bad,” you shrug your shoulders before patting the mattress on the unoccupied half of the bed, urging him to finally come and sit.

So, in this incredible turn of events, you’re now sitting shoulder to shoulder with a shirtless small-town mechanic, watching TV in a decrepit motel.

Switching through countless porn channels, you finally happen upon re-runs of The X-Files, which makes both of you perk up in excitement.

“I love Gillian Anderson,” you gush as her glorious red hair appears on screen.

“I love David Duchovny,” Jungkook replies with a sigh. “Gillian’s not bad either.”

His remark doesn’t surprise you as you recall the very bisexual collection of raunchy calendars displayed in his shop.

You both settle against the headboard, getting comfortable, and dive into the episode, following along as Scully and Mulder track down a mutant man that’s hiding in vents to eat people’s livers. Mulder has just foiled the abomination’s attempt to murder some family when Jungkook’s head suddenly drops onto your shoulder.

You can tell he’s asleep by the way his body is slumped against yours. So much for watching the door, huh?

His soft, slow breathing is fanning over your neck and you decide to just let him nap, watching the intro to the next episode roll. That is, until your back starts to hurt from your current position, so you shift slightly, which startles Jungkook awake.

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry,” he looks at you horrified when the initial post-nap confusion has worn off. “Did I drool on you?”

You assure him it’s fine and that he did not. Jungkook stands up and stretches his arms over his head, your eyes following the movement of his bared muscles as he does. He yawns and shuffles over to the window, cracking it open and sticking his head outside.

The clamor has calmed down it seems, no more yelling and fighting audible, you realize in relief.

“I think we can keep this open now,” Jungkook decides. “It has cooled down like… at least 1 degree.”

You agree, even if it won’t help with the warmth, some fresh air won’t hurt.

“You should try and get some sleep,” he proposes. “I’m guessing you still have some miles to drive tomorrow.”

He’s probably right and you can feel the beer you had swimming around in your head, relaxing your body.

Jungkook goes to switch off the big light and settles back into the cuck chair. Apparently he’s not planning on resuming his little nap but is back on duty.

You pull off your socks, leaving you in jeans and a shirt still, which is not your preferred way of going to bed. Since you’re still hot, you just lie down on top of the duvet, turning to your side and pulling up your legs.

“Good girl,” Jungkook coos at you from across the room and you can feel his smirk without even looking at him.

The minutes pass by and you just toss and turn, not able to wind down at all.

“Can’t sleep, huh?” Jungkook asks when you reach for the phone on your nightstand after the futile 30-minute attempt to drift off has gone nowhere. You’re uncomfortable in your clothes, sweating, and your mind keeps straying to exactly the places you’ve tried to outrun with your road trip.

Before you swing your legs off the bed you reach to turn on the lamp on the bedside table as you don’t dig sitting around in complete darkness. You’re in the process of stretching your neck and shoulders while Jungkook rummages through his backpack. It seems like he found what he was looking for because he perks up.

“Wanna smoke?” he asks you, holding up a pre-rolled joint with a bright smile on his face.

You laugh and go through your own bag, producing a ready-to-go spliff as well.

“I’m taking this as a Yes,” Jungkook chuckles and moves to the opened window where you join him. You squeeze past him so you can hop up on the windowsill, sitting with your legs dangling in the air and your side leaning against the window frame.

Jungkook rests his upper body against the other side before he fishes the lighter out of his pocket and ignites the joint between his lips.

Passing the doobie between each other, you pick up the topic of his shop again, still curious.

“You plan on staying in your town forever?” you ask him. “Like, just keep the garage going until you’re too old to work anymore?”

He takes a drag and huffs out some smoke while he thinks about it.

“I like the mechanic work,” he starts. “But I’m not really keen on living the rural town life for the rest of eternity.”

“I knew you weren’t the type.”

“Yeah. But I just can’t let go of the shop. I thought about selling it before, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It would probably kill my dad if I did.”

“He’d want you to be happy, no?”

He hums pensively, takes another hit and hands you the joint. Jungkook lets his fingers linger on yours for a moment when he does. His side is pressing into your thigh since there’s not much space in the window. The way his eyes are locked on yours is making your breath hitch and you almost choke on the smoke you inhaled. You cough, which makes him reach behind you to stroke your back. Your free hand grabs his naked shoulder while you recover from the coughing fit.

Once you catch your breath and sit back up straight, Jungkook doesn’t return to his spot next to you, but instead remains in front of you, basically between your legs.

His hand slides away from your back though, holding on to the windowsill next to your leg instead.

“I didn’t really quit my job for the trip,” you sigh, looking down at your dangling feet. The weed really seems to loosen up your tongue tonight. “Just couldn’t do it anymore, it kept burning me out to a pathetic pile of ash.”

“I’m sorry,” Jungkook earnestly tells you, squeezing your arm lightly in a comforting manner.

Apparently your weed-riddled brain decides to just lay out all your business to him, because before you can stop yourself, you are already dropping the rest of your recent lore.

“’M driving through the whole country to my friend’s place because I found out I got cheated on. The breakup hit me quite hard after such a long time together. Needed to get far, far away.”

“Must be a fucking idiot,” Jungkook shakes his head and tries to catch your gaze, which makes you lift your head when he starts to crouch to look up at you.

He moves closer to you then, making your knees spread further to accommodate his frame.  After flicking the butt of the joint out of the window, he places his palm on your thigh while his other hand comes up and brushes some of your hair behind your ear. His head is cocked to the side and you’re locking eyes, with his fingers still resting softly against your cheek.

It’s like time freezes and then you’re suddenly leaning forward and your lips collide, slotting together effortlessly, like they were never meant to be apart to begin with. You sigh against him as if you’re letting go of a breath you didn’t know you were holding and he uses the moment to slip his tongue between your parted lips. His hand has wandered to your neck while yours found their way to his shoulders, pulling him closer, as your tongues dance against each other. All the stress of today just falls off you, like a lizard shedding his skin. The kiss is all-encompassing, leaving no room for any thoughts in your head other than taking away every inch of space between your bodies. As you make out, the palm on your thigh slowly caresses from your leg to your side and then back down to your ass, where it rests and squeezes ever so lightly. Even this soft touch makes your hips hitch towards Jungkook and you feel him smile against your mouth and exhale a laugh through his nose. You would be embarrassed if he wasn’t pressing himself into your crotch, holding you in place, obviously just as excited to feel you against his body. He nibbles on your lower lip before licking across it and then his face is suddenly gone from yours. You just stare at him all dumb and breathless, still entangled with him. His thumb brushes over your lip, wiping away the moisture left behind from the kiss and continues to put it in his mouth. You stifle a whine at the sight, trying to collect yourself at least a little bit, so you slide off the windowsill. Not taking into account Jungkook’s close proximity to you, the movement makes you rub yourself against his groin by accident. He’s not shy about the groan that leaves him at the contact, but he steps back a bit to give you space anyway.

“Want to give sleep another shot?” he asks you, brushing over your cheek one last time before removing his hand.

“Mhm,” you nod. “I’m gonna take a shower first though.”

“Good idea,” Jungkook sends you off with a pat to your ass, making your face heat up even more.

Oh, you really need a cold shower for more than one reason.

You finally step out of your sweaty clothes, dropping them in a pile on the bathroom floor. When the spray of water hits you, you sigh. It feels so good to finally wash away the grime. What you can’t rinse off is the tight feeling between your legs as you think about Jungkook, shirtless and sweaty, pressed to your body. You take a few minutes to just stand under the water raining down on you, fighting the urge to touch yourself, that’s how riled up the kiss has gotten you.

When you turn off the water and get out of the shower, you realize that there is only a small towel, nothing that could actually cover your body in any decent way. You only brought panties to the bathroom with you. The only thing you find attached to the door is a questionable bathrobe. Better than nothing, you think after inspecting and smelling it, deciding it’s clean. You quickly towel-dry your wet hair with the small cloth so you don’t look like a dog that got caught in the rain before slipping on your panties and the robe, closing it around you with its belt.

Jungkook has returned to the cuck chair when you come back out. He’s reclined back into it, leisurely stretching his spread legs out as he eyes you with heavy lids. He’s so fucking sexy lounging there in just his jeans, his upper body glazed by sweat, making his tattoo glisten in the dim light of the bedside lamp. You nibble on your lower lip absentmindedly, slowly stepping closer.

And he’s looking right back at you like he wants to ravish you. The slight tent in the front of his pants is reassuring proof that the kissing didn’t leave him unaffected either.

“Are you not hot in this?” he gestures at your robe while looking you up and down before sitting up straight.

“Are you not hot in your jeans?” you tease in response, making him chuckle.

“C’mere,” he curls his fingers at you to beckon you closer and your feet move before your brain even catches up.

Once you’re in reach, he grabs the belt of the bathrobe and pulls you into him, hands snaking to your backside when there’s no more room between you. He massages your ass cheeks through the soft fabric at an agonizingly slow pace and you’re already becoming impatient, so you take initiative and climb into his lap, your knees around his thighs. There’s just enough room in the chair for you to fit. With your arms locked around his neck, you immediately go in for another kiss, licking into him. Spurred on by your eagerness, his hands slip under your robe, making the belt slowly unravel with each movement of his palms against your naked skin underneath. You didn’t think it was possible in this heat, but you erupt in goosebumps when his fingers slide over your waist, up to the side of your breasts where he lets them linger before splaying them out to cup your tits.

“Your skin is so soft,” he mutters against your lips just as one of his digits brushes over a pert nipple, which makes you inhale a sharp breath. His mouth moves to the side of your neck, where he sucks on your skin, surely leaving behind bruises. The sensation makes you grind your hips down against his growing cock, craving friction. He groans into the crook of your neck, so you keep swiveling your lower body in his lap, both of your breathing increasing in speed as your arousal is escalating to new levels.

Finally, he’s had enough of the bathrobe covering his view of your body and when you let go of him, he slides it off your shoulders, dropping it to pool on the floor by his feet.

With your bare tits in front of his face, he hums in approval, his hands roaming the skin of your nude torso.

“Wow,” he sighs in appreciation, licking over his lips once before latching on to a nipple. The flicking of his tongue elicits a whimper from you and makes your back arch, pressing your chest closer to him.

You can feel the rough denim covering his dick though the thin fabric of your underwear, which is already going damp as you rub yourself over him again and again.

You lift yourself off his crotch, your hand finding his belt, undoing the buckle. When you struggle to open the fly of his pants one-handed, he removes his hand from your tit and looks up at you.

“You sure?” he asks you softly and when you nod, he helps you out by popping the button himself, so you just have to pull down the zipper. He lifts himself off the seat just enough to wriggle the jeans down to his thighs. His hard dick twitches excitedly when you palm him through his Calvin Klein boxers.

Jungkook reaches between you, his fingers finding your still clothed pussy, just ghosting over your core, tentatively. You instinctively press down into his touch, sighing, which impels him to run his digits over the moistened fabric harder. Feeling your arousal through the panties already, he pulls them to the side, giving him access to run his finger between your labia. “Like silk,” he muses quietly, before dipping in further, gathering your wetness.

“Dripping for me already,” he groans, his breath fanning over your neck now. “So fucking hot.”

His middle finger finds your entrance then and pushes in slowly before curling it once inside. You writhe in his hold, impatient to be filled by him.  After pumping a few times, he slides in a second finger, the pads dragging across your walls which each movement of his wrist, making you whine.

When the thirst for his cock takes over you, you reach down to the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down just far enough to free his hard dick. He moans lowly when you wrap your fingers around him, squeezing before giving him a determined tug, your thumb spreading precum across his tip.

His fingers slip out of you then, leaving you clenching around air. His hand comes up on top of yours on him, engulfing your smaller one completely, guiding your pumps. Your juices on his fingers add to the glide, every stroke along his length now producing a nasty squelching sound.

With his free hand, he fishes out his wallet from his jeans, producing a single condom. You basically rip it out of his fingers, tearing the package open with your teeth. After slapping his own hand away from his dick with the back of yours, you roll on the rubber.

He takes hold of your wrist and gently twists you palm up under his face, then lets a drop of spit fall into it. You spread the drool around his shaft before lining yourself up to the tip of his cock.

Jungkook grips on to your waist as you lower yourself down on him until you’re flush to his crotch. The stretch makes you whimper as he slides into you, his own head falling back on to the chair with his eyes closed.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice strained. “You feel amazing.”

That’s enough encouragement for you to start moving, your hips going in circles as you bounce up and down. His cock curves just the right way to rub over your g-spot each time you slam your ass down into him.

His fingers have wandered to your ass cheeks, kneading at the supple flesh. He’s not guiding your movement, he lets you take the reigns as you ride him like your life depends on it.

The damn cuck chair is restricting you though, your knees confined by the armrests, you can’t get into it the way you know would blow his fucking mind. When you lift yourself off his cock, his head shoots back up, looking at you quizzically as you move off his lap and lower yourself on the floor between his legs. He spreads them immediately, accommodating you kneeling before him.

You peel off the condom, throwing it aside, before bracing yourself on his thigh with one hand. His palm comes down to land on top of your fingers running over the muscle of his upper leg. He caresses your hand as you close in on his cock, poking out your tongue to give it tiny kitten licks all over. His gaze never leaves you when your lips finally close around his leaking tip and he immediately twitches in your mouth with a whimper. Your lips are wet from precum and you let them run over his tip and down his shaft before taking him in properly. While you work your way down his length, your tongue flat against it, small whine-like sounds keep escaping him, contrasting the low groans he huffed out before and it’s making your head swim with need.

You hollow out your cheeks, sucking him down as far as you can go, your tongue swirling over his frenulum and through his slit on every upwards move. He’s too big to get all of him into your mouth, so you wrap your fingers around the remaining length, aiding with flicks of your wrist.

The groans from earlier begin to mix in between the higher-pitched whimpering, his fingers gripping on to yours harder as you keep going.

Jungkook is staring at you through the whole blowjob, mouth slightly agape, his chest heaving.

“So damn pretty with my cock in your mouth,” he muses between huffs, his free hand tangling into the back of your hair.

The praise goes straight to your pussy, throbbing and feeling neglected. You’re sure though it’s not going to be for long while you keep bobbing your head. And you were right, because soon after he peels you off himself gently by your hair, his other hand helping you up. He pulls you closer to him, slotting his lips against yours for a lazy kiss with his fingers grazing your jaw.

After breaking the kiss, he gets up, his sweaty back sticking to the leather producing a moist squelch, taking you with him and walking you over to the bed while stepping out of his jeans and boxers on the way. He lays you down on your back with an arm around you.

This time it’s him getting on his knees at the end of the bed. Jungkook grabs you by your waist and pulls you towards him, your legs spread around his head. He removes the panties still bunched up next to your pussy, taking a deep whiff of them before tossing them aside. He dips his head between your thighs immediately, mumbling against your core.

“You smell like heaven,” you can barely make out, his voice muffled by your skin, but it’s enough to make you moan at the dirty compliment. Maybe you have a praise kink that you weren’t aware of before, because he’s driving you insane.

The last thing you see before your head falls on the mattress is his twinkling eyes looking at you with hunger-blown pupils. Then his mouth is on you, his tongue running along your slit, lapping up the gathered arousal. Each pass of his tongue is pulling you further into oblivion and when he finally sucks your clit between his lips, all you can do is gasp and grip the bedsheets. His nose is pressed to your pubic mound as he lavishes at your pussy, relentlessly flicking over your most sensitive spot. He’s really not wasting any time, already having you right on the edge.

He alternates between his tongue and his lips in a mind-numbing rhythm and then two of his fingers push into you as well. Feeling him press his fingertips into your walls and working your clit at the same time has you arching off the bed.

“Don’t stop,” you plead, your orgasm approaching in a rapid pace.

With one last curl of his fingers inside you, you clench around them and come on his face. Your thighs close around his head, caging him in as your hips lift off the mattress accompanied by a strangled whimper. Your body twitches helplessly as he keeps lapping at your clit, bordering on overstimulation as your orgasm slowly ebbs down and you finally have to push his face away from between your thighs.

“Fuck, I could eat you out forever,” he groans, his lips and chin dripping in spit and your wetness as he reluctantly detaches from you. “I can’t get enough of your pussy. So sweet.”

You laugh breathlessly, slumping back on to your elbows. “Yeah, I could tell.”

He comes up from the floor, his palm wrapped around his rock-hard cock, stroking himself. When he looks down on you with hooded eyes, you grab his arm and pull him down. Jungkook chuckles as he lands on top of you, holding himself up with one arm so he doesn’t crush you.

His leg slots between yours and his cock drags along your hip, smearing precum on your skin when he crashes your lips together. After feverishly letting your tongues tangle and bodies rub against each other, giving you time to recover, he pulls away and rolls onto his back. Using the moment, you grab a condom from your backpack next to the bed before you follow along, swinging your leg over his thighs to straddle him. You put the protection on him with gentle hands, only tugging lightly a single time when you’re done. Hovering just above his twitching cock then, you start exploring his torso, fingers running across his abs up to his chest, feeling the taut muscle contract under your hands. You trace the tattoo that goes from his arm, over his shoulder down to his pecks. His nipples are hardened and you can’t resist brushing over them, small, dark and stiff, contrasting his pale skin. His hips hitch up at the teasing touch, making his cock glide between your labia. He whimpers and curses under his breath as he keeps sliding along your pussy, still puffy from the orgasm. The tip of his dick catches on your clit with every hump, your body now moving in sync to his motions, increasing the delicious friction.

On your last slide downwards, you angle your hips and with you still being soaked and spit-slick, his cock enters you without resistance. His hands on your ass tighten their grip as he sucks in a harsh breath. You can’t hold back your own drawn-out moan as your pussy is finally being filled out again. With your fingers splayed on his abdomen for support, you lift up slightly just to slam back down. There’s no slow start, you’re not playing around, immediately gyrating your hips with every bounce, your pussy gripping his cock tightly like it’s trying to rip it off.

The room is filled with the sound of skin slapping on skin, wet squelching every time you move back down on his cock and a symphony of both your moans echoing off the walls.

Jungkook lets you lead again, but after a while, he can’t help but thrust up into you, matching your rhythm and speed. You straighten out your back so you can reach behind you, cradling his balls, massaging them while you rock in his lap, before dipping down further to press into his taint firmly, pulling another whimper from him.

“Damn,” he presses out, his dick pumping into you. “You’re the best fucking ride of my life.”

With his cock dragging along your walls, you let yourself fall forward and his arms close around your lower back, holding you close. You rest your head against his shoulder, your ass still drawing circles on him, your cheeks ricocheting every time your hips meet. At this angle, your clit is now rubbing against him, making you gasp at the much-needed friction while he shoves into you from beneath. It doesn’t take long for you to get close again, so you grind down harder, chasing your high.

When your moans increase in volume, Jungkook digs his hands back into your ass.

“That’s it,” he breathes against your ear. “Come on my cock like a good girl.”

His words unravel you immediately, the coil in your stomach snapping and you come for a second time with a cry, the intensity almost overwhelming. Your pussy clenches around him tightly, making him groan through gritted teeth under you. You sob into his shoulder while you try to keep riding out your orgasm with trembling thighs and your whole body convulsing.

Jungkook doesn’t give you a chance to calm down this time. With strong arms, he lifts you off him and on your back. He stares down at you with dark eyes as he positions himself between your legs before he grabs the back of your knees and basically folds you in half. Jungkook rams his cock back into you without warning, the bed creaking loudly under the pistoning of his hips. You can do nothing but take his delicious slams into your sensitive pussy, too fucked out to contribute, your breathing coming out in shallow huffs between moans.

With a particularly harsh thrust, you hear a bed slat crash into the floor. Jungkook doesn’t seem to care that he’s not only taking you apart, but also the bedframe, rapidly approaching his orgasm judging by the stuttered grunts that reverberate around you. You feel like you’re getting vertigo from Jungkook all over and inside you, the effects of you coming so hard still lingering, having you blissed out and your brain comfortably empty.

It doesn’t take long for his movements to go choppy.

“Fuck, how are you still so tight… so… perfect,” he struggles to grit out between heavy breaths before his hips still and he releases his load inside you accompanied by stuttered moans. The fingers on the back of your thighs dig into your skin, probably leaving marks, as he continues pumping into you sloppily until your pussy has milked every last drop of cum out of him and he can’t hold himself up any longer. His body gives out, trembling, and he lets go of your legs before collapsing on top of you.

With his face in the crook of your neck, he exhales a shaky, incredulous laugh. Your fingers tangle into the back of his hair, caressing his scalp while he comes down. You are close to drifting off with Jungkook’s weight pressing into you, a calming feeling washing over you, when his voice startles you awake again.

“Are you okay?” he asks you with a hoarse voice, lifting himself off you, taking off the condom and settling against your side instead. His arm finds your middle and he pulls you closer.

“Better than the bed,” you giggle sleepily.

Reluctantly, you move out of his embrace, not willing to risk having to continue your road trip with a bladder infection.

“I’ll be right back,” you let him know.

You traipse to the bathroom to pee and when you come back, Jungkook is on his back, snoring lightly. You quickly pull on a baggy t-shirt and some panties and climb back into bed, careful not to wake him. When you snuggle into his side, his mouth curls into a smile and he hums.

“I’m taking you to breakfast before we go back tomorrow,” he mumbles with a sleep-tinged voice before drifting back off.

Masterlist

Beauty had always been your burden as much as your blessing. Tales of it traveled farther than merchants and faster than ravens, crossing borders until even distant courts spoke your name with a mixture of admiration and longing. Princes penned verses in your honor without ever meeting you. Even seasoned knights, men hardened by war and duty, often found themselves disarmed by nothing more than a smile.

With your coronation fast approaching, the kingdom stood on the brink of celebration. It would be the grandest event seen in decades, drawing princes, dignitaries from every corner of the continent. Some would arrive seeking alliances. Most would arrive seeking you.

The prospect amused you more than it excited you.

“Protecting my daughter is not merely a matter of strength,” your father’s voice boomed through the hall. “It demands unyielding discipline and absolute loyalty. You will each face three trials. The princess herself will accompany you, so that you may prove your worth in her presence.”

Your eyes swept slowly across the line of knights standing before the throne, a faint mask of boredom kissing your beautiful face, certain that none of them would truly be able to handle you.

For years, entertaining yourself at the expense of knights had become something of a pastime. A lingering touch against a gauntleted hand, a mere whispered compliment that left disciplined warriors suddenly forgetting their own names. Watching them struggle to maintain their composure was endlessly amusing.

You had notoriously toyed with men like this, living wildly beneath the weight of your royal title, and your father knew this better than anyone. That was precisely why he had designed these trials.

He wasn’t simply looking for the strongest sword arm. He wanted a knight with sharp intellect and the rare ability to withstand your constant attempts to live life on your terms rather than as a perfectly mannered princess.

A small, intrigued smile played on your lips when the first few knights stepped forward. They were impressive in brute force, but you could already tell they would crumble the moment you decided to play.

Then he stepped forward.

Sir Jeon Jungkook.

Even fully armored, with only his dark, piercing eyes visible through the narrow slit of his helmet, once his unflinching gaze met yours for a brief second, a strange spark ignited low in your belly. You tilted your head, studying those dark eyes with growing interest.

The first trial took place that very evening in the smaller banquet hall. Only a select few courtiers were present. You sat at the high table beside your father, sipping from a jeweled goblet.

Unknown to the competing knights, the King had arranged for one of the wine pitchers to be laced with a powerful sleeping draught. Harmless, but potent enough to leave the princess disoriented and vulnerable. Only the King, a few trusted advisors, and the princess herself knew of the plan.

The knights had been given only one instruction: protect the princess. No further details.

As the evening progressed, the effects of the draught began to take hold. Your thoughts grew pleasantly hazy, movements slower. The jeweled goblet nearly slipped from your grasp once before you caught it. A second time, you laughed at something that had not been particularly funny.

Several knights noticed. Some were too busy trying to appear vigilant, eyes constantly scanning the room for imaginary assassins.

A few noticed your condition and drew dangerously close. One insisted on helping you stand despite the fact that you had not asked for assistance. Another rested a hand against your lower back almost inappropriately while guiding you through the room. One knight even smiled when he realized how heavily you leaned upon him after stumbling.

The courtiers watched everything. So did the King.

You were beginning to feel genuinely annoyed when a tall figure stepped silently between you and yet another overeager knight.

Sir Jeon Jungkook.

Unlike the others, he had not hovered around you all evening. He had remained where a royal protector belonged, close enough to intervene, distant enough to respect your space.

Dark eyes studied your face through the narrow opening of his helmet. “The princess has had enough wine,” he declared.

The knight beside you scoffed. “She seems perfectly fin—”

“She does not.”

You watched surprise flicker across the other knight’s face.

Sir Jungkook’s hand briefly closed around your forearm as you swayed, steadying you before immediately letting go the moment your balance returned.

Within moments he had summoned two ladies-in-waiting to accompany you back to your chambers. When another knight offered to carry you himself, Sir Jungkook declined on your behalf before you could even answer.

“Her reputation is as important as her safety.”

For the first time all evening, genuine curiosity stirred within you.

Most men saw opportunity when they looked at you. Some saw beauty, a few saw a future crown. Yet somehow, Sir Jeon Jungkook seemed to see only his duty.

As the ladies guided you toward the doorway, you glanced back over your shoulder.

“How noble of you, Sir Jungkook,” you teased, voice softened by the draught. “Are you always so resistant to temptation?”

His gaze never wavered. “My duty is to protect Your Highness.”

For reasons you could not quite explain, that response lingered in your thoughts far longer than any flirtatious remark ever had.

The final trial was, by all appearances, the simplest.

After weeks of staged attacks, hidden tests, the remaining candidates expected one final demonstration of skill. Some anticipated a duel. Others believed they would be sent to defend the princess from another fabricated threat. Instead, the King announced that the last trial would consist of a single week of personal duty beside the princess. No further explanation was offered.

The knights were disappointed.

You, however, knew exactly what your father was doing.

The trial was not designed to test strength or intelligence. It was designed to test restraint.

Most of the candidates failed within days. Some became overly eager whenever you requested their company.

Others ignored palace protocol the moment you suggested bending the rules. One knight allowed you to wander through the city market without informing the royal guard because he was too eager to please you. Another accepted an invitation to share wine in one of the palace balconies despite knowing perfectly well how improper it appeared. Every failure was carefully observed and quietly recorded.

Only one knight remained infuriatingly impossible.

Sir Jeon Jungkook.

The more you watched him, the more determined you became to discover his weakness. Surely he had one. Everyone did.

At first, your attempts were harmless. During walks through the palace gardens, you lingered beside him instead of remaining ahead as protocol dictated. During meals, you directed most of your conversation toward him. More than once, you deliberately brushed your fingers against the steel of his gauntlet while speaking. Other knights would have turned crimson. Some would have stumbled over their own words.

Sir Jungkook merely stepped aside and continued his duties as though nothing had happened.

Perhaps it was the way every other knight had spent the past weeks attempting to impress you, the King, or the court.

Where others sought favor, he sought only to fulfill his duty. And thus, when the day of the final judgment arrived, the outcome surprised absolutely no one.

Your father rose slowly from his seat.

“Sir Jeon Jungkook,” he declared, voice echoing through the hall. “You have successfully completed all trials. You have shown not only strength and intellect, but the rare ability to anticipate danger and resist… temptation.” His gaze flicked briefly to you. “From this day forward, you are hereby appointed as the princess’s personal royal knight and protector. Guard her with your life. And may the gods help you.”

A murmur rippled through the court.

You turned toward Sir Jeon Jungkook, stepping just close enough that your crimson gown brushed his armor.

“Welcome to my service, Sir Jungkook,” you whispered so only he could hear. “I do hope you’re prepared. Resisting me may prove to be your greatest trial yet.”

His dark eyes held yours with unshakable strength. “I was under the impression I had already passed that one, Your Highness.”

—

Having Sir Jeon Jungkook follow you around all day wasn’t ideal.

It had not even been three months since his appointment as your royal knight, yet his constant, silent presence had already begun to grate on your nerves. He was always a towering shadow in dark armor, never more than a few steps behind. What annoyed you most was his utter lack of reaction.

No matter how boldly you flirted, no matter how you tightened your corset in front of him until your breasts nearly spilled over, no matter how many times you “accidentally” brushed against him, he remained perfectly composed.

What bothered you most of all was that you still had no idea what he looked like. Only those dark, intense eyes visible through the narrow slit of his helmet. The rest of him remained hidden behind steel, a constant, frustrating mystery.

The journey to the neighboring kingdom for the grand alliance celebration had been long and stifling. You rode in the royal ornate covered carriage borne by four strong horses and guarded on all sides. The extravagant gown you wore was beautiful but suffocating, the tight corset pressing against your ribs and making every breath feel like a struggle. Boredom weighed on you like lead.

Your dearest friend, Lady Isolde rode beside you in her own litter. She was to be wed in a month, and the two of you had spent the journey giggling like girls again, whispering behind silk curtains.

“He’s so tall,” Isolde teased, peeking through the gap toward where Sir Jeon Jungkook rode steadily beside your litter. “And those eyes… I wonder what the rest of him looks like under all that steel. Do you think he’s handsome, or just another brute?”

You laughed softly, though your gaze lingered on the narrow slit of Jungkook’s helmet, where those dark, intense eyes remained fixed forward.

“As if,” you replied mockingly, bored. “He’s far too proper. I could tighten my corset until my breasts nearly spill, and he wouldn’t even glance.”

Isolde giggled. “You should try. For science.”

Sir Jungkook’s eyes flicked toward the litter for the briefest second before returning forward. You smirked. Annoyed as you were by his constant, unflinching presence… you were also undeniably intrigued.

That night, after the feasting and music had died down and the royal party made camp near the forest’s edge, you slipped away, desperate for even a moment of peace, and determined to test just how far his restraint could stretch.

The air had grown chilly, carrying the faint bite of early autumn as you made your way to the forbidden stretch of the deep bend where the river water ran swift and dangerously deep. No one was permitted here after dark, especially not the princess.

You knew he would follow.

The heavy footsteps of armor soon echoed behind you on the rocky bank.

“Your Highness,” Sir Jungkook’s deep voice rang out, firm. “This area is strictly prohibited at night. The currents are treacherous and the water is far too cold. We must return to the palace at once.”

You barely looked at him. Your eyes were fastened upon the vast expanse of the river, moonlight dancing across its dark surface like scattered diamonds. You wanted nothing more than to feel the cool waves kissing your bare skin, to swim freely under the moon with no eyes judging you in, except his.

A small, unusually kind smile touched your lips as you turned toward him.

“Why don’t you join me, Sir Jungkook?” you asked softly, your voice carrying on the gentle night breeze. “Just for a little while. The water looks so peaceful tonight.”

Sir Jungkook stood like a statue in his dark armor. “Your Highness… that would be highly improper,” he replied low. “I am here to protect you, not to… bathe with you.”

You let out a soft, melodic laugh and began walking toward the river’s edge, the hem of your gown brushing the grass.

“Well, I suppose then…” you bit your lip, your fingers moving to the laces of your gown with aching slowness. “I shall swim, and you will stand guard like the loyal knight you are.”

You could feel his intense eyes watching through the narrow slit of his helmet as you loosened the ties. The rich fabric slid from your shoulders like liquid silk, pooling at your feet.

Completely bare under the moonlight, you wore nothing beneath. Your skin glowed luminous and your full breasts rose and fell with each breath, nipples already stiff from the cold night air. The curve of your waist flared into soft hips, and the smooth, delicate skin between your thighs was on full display.

Sir Jungkook immediately turned his head sharply away, staring fixedly into the dark trees.

“Your Highness!” His voice was strained. “This is highly inappropriate. I cannot allow—”

“You don’t have to allow anything,” you cut him off, dripping with defiance. “You’re not permitted to touch me while I’m bare. So you’ll just have to stand there.”

You waded into the river with a soft gasp. The icy water bit into your skin, but the thrill of rebellion pushed you forward. You swam out deeper, the cold making your body hypersensitive.

You glanced back at the bank. Sir Jungkook stood like a statue, head turned away, refusing to look at your naked form even once. His armored fists were clenched tightly at his sides.

A thrill of satisfaction ran through you.

You felt exhilarated. Free. And wickedly aware that the most disciplined man in the kingdom was standing on the bank, fighting not to look at you.

“Are you really going to stand there all night, Sir Jungkook? The water feels wonderful… and I’m all alone out here.” You swam further out, the cold water caressing every inch of your bare skin. A soft, content sigh escaped your lips.

It would be a plain lie if you said you weren’t at least a little relieved that he had followed you. The deep bend was no joke. its treacherous currents and deadly depth were feared even by The King. Yet here you were, aching to tear down the walls of the knight who refused to bend to your charms.

You floated lazily on your back, letting the moonlight kiss your bare skin. Then, with a mischievous glint in your eyes, you took your chance.

Once a subtle current tugged at your legs, you gasped dramatically, flailing your arms and letting out a soft, helpless cry. “Oh—!”

You fought back a giggle, pretending to be a damsel in distress, knowing the current wasn’t strong enough to truly endanger you. You wanted to see if you could finally crack his composure.

But the gods had other plans.

Without warning, a far more treacherous undercurrent slammed into you like a living beast. It dragged you under violently, twisting your body, filling your mouth and nose with icy water. Real panic surged through you as you lost your breath and sight in the black depths.

“Jungkook!” you screamed, the sound barely coherent as water rushed into your lungs. This time, it was no act.

Sir Jeon Jungkook did not hesitate for even a fraction of a second. He plunged into the river fully armored, cutting through the violent current with powerful strokes. His strong arms wrapped around your waist, yanking your naked body against his steel chest as he fought the river with raw, expert strength. You clung to him desperately, coughing and gasping as he dragged you back to the rocky bank.

The moment he pulled you ashore, his helmet caught on a low hanging branch and was ripped clean off.

You lay on the grass, gasping for air, when your eyes finally focused on the man hovering above you.

And you forgot how to breathe.

Sir Jeon Jungkook was devastatingly, unfairly handsome.

Wet raven black hair clung to his forehead and sharp, sculpted cheekbones. Water droplets traced the strong line of his jaw and dripped from sensual lips. His dark eyes, now fully exposed, were intense and beautiful, framed by long lashes and thick brows. A faint scar graced his left eyebrow, adding a rugged edge to his otherwise perfect masculine beauty.

Before you could speak, he swiftly grabbed his crimson cloak and draped it over your naked body, covering you completely with careful reverence. His gaze remained locked strictly on your face, never once drifting to your exposed skin.

“Are you okay, Your Highness?” he asked, voice rough with concern. A faint blush colored his cheeks as he noticed the way you were staring at his now-bare face.

You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came. The combination of the dangerous current, the shock of nearly drowning, and the overwhelming sight of your knight’s true face left you dizzy and speechless.

Your vision blurred. You passed out in his arms.

Sir Jungkook pulled you closer against his armored chest, one large hand gently brushed your wet hair away from your face, his touch surprisingly tender. He lifted you effortlessly, cradling you like a warrior carrying his lady, your head resting against his broad shoulder, body wrapped securely in his cloak, legs draped over his arm as he carried you back to his mare.

He mounted carefully, keeping you nestled safely against him as the horse began the journey back to the palace through secret paths.

You woke briefly as he laid you down on the thick rug before the hearth in your royal chambers. The fire was already roaring. You were still wrapped in his cloak, beneath it only a thin silk bandeau now clung to your body, the delicate material barely containing your breasts, pressing them together in a deep, soft cleavage that rose and fell with each shaky breath.

You trembled from the cold and the lingering shock of the river.

Sir Jeon Jungkook remained kneeling by the fire, his movements precise as he stoked the flames. Water dripped from his raven hair onto his armoured shoulders. Then he rose to his full, imposing height, towering, broad shouldered.

Without a word, he reached for his helmet, which rested upon a nearby oak chest, clearly intending to conceal his face once more.

“No,” you whispered, your voice soft yet commanding as you pushed yourself up on one elbow. “Do not put it back on.”

The knight paused, gloved hand hovering above the helm. His dark eyes met yours, intense and conflicted.

“Your Highness… it is not fitting for me to stand before you unveiled,” he said, his voice carrying the formal cadence of a sworn knight. “I must maintain the dignity of my position.”

You sat up fully, the cloak slipping slightly from one shoulder, revealing the smooth curve of your skin and the edge of the silk bandeau. Despite the cold still clinging to your bones, warmth bloomed low in your belly as you gazed upon his face, truly beheld it for the first time.

“Come closer,” You rose to your knees on the rug, the cloak parting further as you reached for him. “Let me see you properly.”

He hesitated, every line of his powerful frame taut with restraint. Yet he obeyed, lowering himself once more to kneel before you. Even on his knees, he remained nearly at your eye level, so tall and broad was he.

You lifted a delicate hand and brushed your fingers through his damp raven locks, pushing them back from his forehead. A contented sigh escaped your lips.

“You are far too pleasing to look upon, Sir Jungkook,” you whispered, almost in awe. “I had wondered what lay beneath that steel. Never did I imagine such a face.”

Sir Jungkook remained perfectly still on his knees before you. His hands rested tensely on his armoured thighs as he fought to keep his gaze fixed on your face and not the way your breasts strained against the thin silk bandeau.

“You flatter me, Your Highness,” he replied, voice low. “But I am your knight. Nothing more. Please allow me to restore my helmet.”

You shook your head slowly, refusing to let him hide again. Instead, you leaned closer, your fingers still buried in his damp raven hair.

A new, overwhelming wave of admiration and obsession washed over you. This man... this mature, hardened, breathtakingly handsome knight was kneeling before you like a devotee. The realization sent a fresh rush of heat between your thighs.

“You’re older than me, aren’t you?” you murmured softly, continuing to caress his hair with gentle strokes. “Hardened by battles and years I haven’t yet seen.”

You wondered how many more scars he carried beneath that heavy armor hidden across his broad chest, his strong back.

“I am twenty eight, Your Highness,” he answered quietly, his deep voice carrying that disciplined tone you were growing addicted to.

“Tell me something personal,” you said, your voice turning playful yet curious. Your fingers trailed from his hair down to trace his cheekbone once more. “Have you ever been with a woman, Sir Jeon? Truly been with one?”

His jaw tightened visibly. The question crossed every boundary a knight was sworn to respect.

“Your Highness… such questions are not appropriate for me to answer,” he replied. You leaned in even closer, still stroking his hair tenderly, your breath brushing against his skin.

“But I want to know,” you whispered. “Have you ever touched a woman the way a man touches a lover? Ever kissed one?”

Jungkook’s breathing grew slightly heavier. His dark eyes stayed locked on yours with iron discipline, though you could clearly see the storm brewing behind them.

“I have not, Your Highness,” he finally answered, voice low and honest. “My duty has always come first.”

A thrill ran through you at his confession. You let your fingers drift lower, brushing along his sharp jawline. “And if a woman wanted you… desperately?” your voice dropped to a near whisper. “If she wanted your mouth between her thighs… your tongue tasting her, would you deny her?”

The impure question hung heavy in the air between you. You shocked even yourself with how boldly it slipped out, but the vivid image, his devastatingly handsome face trapped between your legs, mouth glistening with your arousal made the heat bloom even more slick between your thighs.

Sir Jungkook’s hands clenched tighter on his armored thighs. A faint flush colored the tips of his ears and neck, but he remained on his knees.

“Your Highness,” he said, reverently, “I am sworn to protect you. Not to… indulge in such thoughts.”

You smiled softly. Then you leaned back on the bed, letting the crimson cloak fall open completely. The thin silk bandeau was the only thing left covering you, and even that felt too much now.

“Then I command you,” You looked down at him, this powerful knight on his knees before you, and felt a rush of pure need. “I want your mouth on me, Jungkook. Right now.”

“Your Highness, I—”

“Touch me,” you breathed, cutting him off. “Please, Jungkook…”

You reached down and grabbed his gloved hand, bringing it to your chest. Slowly, you pressed his large palm over the thin silk bandeau, letting him feel the soft, heavy weight of your breast. Your nipple was already painfully hard beneath the fabric.

Sir Jungkook’s breath hitched sharply. His entire body tensed, the muscles in his arm flexing under the armor as he fought against every instinct.

You didn’t stop there, dragging his hand lower, sliding it down your stomach until his fingers rested between your thighs. You were soaked. your petals slick and hot against his gloved fingers.

“Feel how damp you make me,” you whispered, voice shaking with need.

Sir Jungkook let out a low, strained groan. His dark eyes were fixed on your face, but you could see the violent war happening behind them.

The most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on — the princess, the future queen, was laid out before him in nothing but a flimsy silk bandeau, legs spread, pressing his hand against her dripping cunt.

“Your Highness…” he rasped, albeit desperate. “This is beyond forbidden. You are royalty. I am sworn—”

“I don’t care,” you whimpered, grinding slowly against his gloved fingers. “I need you. I’ve never felt this way before. Touch me now, my knight. Please.”

His hand trembled. For a long moment, he simply rested there, feeling your wetness soak through the leather of his glove. Then, with a broken exhale that sounded like surrender, his fingers moved.

He stroked along your soaked folds, parting the delicate petals of your most secret flower. And what a flower it was... a lush, glistening rosebud blooming only for him. Your outer lips were soft and swollen with need, flushed deep, delicate like the first blush of dawn.

As he gently spread you open, the inner petals revealed themselves: silky, and impossibly tender, layered like the finest rose in full bloom after a summer rain. At the center lay your sweetest nectar, dripping and honeyed, flowing abundantly from your aching entrance.

The knight didn’t know what came over him, but your pulsing heat and slick, puckering folds had him utterly entranced. His breathing grew ragged. You could see the way his throat worked, the way his tongue unconsciously darted out to wet his lips. He was drooling.

“May I lick you, Your Highness?” he asked hoarsely, voice thick with barely contained hunger. “Please… allow me to taste you.”

The desperate plea from such a disciplined man sent a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you.

“Yes,” you breathed, spreading your thighs wider for him, your voice trembling with raw need. “Use your mouth on me, Jungkook. Lick your princess until she cannot think.”

The moment the words left your lips, something in him broke. Sir Jungkook leaned in and dragged his hot, wet tongue slowly up your soaked slit. The first full taste of you pulled a deep, guttural groan from his chest. You were intoxicatingly sweet and dripping with arousal. He licked you again, slower this time, savoring every slick fold as if he were drinking the finest wine in the kingdom.

You cried out sharply, back arching off the bed as overwhelming pleasure flooded your body. The sensation was brand new, so intense it made your legs twitch violently.

“Oh... Jungkook!” you moaned, fingers digging into his raven hair.

The knight’s tongue circled your swollen clit before sucking it gently into his mouth, then plunged inside your tight heat, ravishing you with slow, deep strokes. The wet, filthy sounds of his mouth eagerly eating you echoed through the chamber, obscene, and shameless.

The most beautiful woman he had ever known, the future queen, was thrashing beneath him, legs shaking uncontrollably around his head, soft whimpers and loud moans spilling from her pretty lips.

Your hips rolled desperately against his face, coating his tongue, lips, and chin with your sweet release. Sir Jungkook drank every drop you gave him, groaning against your cunt as his own cock strained painfully against his armor.

He had never tasted anything so addictive.

You were already twitching, gasping, legs trembling so hard they threatened to close around his head. The pleasure was too much, too new, too overwhelming for your body.

Suddenly, Sir Jungkook pulled back slightly, his lips glistening with your juices. His dark eyes looked up at you, breathing ragged.

“Should I continue, Your Highness?” he asked hoarsely, voice thick with lust and devotion. “Tell me… do you want more?”

You could barely form words. Your body was shaking, pussy throbbing, dripping onto the mattress beneath you.

“Please don’t stop,” you whimpered desperately. “Keep licking me... please...”

The knight obeyed instantly. He buried his face back between your thighs and attacked your clit with relentless strokes of his tongue. Two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling perfectly against that sensitive spot while he sucked hard on your swollen pearl.

The pleasure hit you like a storm.

Your entire body seized up. A loud, broken scream tore from your throat as your orgasm crashed over you violently. Your thighs clamped around his head, hips bucking wildly against his mouth as you gushed on his tongue. Wave after wave of intense pleasure ripped through you, leaving you shaking uncontrollably, vision blurring at the edges.

You nearly passed out from the sheer intensity of it. body twitching, chest heaving, soft cries still falling from your lips as the pleasure refused to let go.

Sir Jungkook stayed between your thighs through every tremor, drinking down every last drop of your release like a man who had finally found salvation.

When your body finally went limp, trembling and oversensitive, he gently kissed your inner thigh before pulling back, his handsome face flushed and glistening with your arousal.

You could barely speak, still catching your breath as you stared at the sight of your proud, disciplined knight with your release shining on his lips.

—

“The Princess requires her knight’s escort to the eastern tower for stargazing.”

The message was innocent enough on paper. But the court had begun to notice how often you summoned Sir Jeon Jungkook for these private “duties.” Some whispered that the Princess trusted no one else. Others envied the knight who had earned such unwavering favor from the realm’s greatest beauty.

They had no idea what really happened once the tower door was bolted.

In the eastern tower under the stars, you would push Sir Jungkook against the cold stone wall and demand his mouth on you again. He always hesitated at first, “Your Highness, we mustn’t…” but the moment you looked at him with those wide, needy eyes and whispered “Please, Jungkook… I ache for you,” his resolve crumbled.

He would drop to his knees in full armor, push your skirts up to your waist, and bury his face between your thighs. The sounds he made while devouring you were filthy and desperately loud. wet slurps and deep groans as he drank every drop of your arousal. You quickly learned to muffle your loud moans against your own arm or his shoulder, thighs shaking violently around his head as he brought you to shattering orgasm after orgasm.

He never asked for anything in return at first. But one night, after he had made you come so hard you saw stars, you dropped to your knees in front of him, hands trembling as you freed his thick, aching cock from his breeches.

You had never seen the knight fully bare, but you had tasted him.

You took him into your mouth with clumsy but eager hunger, sucking and licking until he was groaning your name like a prayer, his gloved hand gently cradling the back of your head. When he spilled down your throat, you swallowed every drop, looking up at him with wide, adoring eyes.

The tension between you only grew hotter, more forbidden.

You began creating excuses just to be close to him.

You “accidentally” wandered into dangerous parts of the forest during hunts. You “lost” your way in the palace corridors at night. You deliberately teased foreign dignitaries until they grew too bold, all so Sir Jungkook would have to step in, pull you protectively against his armored chest, and hold you there while scolding you with his low voice.

Each time, you nestled your head against his chest plate, breathing in his scent, feeling safe in a way you had never felt with anyone else.

One quiet afternoon in the royal rose gardens, while the other knights kept their distance. The summer blooms were at their peak, rows upon rows of crimson roses spilling over marble trellises in a riot of color and fragrance. Courtiers often compared them to you. You had heard the comparison so many times throughout your life that it had long since lost all meaning.

Your attention was elsewhere when Sir Jungkook paused beside a rose bush heavy with crimson blooms. Reaching out, he selected a single flower and turned it thoughtfully between his fingers before approaching.

“A gift?” you asked.

“If Your Highness would accept it.”

The answer surprised a smile from you.

He stepped forward and tucked the rose behind your ear. His gloved fingers lingered only for a second before withdrawing, but even that brief touch seemed to affect him more than he wished to admit.

When you looked up, his gaze was fixed upon the flower. “Beautiful things are dangerous,” he said quietly.

You laughed. “I believe roses are dangerous for everyone except gardeners.”

His expression didn’t change.

“I wasn’t speaking about the rose.”

Your heart fluttered so violently you had to look away. it was becoming impossible to deny how deeply you were falling for him.

The kisses grew sloppier, more desperate with every stolen moment.

In the abandoned library, your knight would press you against the bookshelves, helmet removed, and kiss you like he was drowning, tongue sliding against yours, hands gripping your waist as if afraid you might vanish. You kissed him back just as hungrily, tugging at his hair, moaning softly into his mouth while your hand palmed the hard bulge in his breeches.

Your hunger for him was insatiable. You ached for his presence constantly. The court noticed how you lit up when he entered a room, how you instinctively moved closer to him during gatherings. They saw devotion, they saw trust.

They never saw the way you both held each other’s eyes like lovers who knew their time was stolen.

The relationship was utterly forbidden. Your father would banish him, or worse, if he ever discovered the truth. But neither of you could stop. Something real was blossoming between you.

The knight admired your wild, rebellious spirit. You admired his quiet strength and unwavering honor. In the darkness, you were no longer just princess and knight. You were becoming each other’s secret salvation. And it was only a matter of time before the tension finally snapped.

—

The Coronation.

The kingdom was in full celebration. Banners of the finest gold flew from every tower. The greatest event in decades had arrived, your coronation as Queen.

Princes from across the realms had come in droves, each more eager than the last to win your hand and the throne beside you. They brought lavish gifts, performed in grand tournaments, and showered you with compliments. The entire court watched with bated breath, waiting for you to choose.

You sat upon the raised dais in a breathtaking gown of white, looking every bit the ethereal queen-to-be. But your eyes kept drifting to the tall, armored figure standing silently behind your throne, Sir Jeon Jungkook.

He had become even more composed in public, yet you could feel the storm raging beneath his helmet. Especially when you decided to play your cruel little game.

Prince Min of Veina leaned close during the feast, whispering sweet nothings about your beauty. You laughed brightly, placing a hand on his arm, letting your fingers linger, leaning in just enough for your neckline to offer him a generous view of your breasts.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Sir Jungkook’s gloved hand tighten around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white.

Another prince, a golden haired lord from the eastern isles, offered you a rose during the garden promenade. You accepted it with a coy smile, twirling it between your fingers while glancing toward your knight.

Sir Jungkook’s dark eyes burned behind the helmet. You could feel his jealousy like a living thing, hot and barely contained.

That night, after the feasting and dancing, you summoned him to the eastern tower under the usual pretense.

The moment the door closed, he was on you.

The knight pinned you against the cold stone wall. The single rose you’d been idly twirling between your fingers, a gift from one of the many princes, fell forgotten to the floor.

Sir Jungkook’s dark eyes burned with something almost feral.

“You will be wed off soon?” he growled dangerously, breath hot against your ear.

You looked up at him, heart racing. Your long, wavy hair had finally been let down after the long day, cascading over your shoulders and hips like dark silk. The tight corset of your white coronation gown was already loosened, the fabric slipping slightly off one shoulder, revealing the smooth curve of your skin.

“What do you think about Prince Min?” you asked sweetly, tilting your head. “I think he’s quite lovely. So charming. He even said he would worship me every night once we’re wed.”

Sir Jungkook’s jaw clenched so hard you heard it crack. The jealousy that had been simmering all day threatening to explode.

“Doesn’t it drive you mad, Sir Jeon?” You leaned in closer, letting your breasts brush against his armored chest. “Knowing your princess, the one you’ve been secretly devouring every night, is wanted by so many powerful men? That they all dream of putting a ring on my finger and taking me to their beds?”

“It is exquisite torture, Your Highness,” he growled, eyes burning. “Watching them look at you like they have any right to you. Knowing I’m the only one who’s ever tasted you, the only one who’s ever made you scream.”

His raw honesty sent a sharp thrill through you. You bit your lip, loving the way jealousy sharpened his features, making his dark eyes appear even more intense. He was possessive and barely holding himself back. And you wanted to push him further.

You stepped away from the wall with a teasing smile, walking over to the tall, gilded mirror that stood near the fireplace. The white gown still clung to your body, hair cascading in long, wild waves down your back. You picked up a silver brush and began slowly running it through it, watching him in the reflection.

Sir Jungkook followed you like a shadow, stopping just behind you. His tall, powerful frame loomed in the mirror, twice your size, radiating heat and restrained fury.

“Does that bother you, my knight?” A teasing smile played on your lips. “Knowing that soon I might have to let another man—”

You didn’t get to finish. Sir Jungkook’s large hand closed around your wrist, stopping the brush mid stroke. He plucked it from your fingers and set it down with a deliberate clack. His other hand gripped your hip, pulling your back flush against his armored chest.

Your breath hitched. The playful boldness you’d been wielding all night vanished in an instant.

“Enough,” he growled low against your ear, “You’ve teased me enough tonight, Your Highness.”

His dark eyes burned into yours through the mirror. The intensity there made your knees weak. This wasn’t the restrained, obedient knight anymore. This was a man who had finally reached his limit.

He reached around you and slowly began unlacing the rest of your corset. The white gown loosened further, slipping down your shoulders. You watched in the mirror as he tugged it lower, exposing your full breasts to the cool air and the warm firelight. Your nipples were hard, flushed, and sensitive.

Sir Jungkook’s hand cupped one breast possessively, squeezing it as his thumb brushed over the stiff peak. You gasped, arching into his touch.

“Look at yourself,” he ordered quietly, voice rough. “Look how beautiful you are. How perfect. And yet you let them think they could ever have this.”

He pinched your nipple, rolling it between his fingers until you whimpered. His other hand slid down, gathering the fabric of your gown and pulling it up to your waist, fully exposing your bare cunt in the mirror.

Your face bloomed bright red as you instinctively tried to close your legs, suddenly overwhelmed with shyness at the sight of yourself so lewdly displayed, flushed and completely bare in the golden firelight.

But Sir Jungkook wouldn’t allow it. His large hand gripped your thigh firmly, spreading you open again as he pressed his body harder against your back.

“Don’t hide,” His dark eyes met yours in the mirror, intense and commanding. “Look how filthy and wet you are for me.”

You shivered, unable to tear your eyes away from the reflection. The contrast was obscene, your ethereal white gown bunched around your waist, breasts exposed and heaving, legs spread wide while his armored body loomed behind you like a dark, possessive shadow.

Sir Jungkook’s hand returned between your thighs. Two thick fingers slid through your slick folds, parting them slowly so you could see everything in the mirror. You whimpered at the sight, embarrassed yet unbearably aroused.

“So beautiful,” he breathed as he circled your swollen clit with his fingertip. “This is what belongs to me. Not to any prince. Not to anyone else.”

He pushed two fingers inside you without warning, curling them deep. Your mouth fell open in a silent cry as he began ravishing you with slow, deliberate strokes that made wet, obscene sounds echo in the quiet tower.

You tried to close your legs again, overwhelmed, but he held them open with ease, his grip firm and unyielding.

“Watch,” he ordered softly, voice dark with lust. “Watch how easily I can make my princess fall apart.”

Your eyes stayed glued to the mirror as his fingers plunged in and out of your soaked cunt, his thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit. Your cheeks were flushed deep crimson, lips parted in shameless moans, breasts bouncing slightly with every thrust of his hand.

The pleasure built fast and merciless. Your legs started shaking, thighs trembling violently as you fought to stay upright.

Sir Jungkook’s fingers curled deeper, stroking that perfect spot inside you while his thumb pressed firm circles on your swollen clit.

You came hard with a broken cry, arousal gushing down his wrist and dripping onto the stone floor beneath you. Your head fell back against his armored shoulder, body convulsing as wave after wave of intense pleasure tore through right after.

The knight dragged his arousal coated fingers from your pulsing heat and brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean while his dark eyes stayed locked on yours in the mirror. The obscene sight made you whimper, legs pressing together instinctively. This time, he allowed it.

You pulled away from him shyly, legs unsteady as you walked toward the wide couch near the fireplace. You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to cover your bare breasts, suddenly overwhelmed with embarrassment.

Sir Jungkook approached you ever so slowly. His heart was pounding. you could see it in the rise and fall of his broad chest. The way your flushed cheeks and shy posture made you look so adorable only made his desire burn hotter.

He stopped in front of you, towering over your smaller frame. Without a word, he gently uncrossed your arms, exposing your breasts again. You tried to cover them once more, but he caught your wrists softly.

“You’re too beautiful to hide, my love.” he murmured, voice low.

He leaned down and took one sensitive nipple into his hot mouth, sucking gently at first, then harder. You gasped sharply, hands flying to his shoulders as overwhelming sensitivity shot through you.

“Jungkook... it’s too much...” you whimpered, lightly pushing at his shoulders, cheeks burning with shyness.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark with lust and affection. “You’re so sensitive here,” he whispered, almost in awe. He flicked his tongue over your nipple again, watching your reaction closely. “So angelic when you tremble like this.”

He sucked harder, alternating between your breasts, licking and biting softly until you were a whimpering mess, pushing at him weakly while your body arched into his mouth.

You grew frustrated at the unfairness, nearly naked while he was still fully armored. With a small, determined huff, you pushed him back slightly and began tugging at the straps of his armor.

“It is not fair,” you muttered, cheeks still flushed. “You get to see all of me, but I still haven’t seen you.”

The knight let you undress him, helping you remove piece after piece until he stood completely bare before you for the first time.

Your breath caught.

He was magnificent. Broad shoulders, powerfully sculpted chest marked with old scars, some long and faded, others newer. A few dark tattoos adorned his left pectoral and ribs. His abdomen was ridged with muscle, leading down to narrow hips. His cock hung heavy between his legs, thick and already hard.

You stepped closer, running your hands over his bare chest, tracing every scar with reverent fingers, exploring the strong lines of his back, more scars mapping his battles. He stood perfectly still, letting you admire him, though his breathing had grown heavier.

“You are… so manly, my knight,” you breathed, barely coherent, as your hands returned to his chest, sliding down the hard ridges of his abdomen. “So big… so perfect.”

The room had grown hotter, heavier. The air between you felt charged with months of suppressed longing. Your breaths mingled as you stared into each other’s eyes... yours wide with awe and desire, his dark with barely restrained hunger.

Sir Jungkook’s control finally snapped. He lifted you and laid you down on the wide couch near the fireplace, pinning your exploring hands above your head with one large hand, holding them there firmly before his body hovered over yours, powerful and imposing, thick cock resting heavy against your inner thigh.

“Look at me,” he commanded, voice low and rough.

You did, heart hammering.

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded, eyes burning into yours.

You squirmed beneath him, aching and desperate. “Take me,” you pleaded, trembling. “Please, Jungkook… give it to me. I need you inside me.”

Sir Jungkook let out a low groan at your words. He positioned himself at your entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing against your soaked folds. He was big, almost intimidatingly so. You felt the stretch even before he pushed in.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Your Highness,” he whispered, voice strained with worry and barely contained lust. His dark eyes searched yours, torn between desire and restraint. “You’re so tight...”

You trembled beneath him, legs parted wide around his hips. “Please,” you begged softly, cupping his face. “Don’t hold back. I need you. All of you.”

The knight exhaled shakily and began to push inside.

The stretch was intense. You gasped sharply as the thick head of his cock breached you, slowly forcing your walls open. Inch by thick inch, he sank deeper, filling you in a way you had never experienced before. It burned sweetly, bordering on too much, making your nails dig into his shoulders.

“Ah... Jungkook…” you whimpered, tears pricking your eyes at the overwhelming fullness.

He paused halfway, breathing hard, jaw clenched tight. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he rasped, rough. “I’ll stop. I swear it.”

But you shook your head, wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Don’t stop,” you pleaded, voice breaking. “I need you deeper… please.”

With a low groan, he pushed the rest of the way in, burying himself to the hilt. The fullness was devastating. You felt so stretched, so completely claimed, that for a moment you could barely breathe.

Sir Jungkook stayed still, letting you adjust, pressing soft kisses to your tear stained cheeks.

“You’re taking me so well,” he murmured, voice filled with awe and lust. “Such a good girl for me.”

When the burn finally melted into aching pleasure, you rolled your hips experimentally.

“Move,” you whispered. “Please… ruin me.”

That was all it took.

Sir Jungkook’s control snapped completely. He pulled back and thrust into you hard, setting a deep, punishing rhythm. Jealousy and months of pent up desire fueled every powerful stroke. The wet, filthy sound of his thick cock slamming into your soaked cunt filled the tower, mixing with your loud, broken moans.

He was a knight sworn to protect the crown, now utterly ruining the very sovereign he had pledged his life to shield.

“Mine,” Sir Jungkook growled, biting down on your neck hard enough to leave a dark mark. “Not theirs. Never theirs.”

He ravished you relentlessly, claiming you, marking you. His mouth was everywhere: sucking bruises into your breasts, biting your collarbone, licking the tears from your cheeks. He pinned your wrists above your head again, hips snapping against yours with raw need.

You came hard the first time, screaming his name as your walls clenched violently around his thick length. But he didn’t stop. He took you through it, then flipped you onto your hands and knees, on the wide couch.

First, he worshipped.

The knight dropped to his knees behind you, his large hands spreading your cheeks reverently. He leaned in and pressed slow, open mouthed kisses along the curve of your royal backside, lingering presses of his lips that made your breath hitch. He kissed lower, then lower still, until his tongue dragged hot and wet over your soaked folds from behind.

“So beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, breath hot and heavy. “So divine. And yet I am going to ruin every sacred inch of you.”

Then the worship turned into ruin.

He rose, gripping your hips with white knuckled force, and thrust into you from behind in one deep, devastating stroke. You cried out sharply at the stretch, the thick length of his cock forcing your walls open, filling you so completely it stole your breath.

You sobbed in pleasure, fingers clawing at the cushions as he drove into you relentlessly. The power he exerted over you was intoxicating. this hardened warrior, dominating you utterly while still worshipping every tremble of your body.

“You belong to me,” he rasped, ruining you with slow, devastating strokes now. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you whimpered, voice breaking. “Only yours, Jungkook... ahh!”

By the third round, you were a sobbing, whimpering mess, tears streaming down your face from overwhelming pleasure, body covered in his marks, cunt swollen and dripping with your combined release.

He took you in every way he could: against the wall, bent over the couch, riding him as he sat on the edge of the seat, then finally on your back again with your legs over his shoulders as he drove impossibly deep.

All night long, the tower echoed with your moans, his deep groans, the obscene wet sounds of your bodies joining. He claimed you utterly and completely devoted.

When he finally came for the last time, buried deep inside you, he held you tight, spilling pulse after pulse of hot seed into your womb, filling you until you felt impossibly full, claimed from the inside out.

Sir Jeon Jungkook pressed his forehead to yours, his lips brushing against yours with every word.

“You command the entire kingdom, my lady,” he whispered reverently, “but here in this hidden place… you are mine to ruin.”

You could only tremble in his arms, utterly spent, legs wrapped around his waist, heart pounding wildly as the fire crackled beside you.

The weight of what you had just done, and what it meant for both of you settled uncomfortably in the air. But in that moment, wrapped in his powerful arms, marked and filled by your knight, nothing else in the kingdom mattered.

The days that followed were a delicate illusion of peace.

It was late morning when you found yourself in the secluded royal bathing pool fed by a gentle river, surrounded by floating lily pads and white blossoms that drifted lazily on the current. The water was warm, scented with rose and lavender oils poured in by your maids. Sunlight filtered through the overhanging willow branches, casting soft, dappled light across the surface.

You leaned back against the smooth stone edge, your long dark hair floating around you like ink in water. Your body still carried the secret marks of the previous night, faint bruises on your hips, love bites hidden beneath the waterline, and a persistent, delicious ache between your thighs that reminded you with every shift who had claimed you so thoroughly.

Your maids, Elara, Verra, and old, wise Selyse moved around you carefully. They had raised you since you were a babe, more mothers than servants. They knew you better than anyone.

Elara poured another stream of warm water over your shoulders, her sharp eyes catching the faint flush that still lingered on your cheeks.

“You are glowing again this morning, my lady,” she said lightly, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “One might think the moon itself had kissed your skin.”

Verra, younger and bolder, laughed softly as she massaged oil into your scalp. “Or perhaps a certain tall, dark eyed knight has been keeping you… well attended.”

You felt your face heat, but you couldn’t stop the small, secret smile that curved your lips.

Selyse, the eldest, clicked her tongue but her eyes were soft with affection. “Hush, you two. Our princess has always been radiant. Though…” she tilted her head, studying you, “there is a new light in her eyes these days. And a certain weariness in her step that speaks of long nights.”

You bit your lip, sinking a little lower into the water as lily pads brushed against your skin.

“It is nothing,” you murmured, though the flush in your cheeks betrayed you.

“Nothing?” Vera teased, wading closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially.

“We have seen you grow from a wild little girl into this breathtaking woman. We know your heart. And we know it does not belong to any of those puffed up princes parading through the halls.”

You reached out, squeezing Elara’s hand, then Verra’s, your voice dropping to a shy, trembling whisper.

“It is true,” you confessed, cheeks burning hotter than the midday sun. “I have given myself to Sir Jeon. Body and heart. He is the only man I have ever wanted. The only one who has ever touched me.”

For a heartbeat, silence fell over the bathing pool. Then came the gasps.

Elara’s eyes widened, her hand flying to her mouth. Verra let out a delighted little squeak, nearly dropping the oil vial. Even old Selyse, usually so composed, looked momentarily stunned before her face broke into a warm, knowing smile.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” Elara breathed, scandalized, thrilled. “You wicked little thing! With your own knight? Right under the King’s nose?”

Verra giggled uncontrollably, splashing water playfully in your direction. “And here we thought you were simply fond of him! All those late night ‘stargazing’ trips… you minx! Was he gentle? Was he… big?”

“Verra!” Selyse scolded, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. She turned to you with motherly affection. “Though I must admit, we have suspected for some time. The way he looks at you when he thinks no one is watching… that man is utterly gone for you, my lady.”

You buried your face in your hands, mortified but unable to stop the shy, giddy smile spreading across your lips. Your gaze drifted across the river to where Sir Jeon Jungkook stood guard a respectful distance away, half hidden among the willow trees.

Even from here, you could feel the weight of his stare. He stood tall and imposing in his armor, but his dark eyes were fixed on you with a quiet, burning intensity that always made your stomach flutter.

You bit your lip, still flushed from both the warm water and the memory of his mouth, his hands, his body claiming you so thoroughly the night before.

“He is… everything,” you whispered dreamily, more to yourself than the maids. “Strong. Honorable. And when we are alone… he worships me like I am his entire world.”

Verra let out another delighted laugh. “As he should! Our princess deserves nothing less. Though if the King ever finds out…”

Selyse gently squeezed your shoulder, her voice softening with both love and concern.

“Then we will protect your secret as fiercely as we have protected you all these years,” she said. “You deserve to love who you love, my dear. Crown or no crown.”

You looked back at Sir Jungkook again. He hadn’t moved from his post among the willow trees, tall and steadfast in his armor, but your heart ached with a sharp mix of fear and wonder.

If The King ever discovered the truth, he would not spare your knight. Sir Jungkook would be banished, or worse. And you… you would be married off immediately to seal the wound.

The thought disturbed you deeply.

You turned back to the water, forcing a smile for your maids, but the warmth of the bath could no longer chase away the chill settling in your chest.

—

The rumors had begun to spread like fire through the palace corridors.

A lesser knight claimed he had seen “suspicious movement” near the eastern tower. One of the visiting princes mentioned, with a sly smile, that the Princess seemed unusually attached to her personal guard. Nothing concrete, nor proven. But the whispers were growing louder.

Your maids noticed your distraction immediately. During your morning dressing, Verra fastened the laces of your gown with unusually tight pulls, her voice urgent.

“My lady… you must be more careful,” she whispered. “Some of the king’s men have been asking questions about Sir Jeon. They say he spends too many nights away from the barracks. And one of Prince Min’s retainers swears he saw a tall figure slipping into your wing after midnight.”

Elara’s hands paused on your hair. “The knight is being cautious now. He avoids being seen with you as much. But you… you still look at him like he hung the moon. It is only a matter of time before the King hears something he cannot ignore.”

Selyse placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her eyes full of love and worry. “You are playing with fire, sweet girl. And fire does not care how much you love it.”

Your heart clenched with fear. You hadn’t seen your knight alone in a week. He had been deliberately distant, protecting you both by keeping his distance. The absence gnawed at you like hunger.

That night, you sent for him under the pretense of needing extra security for a private walk in the inner courtyard.

The moment the hidden door to your chambers closed behind him, you were on him.

You pushed Sir Jungkook against the wall, frustration and fear pouring out of you in a desperate kiss. Your hands fisted in his tunic, tugging him closer.

“Where have you been?” you demanded between kisses, voice shaking. “I was scared. I thought something had happened to you. I thought my father had already—”

“I’m here,” he whispered against your lips, rough with emotion. He pulled you closer, arms wrapping around you. “I’m right here, my love.”

But then he pulled back slightly, forehead pressed to yours. His dark eyes were filled with pain.

“I cannot stay,” he said quietly. The words hit you like a blow. “Your father has ordered me to lead a company to the western borders. There have been reports of raiders. He says it is to prove my devotion to protecting the realm… and you. He also made it clear I can no longer linger so closely around you. The rumors are growing too loud.”

You stared at him, heart shattering.

“No,” you whispered, then louder, “No. You cannot leave me. Not now. Not after everything.”

Tears stung your eyes as the hurt poured out.

“After our first night, you pulled away. You kept your distance like I was poison. And now you’re leaving entirely? What if something happens to you out there? What if I lose you forever? I can’t take it, Jungkook. I won’t survive it.”

Your hands moved frantically, tugging at the straps of his armor with desperate, angry fingers.

“I don’t care about the king. I don’t care about the borders. I only care about you.”

Piece by piece, you stripped him. The armor fell to the floor with heavy clangs until he stood completely bare before you, broad chest, scarred skin, powerful frame looking every bit of the warrior he was. You shoved him back onto the bed and climbed on top of him, straddling his hips.

Sir Jungkook’s hands moved instinctively to the laces of your corset, trying to free you fully, but you slapped his hand away, tears already glistening in your eyes.

But the knight was patient. He sat up slowly, your legs still wrapped tightly around his waist, and gently cupped your face with both hands. His thumbs brushed away the tears on your cheeks with heartbreaking tenderness.

“My love,” he whispered, voice soothing, “Let me worship you. Let me take care of you tonight. Please.”

He leaned in and captured one of your sensitive breasts in his mouth, sucking slowly. His tongue swirled around your stiff nipple, drawing a shaky moan from you. He moved to the other, giving it the same devoted attention, sucking and licking until your back arched and fresh tears slipped down your cheeks, this time from overwhelming sensation and emotion.

Holding you close, then gently but firmly, Sir Jungkook leaned back, gripping your hips and guiding you upward. In one rapid motion, he pulled you over his face, settling you directly onto his waiting mouth. Your soaked folds pressed flush against his lips and tongue, your thighs framing his head as he looked up at you with pure hunger.

“Use me,” he growled against your dripping folds, the vibration sending sparks through your core. “Pleasure yourself on my tongue love. I want to drown in you.”

You hesitated for half a second, still shy and nervous, cheeks burning hot even as your body screamed for more. But the frantic ache between your legs won out. You lowered yourself more fully, your slick cunt sliding over his mouth, his nose buried against your clit. He groaned loudly, the sound muffled and obscene as he immediately speared his tongue deep inside you, licking and sucking at your juices like a man starved.

You started moving almost desperately, grinding down with frantic little rocks of your hips. Shyness still flickered in your chest, making you whimper and bite your lip, but the pleasure overrode everything. Your hands braced on the headboard as wet, filthy sounds filled the room, the slick slide of your cunt over his tongue, his eager slurping and moaning, the way he sucked your swollen clit between his lips and flicked it mercilessly.

“Oh gods...” you gasped. Your thighs trembled around his head as you grew bolder, grinding harder, smearing your arousal all over his face. He gripped your cheeks, spreading them, holding you down so you could use him exactly how you needed. His tongue ravished in and out of your dripping hole, then flattened to lap broad strokes from your entrance to your clit, devouring every drop.

But it wasn’t enough.

You lifted off his face with a wet pop, strings of your arousal connecting you to his glistening mouth. His eyes were dark, lips swollen and shiny with your juices. Before he could speak, you slid down his body impatiently.

You straddled his hips, wrapped your hand around his thick, throbbing cock, and sank down onto him in one frantic motion.

The stretch made you cry out, but you didn’t stop. You rode him hard, bouncing on his length with frantic, emotional need, your breasts bouncing heavily with every harsh drop of your hips.

“Don’t leave me,” you sobbed, riding him faster, tears falling onto his chest. “Please, Jungkook… I can’t lose you. Not after this. Not after you’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

He thrust up to meet you, matching your desperate rhythm, his strong hands gripping your hips to guide you deeper.

“I don’t want to go,” he rasped, voice breaking with the same pain. “But I must. Your father commands it. I have to prove my loyalty… so I can stay by your side.”

You leaned down, kissing him messily through your tears, riding him like you could keep him here forever if you just moved fast enough.

“Then stay inside me,” you begged, voice cracking. “Fill me up. So deep that a part of you stays with me even when you’re gone. I want to carry you with me when they try to take you away.”

Sir Jungkook groaned deeply. His hands tightened on your hips as he suddenly flipped you onto your back, pinning you beneath his powerful body.

He made love to you then, with deep, devastating strokes that reached the very core of you. His mouth never left your skin, sucking marks into your neck, whispering promises between every thrust.

“You are mine,” he breathed against your lips, hips rolling deeply. “I will come back to you. I will fill you again and again until you swell with our future.”

You wrapped your arms and legs around him, clinging desperately as another orgasm built inside you. When it finally crashed over you, you sobbed his name, walls pulsing tightly around his thick cock.

Sir Jungkook followed right after, burying himself as deep as possible with a low, guttural groan. He came hard, flooding your womb with thick, pulsing ropes of his seed, holding you so tightly it felt like he was trying to merge your souls together.

Even after, he stayed buried inside you, pressing soft kisses to your damp forehead, your cheeks, your trembling lips.

“I don’t want you to go,” you whispered, small and broken. “I love you too much.”

Sir Jungkook pressed a soft kiss to your temple, his arms never loosening. “I know, my love,” he murmured. “And that is why I must return to you. No matter what.”

The weeks following Sir Jungkook’s departure had stretched into an endless gray fog.

You moved through your royal duties like a ghost wearing a crown. You sat through council meetings with a straight spine and a hollow smile, listening to nobles bicker about alliances, trade routes while your mind wandered back to your knight’s strong arms. Every night since, your bed felt too large, too cold. You would press your face into the pillow he had once used and fight the ache in your chest.

You missed him with a desperation that bordered on madness.

This morning was no different. You had barely kept your breakfast down before the maids helped you into a heavy velvet gown the color of deep wine for yet another assembly with potential suitors. The princes and lords from neighboring kingdoms were growing impatient. Your coronation was only a month away, and the pressure to choose a consort was mounting like a noose around your throat.

By midday, the nausea returned with a vengeance. You barely made it through the formal greetings before excusing yourself to the private solar, hand pressed to your mouth.

Elara followed quickly with a basin. You retched violently into it, eyes watering.

“Your Highness…” she whispered, rubbing gentle circles on your back.

“I’m fine,” you rasped, waving her away. “Just… something I ate.”

But it wasn’t.

Later that evening, after the day’s obligations were finally over, Vera and Selyse insisted on the usual massage to ease the tension in your shoulders. They helped you out of your gown until you lay on the wide cushioned table in nothing but a thin silk shift.

The moment Selyse’s skilled hands moved over your breasts, the older maid froze.

Verra, who was working on your legs, also stilled.

“…Your Highness,” Selyse said carefully, “Your breasts… they are fuller. Tender, yes?”

Your breath hitched. You had noticed it days ago but had tried to ignore the swelling, the sensitivity. The way even the softest fabric sometimes made you wince.

Verra’s hands gently pressed against your lower belly, not quite a touch, more an assessment. “And the sickness every morning… the fatigue… the way you’ve been crying in your chambers…”

Your eyes filled with tears. You turned your face into your folded arms, shoulders shaking.

Selyse knelt beside the table, taking your hand gently. “My lady… are you with a child?”

You didn’t answer at first. Then a broken sob escaped you.

“I think so,” you whispered. “I… I don’t know for certain, but the timing…” Your voice cracked. “It would be his. Sir Jungkook’s.”

Both maids exchanged a heavy glance. This changed everything.

Verra spoke softly, “My lady... with your coronation approaching. The lords are already circling like vultures, pushing their sons at you. If this comes out before you choose a prince…”

“I know,” you said, voice muffled. Fresh tears slipped down your cheeks. “I know what it means. But I can’t… I can’t just marry one of them. Not when I’m carrying the child of the only man I’ve ever loved.”

You sat up slowly, clutching the silk shift to your chest, arms wrapped protectively around your still flat stomach.

“My dear knight...” you sniffled. “He is out there fighting gods-know-what, and I’m here pretending to be the perfect princess while my body betrays our secret.”

Selyse brushed a strand of hair from your face with motherly tenderness. “We can hide it a little longer, Highness. Looser gowns. Ginger tea for the sickness. But you must decide soon what path you will take. The child… it will not stay hidden forever.”

You nodded, but your heart was breaking all over again. The thought of choosing one of those cold, ambitious princes while carrying Sir Jungkook’s child made you feel ill all over again.

Selyse pressed a kiss to the top of your head, her voice firm with loyalty. “We pray he returns soon, my lady. And until then, we will guard you and this little one with our lives.”

—

The weeks blurred into months as winter settled over the kingdom like a heavy white shroud. Snow blanketed the towers and gardens, turning the world soft and silent, yet inside your chest, the storm only grew louder.

Sir Jeon Jungkook had not returned.

Your belly had swelled noticeably now, a gentle but undeniable curve that marked the life growing within you. With the help of Elara, Verra, and Selyse, you hid it beneath layers of loose, flowing gowns and heavy cloaks lined with fur.

The rich fabrics concealed the truth for now, but you could no longer ignore the way your body changed, the tender fullness of your breasts, the occasional flutter of movement beneath your skin, and the constant, bone deep exhaustion.

You had begun excusing yourself from the suitors’ assemblies more frequently, claiming headaches or matters of state. But the King, grew increasingly impatient.

In the grand throne room one frost laced afternoon, he fixed you with a stern gaze as snow fell outside the tall windows. “You cannot delay any longer, daughter,” he spoke, heavy with royal command. “Prince Min of Viena is a strong candidate. The coronation is weeks away. You must choose a consort soon. The realm needs stability.”

You bowed your head, hands clasped tightly over your hidden belly beneath the voluminous velvet. “Yes, Father,” you murmured, the lie tasting like ash. Inside, your heart screamed for the only man you wanted.

Every few days, with your maids’ help, you sent letters. Verra would sneak them to a trusted rider, sealed with your private wax. You poured your soul onto the parchment; how much you missed him, the way your body was changing, the secret you carried, your love that only deepened with every passing day. Yet no responses ever came. The silence gnawed at you, feeding nightmares of him lying wounded on some distant battlefield or worse.

The worry became unbearable.

One bitter winter morning, wrapped in a thick hooded cloak that concealed your swollen middle, you slipped away from the castle with only Elara and Selyse accompanying you. The three of you rode through the snow dusted forest to a modest stone cottage on the outskirts of the kingdom, the home where Sir Jungkook had grown up.

When the door opened, an older woman with kind eyes and streaks of silver in her dark hair stood before you. Sir Jungkook’s mother. She froze at the sight of the princess on her doorstep, her hand flying to her chest.

“Your Highness…?” she whispered, stunned. “Surely I do not deserve to be blessed with your presence at my humble door. Please, come inside before the cold takes you.”

She ushered you, Elara, and Selyse quickly into the warm cottage, the scent of pinewood and baking bread wrapping around you like an embrace. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth as she helped you remove your snow dusted cloak. Only when you were seated by the fire did her gaze drop to the unmistakable swell of your belly beneath the loose gown.

You took a steadying breath, your hands resting protectively over your rounded stomach.

“I carry his child,” you said softly, trembling with emotion. “Your son’s. Sir Jungkook’s. He does not know yet… he has not returned, and I… I needed to feel close to him somehow.”

Jungkook’s mother, Maera, stood completely still for a long moment, her eyes wide with shock. Then her hand flew to her mouth as tears welled up in her eyes.

“Oh… gods above,” she breathed, her voice cracking. “A grandchild…? From my Jungkook?” Fresh tears flowed freely as she dropped to her knees in front of you, taking your hands in hers with deep reverence. “My lady… my princess. You honor me beyond words. You honor my son. To think that you, a royal daughter, would carry his child… I am stunned. Truly stunned. And so deeply moved.”

She pressed her forehead to your knuckles, weeping quietly with pure joy and emotion. When she lifted her head again, her eyes shone with fierce affection.

“You are already family to me,” she whispered. “Come here, sweet child.” She rose and pulled you into a warm embrace, cradling you gently as if you were made of glass. “You must be so frightened, carrying this secret alone while he is away. But you are not alone anymore. Not while I draw breath.”

You felt safe in her arms, the weight on your heart easing just a little as winter wind howled softly outside the cottage walls.

After composing herself, Maera wiped her tears and fetched a small wooden chest from a shelf. She sat beside you, opening it with trembling hands.

“Look,” she said tenderly, pulling out several treasured items. She showed you a faded sketch of a chubby baby with dark, serious eyes —Sir Jungkook as an infant. Another portrait showed him as a sturdy little boy of four, holding a wooden sword with determination. There was even a lock of his soft baby hair tied with a ribbon.

“He was always so intense, even as a babe,” she said with a watery laugh. “Strong and quiet… but when he smiled, the whole world lit up. Just like I imagine your little one will.”

You traced the portraits with gentle fingers, tears slipping down your own cheeks. Seeing these glimpses of him as a child made your love for the knight swell even deeper. You could so clearly picture your baby with his eyes, his strength, his rare smile. The thought made your heart ache with both joy and longing.

Maera kept one hand over yours, cherishing you openly. “Thank you for coming to me,” she murmured. “For trusting me with this precious news. We will wait for him together, my daughter. And when he returns, he will be the happiest man alive.”

The two of you sat by the fire for a long while — his mother and the mother of his child, talking softly as snow continued to fall outside, bound by love for the same man.

The days after your visit to Maera’s cottage only deepened the ache in your soul. Winter grew harsher, and so did your impatience. Every morning you woke with your hands on your swelling belly, feeling the strong kicks of his child, and the longing became unbearable.

One evening in the royal chambers, you fell to your knees before the King, tears streaming down your face. “Father, please… I beg you. Bring Sir Jungkook back. I need him. I cannot do this without him.”

The King frowned, confused by your desperation. “Daughter, he is leading my forces on the border. The realm needs him there. Why this sudden insistence on one knight?”

You could not tell him the truth. “I just… need him,” you whispered brokenly. “Please.”

He did not relent. The pressure to choose a suitor only intensified.

And then the sickness took hold.

Your body ached constantly. deep soreness in your back, hips, and breasts that made every movement painful. The baby’s kicks, once a comfort, now left you breathless. You grew feverish and weak.

Elara, Verra, and Selyse rarely left your side, forcing herbal teas and bitter medicines down your throat while piling warm blankets over you. For nearly a week you were bedridden, barely able to leave your chambers, hidden away from the court under the excuse of a winter chill.

One cold, silent night, as snow tapped gently against the window panes, you drifted in and out of a fevered haze. The herbs made the world soft and blurry around the edges.

You thought it was a dream when the heavy door to your chambers opened with a quiet creak and a tall, familiar figure stepped inside, shedding his snow dusted cloak. The firelight caught on his sharp jawline and those intense dark eyes.

Strong arms slipped beneath you, lifting you carefully as he climbed into your grand bed. A warm, calloused hand gently cradled your swollen belly. You felt the press of soft, reverent lips against the curve of your stomach.

“My love…” The knight’s deep voice whispered against your skin, rough with emotion. “I’m here. I finally came back to you.”

“Jungkook…?” you murmured drowsily, eyelids heavy, unsure if this was real or another cruel dream born of longing and medicine.

“It’s me,” he breathed, pulling your body flush against his solid chest. He was real. warm, solid, smelling of snow, leather, and the faint scent of campfires. “I’ve been aching for you every single day. Your touch, your voice… it kept me alive out there.”

His large hand stroked slow, soothing circles over your rounded belly, feeling the baby shift and kick beneath his palm. He lowered his head, pressing his lips directly to the taut skin.

You let out a tired, broken sound. “You left me… You promised you’d come back sooner. Look at me… I’m so sore, so heavy with your child, and you weren’t here…”

Sir Jungkook chuckled softly, the sound warm against your skin, even as his eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I know, my princess. I deserve your scolding. I’m deeply sorry.” He kissed your belly again and again, soft open mouthed presses wherever he could reach. Then he trailed his lips higher, attaching his mouth gently to the swollen, aching curve of your breasts, sucking lightly and kissing away the soreness with such care that you whimpered in relief.

His hands never stopped moving, massaging the deep ache in your lower back, cupping and gently holding your heavy breasts to ease their weight, stroking your hips and thighs. He intertwined his fingers with yours, holding your hand tightly as if afraid you might vanish.

“You are unreal, my love.” he murmured, voice hoarse with awe as he looked at you. “Your glow… it’s deeper now. The way pregnancy has changed you… you’re beyond anything I could have imagined. You shine like starlight. Carrying our child has only made you more radiant, more mine.”

You clung to him weakly, drowsy but desperate for his touch. “The baby… it kicks so much. I don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl… but it feels like you. Strong and stubborn.”

Jungkook smiled against your temple, one hand still resting warmly over your belly. “This child is the product of our love. A piece of both of us. I already love them more than life.” He kissed you deeply, slowly, pouring months of aching into it. “Every battle, every cold night, I thought only of coming home to you like this… holding you, feeling our baby move, worshipping the body that’s creating our future.”

He continued kissing every place that ached... the sides of your breasts, the curve of your belly, the inside of your wrist, his mouth soft and devoted. You melted into him, the pain easing under his gentle care as he held you close.

“Stay…” you whispered tiredly, already slipping back into sleep.

“I’m here right now,” he promised, lips brushing your ear. “Sleep, my love. I’ve got you both.”

When morning light filtered through the heavy curtains, you woke slowly, body still aching but strangely comforted.

The bed beside you was cold. No warmth lingered. No cloak on the chair. No scent of him on the pillows. Only the faint memory of strong hands, whispered words to your belly, and soft kisses remained.

You touched your swollen stomach, feeling another firm kick, and tears filled your eyes.

Was it a dream? A fevered hallucination woven from medicine, longing, and love? Or had Sir Jungkook truly returned to you in the dead of night… only to disappear again before dawn?

The herbs and medicines your maids prepared worked their magic. The fever finally broke, the deep soreness in your body eased into a manageable ache, and the constant nausea faded. Though you were still tired, your strength slowly returned. Your belly continued to grow rounder and heavier, the baby’s kicks becoming more insistent and lively.

One quiet winter evening, when the moon hung full over the snow covered palace, your maids turned your chambers into a secret sanctuary.

Accompanied by Sir Jungkook’s mother, they had worked together in absolute secrecy. No one outside your trusted circle knew. They had decorated the large private solar adjacent to your bedroom with soft candlelight, evergreen boughs, and winter white roses. Warm furs and silk pillows were arranged in a luxurious nest near the hearth. Incense of myrrh filled the air, and a small table held gifts wrapped in fine cloth.

They helped you into a loose, flowing gown of the softest ivory silk that draped beautifully over your swollen belly, leaving your shoulders bare. When you stepped into the room, all four women bowed their heads in reverence.

Selyse took your hand and guided you to the center of the soft pillows. “Tonight we celebrate you, my lady. And the precious life you carry. No one else will know of this blessing. It is ours alone.”

They treated you with deep adoration, as though you were sacred.

Elara gently massaged your feet with warm scented oil while Maera brushed your hair until it shone. Verra offered you sweet honeyed fruits and warm spiced milk, foods meant to nourish both you and the baby. Selyse laid her hands lightly on your rounded belly and spoke soft blessings for a safe birth and a strong child.

Selyse, ever wise, placed a small crown of dried herbs and winter berries on your head. “You are the vessel of love and life,” she murmured. “Even in these uncertain times, you bloom. We honor you as our princess… and as the mother of Sir Jungkook’s heir.”

You felt tears prick your eyes as they presented their secret gifts: tiny embroidered blankets, a soft knitted cap in deep green, a small silver pendant shaped like a blooming rose, a symbol of motherhood.

Vera leaned her cheek against your belly for a moment, grinning when the baby kicked in response. “He or she is strong already. Just like their father.”

You placed both hands over your swollen stomach, feeling another firm flutter. The warmth of their love and the secret celebration soothed the constant ache of missing your knight.

“Thank you,” you whispered, “All of you. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

Elara kissed your temple. “We will keep you and this little one safe until Sir Jungkook returns. And he will return.”

The warmth of the secret celebration lingered on your skin as you returned to your chambers that night. The maids had just helped you out of the ivory silk gown when a royal messenger knocked urgently.

“The King demands your presence immediately, Your Highness. In his private study.”

You had no time to prepare. Still glowing from the love and blessings of your maids, you wrapped yourself in a heavy velvet robe that concealed your very swollen belly and followed the messenger.

The moment you entered the study, the atmosphere turned icy. Your father stood behind his desk, several of your letters spread before him.

“Daughter,” he spoke, controlled. “I have given you time to come to me yourself. I know you have been sending letters to the front lines. To Sir Jungkook, specifically.” He turned to face you, his expression stern but not yet furious. “I know of your… admiration for him. Speak truthfully now. What is this attachment?”

Your throat tightened. This was the moment. With your belly heavy with his child and your heart aching, you could no longer hide everything.

“Father…” you began, voice trembling as you stepped closer. “It is more than admiration. I love him. Sir Jungkook is the only man I want.” Your hands instinctively moved to cradle your stomach. “And I… I am carrying his child.”

Silence crashed over the room.

The King’s eyes widened, then narrowed sharply as his gaze dropped to the unmistakable swell beneath your gown. His face darkened with shock, then rage.

“You what?” he hissed. “A knight’s bastard? While I have been parading princes before you? While the entire realm waits for you to secure the throne with a proper alliance?”

“Father, please,” you begged, tears filling your eyes. “It is his. Our love is real. If you would only let him return, we could—”

The King’s face twisted with fury. “You dare speak such filth to me? A royal princess swollen with a common knight’s bastard?”

You rebelled, voice shaking but defiant. “It is not filth. It is love. I will not marry Prince Min. I will not let you use me as a pawn for alliances while I carry the man I love’s child.”

“Enough!” The King slammed his fist on the table, making you flinch. “I have been patient with your childish infatuation, but this is treason against your bloodline. You will do as you are told! Your fate is sealed. You will marry Prince Min before the month ends.”

Later that same night, before your maids could even calm you, you found your most trusted rider in the stables. With tears streaming down your face and snow falling around you, you whispered your final message: “Tell him… tell Sir Jungkook that I will wait for him. No matter how long it takes. My heart is his alone. I will wait.”

The rider bowed and galloped into the night. No response ever came.

The next weeks were a nightmare.

Prince Min visited often, his eyes raking over your body with open lust and infatuation. He complimented your “ethereal glow”, clearly aroused by your pregnant form, but his arrogance disgusted you. He spoke openly of claiming the throne through you, of bedding you the moment you were his. You hated him with every fiber of your being.

You fought your father harder than ever, refusing to attend meetings with Prince Min, screaming that you would rather die than marry him. But the King had reached his limit.

One brutal afternoon, he summoned you again and placed a bloodied cloak and a forged letter before you.

“Sir Jeon Jungkook is dead,” he said flatly. “He fell in battle two weeks ago. This is proof.”

The world shattered.

You collapsed to the floor, a guttural sob tearing from your throat. The baby inside you kicked as if sensing your pain. From that moment, you broke completely.

You refused to eat. You barely slept. You stopped speaking, even to Elara, Verra, and Selyse who begged you through tears to think of the child. You lay in bed for days, staring at nothing, your once radiant glow fading into pale exhaustion. Your maids feared for both your life and the baby’s.

Despite how numb you had become, when your maids gently suggested taking you to Maera’s quiet home on the edge of the forest, you agreed without protest. You were taken there in secret under the cover of night.

Maera, a strong but grieving woman with the same dark eyes as her son, took you in without question. She cared for you with quiet hands and even quieter words. You didn’t speak much to her either, but you accepted her care wholeheartedly. After all, she was mourning the loss of her son, and you were mourning the loss of your lover and the father of your child.

The King, despite his fury, still sent guards to watch over you from a distance. You were still royalty, still carrying what he believed might be his grandchild. But you could only think of the protection you once had... the strongest, safest pair of arms that had ever wrapped around you.

You mourned deeply. But you couldn’t be completely selfish with a baby on the way, restless and eager to come into the world.

The labor came on a stormy night.

The pains started suddenly and violently. Maera and your maids worked frantically around you as you screamed and cried, gripping the sheets until your knuckles turned white. The King himself had ridden out in secret when he heard you had gone into labor, standing outside the cottage with a face pale with rare fear.

He didn’t know how to comfort you. He only knew one thing, his daughter was calling for her knight in her delirium.

Even though he viewed the child as the product of a sinful affair, something in him softened at the sound of your broken sobs. He could not lose you.

Inside the cottage, you gave birth to a baby girl.

She was small, chubby, with a shock of raven hair and big, dark eyes that looked exactly like her father’s. The moment the midwife placed her on your chest, fresh tears streamed down your face.

“She looks like him…” you whispered, hoarse and broken. “My little love… she has his eyes.”

You held her close, sobbing softly as the pain and grief mixed with a fragile, overwhelming love. Even in your exhaustion, you couldn’t stop crying. You believed Sir Jungkook was dead. The thought that your daughter would never know her father tore you apart.

Maera wept beside you, gently stroking your hair. “She’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Just like her mother.”

Outside, the King stood in the rain, waiting.

When the door finally opened and the midwife stepped out, he demanded to know if you and the child were alive. Upon hearing they both were, something in his hardened heart shifted.

He turned to his captain without a word and gave the order.

“Send riders to the western borders at once. Bring Sir Jeon Jungkook back. Tell him… his princess has need of him.”

It would take time. The borders were far, and the roads were muddy from the storms. A week, perhaps a month.

In the quiet warmth of the cottage, you held your newborn daughter against your chest, wrapped in soft linen.

You rocked her gently as she fussed against your breast, nursing hungrily. Your maids and Maera moved around you, bringing broth, fresh cloths, and ever soft words. But you barely spoke. The grief had hollowed you out.

“I wish you could meet your father,” you whispered to the baby one quiet night, voice cracking. Tears slipped down your cheeks as she latched on again. “He would have held you so carefully. He would have loved you more than anything in this world. He would have protected us both…”

Maera sat beside you, her own eyes red from mourning. She placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. “He would have been so proud,” she said softly. “Of both of you.”

You could only nod, throat too tight to speak. The emptiness inside you felt endless. Every time the baby cried, every time she looked up at you with those familiar dark eyes, the pain returned like a fresh wound.

The King demanded your return to the palace, as you were still royalty, still bound to your father’s will despite carrying a child out of wedlock. He wrote letter after letter insisting you resume your duties and prepare for the inevitable marriage to Prince Min. You refused to answer most of them.

Your maids tried their best to comfort you, but even they could not reach the depths of your sorrow. The only light in your world was your daughter. Tiny, perfect, with Jungkook’s dark eyes and a tuft of raven hair. You held her constantly, whispering stories about her father, singing lullabies with a voice that often broke halfway through.

You mourned him deeply. The King had not even granted him a proper funeral. No rites. No chance to say goodbye. Just a bloodied cloak and a cold declaration.

One quiet evening, Maera left the cottage to fetch groceries from the nearby village. Your maids had been called back to the palace on the King’s orders, duties they could not refuse. For the first time in weeks, it was just you and your baby in the small, warm cottage.

You sat by the window, cradling her in your arms. She cooed softly, tiny fingers wrapping around yours as you gently rocked her. For a few precious minutes, you allowed yourself to smile a real, soft smile as you played with her little hands and kissed her forehead.

“My baby,” you whispered, “The loveliest babe. Don’t tell the queens and princesses, I think they’d be terribly jealous.”

The baby blinked up at you. “Oh, yes,” you continued solemnly. “Especially of those cheeks.”

You leaned back in the chair as exhaustion eventually won over you, your eyes growing heavy. With your daughter nestled safely against your chest, sleep claimed you quickly.

When you woke, the cottage was awfully quiet.

Your arms were empty.

Panic slammed into you like a physical blow. You shot upright, heart hammering wildly as you looked around the room.

The baby was gone.

“No… no, no, no...” you gasped, stumbling to your feet, voice rising into a broken sob. “Where is my baby?!”

You searched frantically, under the blankets, behind the chairs, near the hearth, terror clawing at your throat. Your mind spun with nightmarish possibilities. Had someone taken her? Had the King sent men to steal her away?

Then you saw him.

A tall figure standing near the doorway, cradling your daughter gently in his strong arms. She was sleeping peacefully against his chest, tiny fist curled into his tunic.

Your knees buckled.

It was Sir Jungkook.

He looked exhausted, travel worn, mud on his boots, shadows under his eyes, but he was alive. Real. His dark eyes met yours, filled with unbearable love and pain.

You stared at him, trembling violently, refusing to believe what you were seeing.

“No…” you whispered, shaking your head. “No, no, this isn’t real. You’re dead. They told me you were dead. This is another dream. You always come in my dreams and then you leave me again—”

Your voice cracked into a sob as you backed away, hands clutching your chest.

“You left me,” you cried, tears streaming down your face. “You left me and our child. I mourned you. I almost died mourning you. Please… don’t do this to me again. I can’t take another dream. I can’t wake up to find you gone again.”

Sir Jungkook’s face crumpled with anguish. He took one careful step forward, still cradling your daughter like the most precious thing in the world.

“My love,” he said hoarsely, voice breaking. “It’s not a dream. I’m here. I’m real. Your father… he lied. He sent me away to the borders to keep me from you. But I came back the moment he allowed it. I rode without stopping.”

You shook your head harder, tears falling faster, refusing to believe it even as your heart screamed at you to run to him.

“You’re dead,” you repeated, voice small and shattered. “You have to be dead… because if you’re not, then you let me believe it. You never answered my letters. Not one. I wrote to you every single day, pouring my heart out, begging you to come back to me, to our child… and you never...”

Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks as the pain twisted deeper.

“You were in on it, weren’t you?” you whispered, voice breaking. “You let my father tell me you were gone. You left me here to rot in grief while I carried your child alone. How could you?”

The knight’s face crumpled with agony. He took a step forward, but you flinched, and he stopped immediately, hands trembling at his sides.

Before he could speak, your daughter stirred in his arms. As if sensing the suffocating tension in the room, she let out a sharp, hungry cry, her little lips puckering, tiny fists waving.

You moved without thinking, reaching for her. Sir Jungkook gently handed her over, his hands lingering for a moment as if afraid to let go. You turned away from him, sitting on the edge of the bed and loosening your dress to feed her. The baby latched on eagerly, her cries softening into small, contented sounds.

The knight stood there, watching you in silence. He looked lost, this battle-hardened soldier, returned from war, now completely unsure how to comfort the woman he loved. He slowly lowered himself to his knees in the middle of the room, head bowed.

“I wrote to you,” he admitted hoarsely. “Every chance I had. Your father… he made sure none of my letters reached you. He wanted you to believe I was gone. I fought every day to come back to you. I almost died trying to get word to you.”

You didn’t look at him. You kept your eyes on your daughter, tears falling silently onto her soft hair.

“I mourned you like a widow,” you whispered, voice thick with pain. “I almost died. And now you’re here… acting like you didn’t abandon me when I needed you most.”

The words cut awfully deep. Sir Jungkook’s shoulders slumped, but he stayed on his knees, silent and respectful, giving you the space your wounded heart demanded.

Your daughter stirred in your arms, letting out a small, distressed whimper as if she could sense the storm raging between her parents. You rocked her gently, pressing a kiss to her soft raven hair.

“Shh, my sweet one,” you cooed softly, “Mama’s here. You’re safe.”

Sir Jungkook’s hands twitched at his sides, aching to reach out, to touch you, to hold both of you, but he remained still, jaw clenched tight. He was no longer in full armor, only a worn tunic and breeches, his appearance shambled from the long ride, fresh bruises blooming across his knuckles and jaw.

You turned away from him, focusing on the small tasks that had become your life in the cottage. The rain outside grew heavier, pounding against the roof like a relentless drum.

You moved about the space, stirring the pot of stew over the fire, folding fresh linens, anything to keep your hands busy and your mind from breaking completely.

Hours passed in heavy silence. When your daughter finally grew fussy again, you nursed her by the hearth until her little eyes fluttered shut. You laid her gently in the wooden cradle Maera had prepared, stroking her cheek one last time before covering her with a soft blanket.

Only then did you notice movement near the door.

Sir Jungkook was standing there, cloak in hand, quietly preparing to leave.

Something inside you fractured. You stepped toward him, voice cracking. “You’re leaving again?”

He turned slowly, eyes filled with torment. “I was only going to check the perimeter. The rain is heavy, and I… I didn’t want to burden you further.”

You stared at him, this warrior who had survived hell just to return to you, and the dam finally broke.

“Come here,” you whispered.

He obeyed without hesitation.

You led him to your bed and with trembling hands, you began removing his tunic, revealing the damage the war had left behind.

New bruises painted his ribs and shoulders in shades of purple and blue. Fresh scars, still healing, cut across his chest and abdomen. He looked harder, a man who had walked through fire and barely returned.

Your lips trembled, but you forced yourself to stay steady. You turned away briefly, gathering clean linen strips, salve, and a bowl of warm water. When you returned, the knight stood perfectly still, letting you see all of him, the bruises, the brutal evidence of everything he had endured just to return to you.

You began tending to him in silence, your hands gentle as you cleaned a particularly nasty cut along his side. But the more you looked, the more the dam inside you cracked.

“What have they done to you, Jungkook?” you whispered, voice breaking. Tears spilled down your cheeks as you carefully wrapped a bandage around his ribs. “You’re… you’re covered in pain. All of this… just to come back to me?”

He stood motionless, letting you care for him, but his dark eyes never left your face.

“I would go through it a thousand times more,” he said softly, “if it meant coming back to you and our daughter.”

You shook your head, fresh tears falling as you pressed a bandage over another wound. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that. I can’t bear thinking of you suffering like this. I thought you were dead. I thought I would never see you again, and now you’re here… broken because of me.”

Sir Jungkook slowly lowered himself to his knees in front of you, even though you were still trying to tend to him. The powerful knight, the man who had survived war, knelt before you like the loyal protector he had always been.

“Your Highness,” he murmured, head slightly bowed, voice thick with emotion. “I failed you. I wasn’t here when you needed me most. I wasn’t here when you carried our child. I wasn’t here when you gave birth. I wasn’t here when they told you I was gone. Forgive me.”

You dropped the bandages and pulled him into your arms, holding his head to your chest. His arms wrapped around your waist instantly, clinging to you like a man who had almost lost everything.

A broken sob tore from his throat.

Your knight, your warrior, the strongest person you had ever known, cried against your chest like a child. Deep, shuddering sobs that shook his powerful frame as his arms tightened around you.

“I thought I lost you,” he choked out, voice muffled against your skin. “Every night on the border, I prayed I would make it back to you. To both of you.”

You held him tighter, fingers threading through his raven hair, your own tears falling onto his head.

“You’re here now,” you whispered, rocking him gently. “You’re here. You came back to us. That’s all that matters.”

For a long time, the only sounds in the cottage were the rain outside, the crackling fire, and the quiet, heartbroken sobs of a knight who had finally returned to his princess.

—

The rain had not eased by the middle of the night. It hammered against the thatched roof like an impatient army. You had fallen asleep in Jungkook’s arms on the narrow bed, your daughter nestled safely in her cradle beside you. For the first time in months, your sleep was deep and dreamless.

A sharp knock on the cottage door shattered the peace.

Sir Jungkook was awake in an instant. He slipped from the bed silently, pulling on his tunic and reaching for the sword he had left by the door. His body was still tense from war, every muscle ready for threat.

“Stay here,” he whispered, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “I will see who it is.”

But you already knew.

A cold certainty settled in your chest. You rose, wrapping a shawl around your shoulders, and followed him despite his warning. Your daughter stirred but remained asleep.

Sir Jungkook opened the door, sword half drawn, rain pouring behind the figure standing outside.

It was the King.

Your father stood in the downpour, cloak heavy with water, face pale and drawn. Guards waited at a respectful distance, torches flickering weakly in the storm. His eyes moved past your knight and landed on you.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then the King stepped inside without invitation, water dripping onto the wooden floor. His gaze softened when it fell on you — his only daughter, still pale from childbirth, carrying the weight of grief and motherhood.

“My child,” he said, voice rough. “You must return to the palace. You are still royalty. Still my blood. You do not belong in a cottage like this.”

You stood straighter, even as exhaustion and lingering pain made your body ache.

“I belong where I choose,” you replied quietly, but firmly. “And I will not return without Sir Jeon. He is my knight. He is the father of my daughter. He stays with me.”

The King’s jaw tightened. He glanced at Jungkook, who stood tall and silent beside you, sword now lowered but ready.

“I know what you are to each other,” the King said heavily. “I have known for some time. Prince Min is a fool and a coward, but his bloodline is strong. The alliance—”

“I will not marry him,” you cut in, voice steady despite the tears gathering in your eyes. “I will return to the palace. I will perform my duties as princess, as future queen. I will be the ruler this kingdom needs. But only if Sir Jungkook remains at my side. As my knight. As the man I have chosen. As the only man with any right to me.”

The King looked at you for a long time. He saw the woman you had become, not just his rebellious daughter, but a figure of quiet strength. The people in the surrounding villages spoke of you with reverence. They told stories of the princess who helped common women, shared food during hard winters, who listened to their troubles as if they mattered as much as any noble’s.

The King exhaled slowly, defeated but not broken.

“Very well,” he said at last. “Sir Jeon will return with you. He will remain your personal knight. But this… affair… must remain hidden from the court. For now.”

You nodded once, relief flooding through you.

The King’s gaze drifted to the cradle where your daughter slept. He had not yet seen her. You had kept her away from him, protecting her with every fiber of your being.

He took one hesitant step toward the cradle, then stopped, as if afraid.

The King’s shoulders sagged. For the first time in years, he looked truly old.

“Bring her home,” he said quietly. “Both of you. We will find a way.”

When the heavy door of the cottage finally closed behind your father, you let out a huge, shaky sigh. The weight of the conversation pressed on your chest like a stone. You turned and walked to the cradle, gently lifting your daughter into your arms. She stirred but settled quickly against your chest.

Sir Jungkook followed silently behind you, his presence warm.

“I would not trust him,” you whispered, voice laced with bitterness. “My father lied. He did all of this, told me you were dead, kept us apart, made me believe I had lost you forever. How can I believe a single word he says now?”

Jungkook stepped closer. He gently wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on the top of your head as you held your daughter.

“Petal,” he murmured softly, the old endearment slipping out like a balm. “Your father is a hard man, but he is not as cold as he pretends to be. He sent for me the moment he learned you had gone into labor. He could have kept me away forever. But he didn’t.”

You turned slightly in his arms, eyes wide with disbelief.

The knight continued, low and calm.

“There was one night… when you were still heavy with our child and very sick. I rode through a storm to reach you. Your father allowed it. He let me see you. I held you while you slept, fevered and restless. I whispered to you. I kissed your forehead and promised I would return. But I had to leave before dawn. He made me swear not to wake you. He said it would only make the pain worse when I had to go back to the borders.”

You stared at him, stunned. Tears welled up again.

“That night… it was real?” you whispered. “I thought it was a dream. I thought I imagined your arms around me.”

“It was real,” he said gently, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I was there. And I have regretted leaving you every single day since.”

You turned fully toward him, still cradling your daughter. The baby had woken and was fussing softly. You loosened your dress and began to feed her.

Sir Jungkook watched the two of you with such open love and longing that it made your chest ache.

“She has your eyes,” you said softly, brushing a finger over your daughter’s cheek. “So dark and beautiful. Just like yours.”

Sir Jungkook’s expression softened further. He reached out, gently stroking the baby’s tiny hand.

“And she is as beautiful as her mother,” he murmured. “I hope she grows to be as strong as her. As kind. As full of fire and love.”

For a while, the only sounds were the soft suckling of your daughter and the rain pattering against the roof. Sir Jungkook stayed close, one arm around your waist, the other lightly resting near the baby.

Eventually, after your daughter had fallen asleep again, you made the decision.

“We will return to the palace,” you said quietly. “Together. As a family. I will not hide anymore.”

The next morning, after tender farewells to Maera, who hugged you both tightly and kissed her granddaughter’s forehead with tears in her eyes, you left the cottage.

—

Three Months Later,

The palace had transformed around you.

After your return, the finest healers in the realm were summoned, learned men and women versed in herbs and ancient remedies. They tended to you with the utmost care, restoring the strength you had lost in grief and childbirth. Slowly, the hollow exhaustion faded. Color returned to your cheeks. Your body healed, and with it, your spirit bloomed once more.

You were treated not merely as royalty, but as something sacred. The people whispered that the Princess had returned more radiant than before, as if the earth itself had blessed her.

Your maids, Elara, Verra, and Selyse, were beyond ecstatic to have you back. They fussed over you constantly, brushing your long hair until it shone, dressing you in the finest silks, and whispering prayers of gratitude for your safe return.

The kingdom now knew the truth: the child was Sir Jeon Jungkook’s. The scandal had spread like wildfire, but instead of outrage, most of the people embraced it. They saw their princess glowing, and fiercely protected.

Prince Min had tried to slander you upon his return, calling you impure, unfit, a disgrace for bearing a knight’s child out of wedlock. Sir Jungkook had nearly killed him in the great hall before the King’s guards pulled him back. Prince Min was expelled from the kingdom that very day, the alliance shattered. No one mourned his departure.

It was a warm evening when you returned to the royal bathing pool, surrounded by floating lily pads and fragrant white blossoms. The water shimmered under the sunlight as your maids helped you undress. Your daughter, now three months old and full of life, babbled happily in Elara’s arms, reaching for you with chubby little hands.

“Come here, my sweet,” you cooed, taking her into the warm water with you. She immediately nestled against your bare chest, tiny fingers grasping at your long, wavy hair as you gently rocked her. She was a needy little thing, always wanting her mother’s warmth, her scent, her voice.

Verra smiled as she poured scented oil over your shoulders. “She adores you, my lady. Look at those big, bejeweled eyes.”

You glanced toward the far bank where Sir Jeon Jungkook stood guard, as always. He was no longer forced to hide. He remained your personal knight, ever watchful and devoted. His gaze met yours across the water, soft with love and quiet pride. He had become even more protective since your return, rarely leaving your side unless duty demanded it.

The King had grown strangely silent on the matter of your relationship. Seeing you flourish and beloved by the people, had turned him into something of a coward when it came to opposing you.

He doted on his granddaughter in private, though he still struggled to fully accept the circumstances. Yet he no longer pushed for any other marriage. He had seen what happened when he tried to separate you from your knight.

Bit by bit, your beauty had deepened into something almost otherworldly, skin luminous, eyes bright with life, a gentle fullness to your figure from motherhood that only made you more captivating. You moved through the palace performing your duties with grace while still finding time to help the common women who came to the gates seeking aid. You had become more than a princess.

At night, when the palace slept, Sir Jungkook was yours completely.

He would slip into your chambers, shed his armor, and worship you with slow hands and mouth. He made love to you like a man who had walked through hell and returned only for this. You clung to him every night, whispering how much you loved him, how you had chosen him long before the crown ever mattered.

Your daughter babbled softly, pulling at your long hair again with her tiny fist, drawing a soft, delighted laugh from you.

“Oh, my little one,” you cooed, gently untangling her fingers from your waves before pressing a kiss to her chubby cheek. “You are going to pull Mama’s hair right off if you keep that up, aren’t you? Such a strong little flower.”

She giggled in your arms, reaching up to pat your face with her small, uncoordinated hand, her big dark eyes, exact replicas of her father’s, sparkling with pure joy. The resemblance was almost startling even at such a young age. She was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

Elara sighed dreamily as she poured warm water over your shoulders. “Look at her, my lady. She is perfection. She already has the whole palace wrapped around her tiny finger.”

Verra nodded, gently massaging oil into your hair. “And you, my princess. You glow like the sun itself these days. Motherhood suits you more than any crown ever could.”

Selyse, ever the wise one, glanced toward the bank where Sir Jeon Jungkook stood guard, fully armored but with his helmet removed today. A small, teasing smile tugged at her lips.

“And that one over there… he can’t take his eyes off the two of you. Look at him, standing there like a lovesick fool in steel. Our fierce knight, brought to his knees by a baby and her mother.”

The knight’s ears turned faintly red, but he didn’t deny it. His gaze remained soft, locked on you and your daughter with quiet awe and devotion.

Later that evening, in the royal rose gardens where he had once walked beside you as your new knight, Sir Jungkook carried your daughter in his arms.

He was still in full armor, crimson cloak draped over his broad shoulders, but he held her with such careful gentleness it made your heart melt. The baby was dressed in the softest cream colored gown embroidered with tiny golden flowers, a little bonnet tied under her chin. She looked like a living doll against his armored chest.

She reached up with both hands, grabbing at the edge of his armor, babbling excitedly as she tried to pull herself closer to his face. When he leaned down, she patted his cheek with a wet, sloppy kiss.

Sir Jungkook’s entire expression softened into something almost boyish. He smiled, genuine and devastatingly handsome.

“My little love,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

You walked beside them, heart full as you watched your daughter play with the buckles on his armor. Every time he lowered his head to let her see his face, she lit up. But when he playfully put his helmet back on for a moment to tease her, she immediately fussed, letting out a small, indignant cry and reaching for him with both arms.

“No helmet,” you laughed softly. “She hates it. She wants to see her father’s face.”

Sir Jungkook removed it immediately, tucking it under one arm while cradling her with the other. He leaned down so she could press her tiny palms against his cheeks and give him another sloppy kiss on the jaw.

The maids watching from a distance cooed and teased him lightly.

“Look at that,” Verra whispered loudly enough for him to hear. “Who would have thought the man who survived the western borders would be brought down by tiny hands and gummy smiles?”

Later that night, the heavy oak door to your royal chambers was barred, only the soft glow of candles and the low fire in the hearth illuminated the room.

You stood before the tall mirror, slowly changing into your nightgown. The fabric whispered against your skin as it slid down your body. Your gaze caught on the beautiful ring on your finger, the one Sir Jungkook had slipped onto your hand in secret weeks ago, a quiet promise between the two of you. You turned it gently, a small, private smile touching your lips.

Your daughter lay nestled against your bare chest, warm and content, her tiny fingers curled around the edge of your loosened gown. She babbled softly, her big dark eyes full of adoration for her mother.

Sir Jungkook stood a few steps behind you, fully armored except for his helmet, watching the two of you with quiet awe. The firelight danced across his face, highlighting every healed scar and the lingering shadows of war that still clung to him.

You gently laid your daughter in her ornate cradle, pressing one last kiss to her forehead as she drifted into sleep. Then you returned to the mirror, picking up the silver brush to run it through your long, wavy hair.

Sir Jungkook followed without a word. He stopped behind you, his large hands resting lightly on your waist. Slowly, he leaned down and began pressing soft kisses along your bare arms, from shoulder to wrist, as you continued brushing your hair.

You giggled softly, cheeks flushing with that familiar shyness even after all this time.

“Jungkook…” you murmured, breathy. “You ought to distract me.”

“Good,” he whispered against your skin, kissing the curve of your shoulder. “I have missed you all day. I need my darling.”

He dropped to his knees behind you with a quiet clink of armor, bowing his head in his familiar, devoted way. You turned to face him, running your fingers through his raven hair, then tracing the sharp line of his jaw and the faint scars that remained on his face.

You saddened for a moment, remembering the brutality he had endured.

But he looked up at you with such pure worship that it took your breath away. To him, you were more than a princess. you were his salvation, the very source of life that had healed him.

You pulled him closer, and he rose, lifting you effortlessly into his arms and carrying you to the grand bed.

The knight laid you down gently, then began to worship you with slow, reverent hands. He unlaced your nightgown with painstaking care, peeling the silk away until you were bare before him. His mouth found your breasts immediately, sucking softly on one sensitive nipple, then the other, drinking the sweet milk that flowed for him with deep, grateful groans.

You moaned softly, fingers threading through his hair as he fed from you, his tongue swirling, lips sealed tight around your peak. He drank like a man who had been starving for you, savoring every drop as if it were the very essence of life itself.

Sir Jungkook groaned deeply against your breast, the sound vibrating through your chest as he drank almost desperately. His large hand cradled the soft weight of your breast, squeezing gently to draw more from you while his other hand stroked your side with reverent tenderness.

“So sweet,” he whispered against your skin, voice hoarse and worshipful. “You give me life, my petal. You heal what war tried to break.”

You whimpered, arching into his mouth, overwhelmed by the intimate, sacred act, fresh heat blooming between your thighs.

When he finally released your nipple with a wet pop, his lips glistening, he looked up at you with dark, adoring eyes.

“You are my salvation,” he murmured, kissing the valley between your breasts before moving lower. “The mother of my child. The light that brought me home.”

When he finally moved lower, he spread your thighs with firm hands and settled between them. He looked up at you once, eyes dark with devotion, before lowering his mouth to your core.

He worshipped your flower, seeking nectar with slow, deep licks that made your back arch, followed by gentle suction on your swollen clit. His tongue delved inside you, tasting every inch, groaning at your sweetness as if it were the most sacred thing he had ever known.

You whimpered and moaned, hips rolling against his handsome face as pleasure built in waves. He was relentless yet tender, bringing you to the edge again and again before letting you tip over.

When you finally begged for him, voice trembling with need, Sir Jungkook rose above you like a knight before his altar.

He did not rush. Instead, he sat back on his heels, dark eyes drinking in every inch of your bare, flushed body with such raw hunger that it made your skin burn. You felt vulnerable and impossibly desired under that gaze. A shy, breathless giggle escaped your lips as heat flooded your cheeks.

Sir Jungkook reached out with one large, calloused hand and traced a single finger slowly down your body, from the delicate line of your throat, between your heaving breasts, over the soft curve of your belly, and down to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The touch ever so feather light, yet it left fire in its wake.

“You are a goddess made flesh,” he whispered, voice hoarse with awe. “And I am but a mortal who has been granted the honor of kneeling at your feet.”

He leaned down and pressed his forehead to your thigh in a gesture of pure worship, eyes closed, breath warm against your skin as if he were praying to the only deity he had ever believed in.

Then he moved over you, settling between your spread thighs. His thick cock pressed against your entrance, hot and heavy. He looked into your eyes as he slowly pushed inside, inch by thick, stretching inch, filling you so completely that your mouth fell open in a silent cry.

You dug your nails into his back as he began to move, first slow and loving, then harder, deeper, claiming you with every thrust.

“I love you,” he groaned against your neck, hips snapping forward. “I love you more than life itself.”

When you came, it was with his name on your lips and tears of overwhelming pleasure in your eyes. Jungkook followed moments later, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a low, broken groan, filling you with pulse after pulse of his release.

In the quiet that followed, with the knight’s arms still wrapped around you and the weight of the world momentarily forgotten, it was strangely easy to remember the day he had first knelt before the throne.

The impenetrable knight clad in steel, sworn to protect a princess draped in silk. and protect you he would, as though it had been carved into the marrow of every breath he would draw, for eternity.

The engine light had already lit up some miles back, but you decided to ignore it and just pray you’d make it to your destination. But now, after driving along empty country roads, seemingly endless, with only a few small towns in between breaking the monotony of the scenery, the lights on your dashboard start to flicker and the radio keeps cutting out.

“Shit,” you curse out loud before asking your phone for the directions to the nearest auto repair shop.

Your already shitty air con has totally given up. Beads of sweat are starting to collect on your upper lip as you follow google maps through the scorching heat. Thank god it’s only a few more miles until you pull into a small town off the desert road. This little hick town seems to just be made up of one main road, with a few homes off to the side.

“In 0,2 miles your destination will be on the left,” your navigation lets you know. A minute later you pull up in front of the repair shop with your Buick Century and turn off the ignition. You exhale in relief, at least you made it to the garage. You don’t want to imagine being stranded at the side of the road in the desert, not in this weather.

You let your head fall on the steering wheel that you are gripping with both hands, already worried about how much money you’re going to have to throw at your rust bucket. You step out of your vehicle finally, looking around. There’s what seems to be a small convenience store across the street, a man in denim dungarees and cowboy boots sitting in front of it, smoking. You snort - all that’s missing is a damn banjo.

What comes to your mind immediately is the horror movie cliché of a car breaking down in some rural backwater town and what happens after. You’ve watched countless of them - Wrong Turn, House of Wax, The Hills have Eyes. You don’t have any plans to end up as a final girl to a clan of inbred hillbilly psychos. Hopefully, whatever is wrong with your Buick is fixed quickly so you can be on your way.

You walk into the repair shop through a glass door next to a bigger gate for cars to enter and look around for an employee, unsuccessfully.

“Hello?” you ask into the empty space. There’s a front desk, but it’s unoccupied.  Please, don’t let this place be actually closed down already for the day.

“Back here,” you suddenly hear a voice sounding from further back. Relieved, you scan the perimeters to find the source, peeking around a corner.

You find the actual workshop of the garage, multiple cars with open hoods standing around, but you don’t see anyone. Reluctantly, you walk between vehicles, not sure if you are even allowed in here, until you almost stumble over legs sticking out from under some Toyota sedan.

“Um, hi?” you address the jeans-clad legs.

“One sec,” a voice replies and a moment later you hear tools clanking to the floor before a man emerges from under the car.

And, well, he’s really not someone you expected to find in a rural backwater town. It’s not the outfit either, he’s just wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, both smeared with motor oil and grease. What surprises you is the fact that one of his arms is covered in tattoos, down to his fingers, and his ears are decked out in multiple silver hoops. He smiles at you, a piercing through the side of his lower lip, while he wipes his hands on the bandana tied to his pants.

Usually, when you have to bring in your rust bucket, the mechanics crack some sort of unfunny misogynistic joke at your expense before trying to rip you off with unnecessary repairs you didn’t ask for. So that is what you steel yourself for when you tell the dude that your Buick started breaking down as he walks you to the front of the shop.

He clicks open the automatic garage door and tells you to drive your car inside for him to inspect it.

But, shit. When you try to switch on the ignition, it’s dead.

The mechanic comes up to your rolled-down window. “Doesn’t start huh?”, he correctly assesses. “Put it in neutral, I can just push it inside.”

“Sorry,” you mumble, trying to move the shift stick to neutral, without success. It doesn’t budge without the engine being on.

You shrug your shoulders at him in a helpless manner, making him laugh. “Ah, automatic,” he hums before opening the driver door and pulling a screwdriver from the back pocket of his jeans.

Without warning, he’s suddenly in your lap, leaning over you to access the middle console. You would’ve moved out of the way had he warned you. But now this, admittedly very attractive, guy is brushing his tattooed arm against your thighs all non-chalant as he wriggles his screwdriver around the plastic by the gear stick. With one last satisfied hum, he finally moves the stick to the neutral position.

You just dumbly stare at him with hot cheeks when he retreats from your space again and he tells you about some manual switch he pushed. “Oh, sorry,” he apologizes when he sees your startled expression. “I didn’t get dirt on you, did I?” He wipes at the fabric of your pants with his hands, grimacing at himself as in the process, as he actually does brush some grease on it, making him panic slightly. “Shit,” he mutters but you stop him before he can apologize again or spread even more black gunk on you.

“Don’t worry about it,” you laugh, his display of sudden clumsiness making you relax again. He stands up straight, scratching at his neck before collecting himself and moving to the back of your Buick.

“It’s good to go now. Just let go of the brake and steer, alright?” he yells from the back and then the car is slowly rolling. You can’t help stealing a glance at him through your rearview mirror.

His brows are furrowed and the muscles in his shoulders are tensed as he’s pushing the car by its bumper. You can even make out the vein on his forehead popping out a little. The fact that you’ve always had a thing for feats of strength is almost making you forget to steer until his voice forces your eyes to snap back to the garage in front of you.

“Little to the left,” he yells and you comply, maneuvering your car into the workspace.

You pull the handbrake and get out of the driver's seat once you’re in a good spot.

“I’ll pay to get your jeans cleaned,” he tells you with a lopsided smile as he eyes your soiled pants before he walks to the front of your Buick.

“Let’s take a look at your baby,” he says as he yanks open the hood. “I already have a suspicion.”

While he’s checking out the engine compartment, you take a stroll around the shop, trying to pass the time and ignore the dread blooming in your chest about how much this repair is going to cost you.

On the wall behind the counter you spot the usual sexy calendars of women in pin up clothing posing on the hoods of old-timers. Maybe he’s just like all the other mechanics you encountered after all. You quietly chuckle just as you spot another poster among the sexy ladies though. This one has a half-naked man propped against some motorcycle, probably a Harley Davidson. Oh, a man of varied tastes apparently. Feels a little out of place for this small town, once again.

When you hear the hood of your vehicle being slammed shut, you hurry back to the mechanic.

“Yup, I was right,” he tells you, trying to wipe some of his dark hair out of his face with the back of his hand, smearing grease on his forehead in the process. “Alternator’s shot.”

“That sounds … bad?” you reluctantly more so ask than state.

“It just needs to be replaced. Good news first, it’s not a lot of work so I’ll be done in like an hour,” he lets you know. “Bad news - I need to order it in.”

You groan, but you are relieved to learn that at least it’s not as expensive as you feared. The fact that this part will only come in tomorrow though - Shit.

He types your information into his computer and places the order for the new alternator.

“Are there any hotels or something close by?” you ask him once he’s done and comes back around the counter to lean on it.

He shakes his head with an apologetic look on his face. “The closest motel is like two towns over. And it’s a bit of a shit hole.”

That doesn’t sound too inviting, but given your choices, what else are you supposed to do?

“Can you give me the address? I’ll get an Uber to drive me there I guess.”

“Good luck on finding any Ubers out here. We’re basically out of their operating zone.”

Your shoulders slump in defeat as you let your hand holding your phone drop to your side again.

“I’ll take you,” he offers, already on his way to your Buick. “Get your bag.”

You would usually not consider getting into a car with a stranger, but your options are kind of limited here. He can probably sense your hesitation, because he cocks his head to the side and smiles. “Wouldn’t advise accepting rides from strangers, but I can’t have you stay on the street,” he speaks up. “I’m Jungkook, by the way. I’ll give you my ID and everything, you can send it to a friend with your location.”

This won’t help you if he decides to murder you, but you are tired and in need of a shower, so you just sigh and open your car, quickly packing some things you need for an overnight stay into your backpack before shouldering it.

Apparently it’s time to close shop, or maybe he can just decide since he’s the only one in here, but he leads you out the back and locks the door behind him. You won’t question it, you are just glad that you will be able to rest soon. The long drive was becoming torturous anyway.

“Where’s your car?” you ask, looking around the street behind the garage.

Jungkook grins and points towards - oh please - a motorcycle. No way. Well, maybe that explains the leather jacket that he put on just before. You were wondering why he needed it in this scorching heat.

“Pretty, huh?” he muses when you look at him with wide eyes. “It’s a Fat Bob 114.”

Oh sure, whatever that string of random words means. He can’t seriously expect you to get on the back of this. For a moment, you reconsider just walking the streets tonight.

“I don’t even have a helmet,” you try to weasel your way out.

To no avail, since he produces one from behind his back and hands it to you. “Good thing I keep a spare around.”

He’s already stuffing his own backpack into the satchel on the side of the bike, while you fiddle with the helmet. You’ve never even put one on before and when you plop it down over your head, your hair gets caught in front of your eyes.

You hear Jungkook’s muffled laugh and then he steps in front of you, pulling the helmet back off.

“Lemme help,” he mutters while pushing your hair behind your ears while he clamps the headgear between his thighs to free his hands.

The intimate gesture brings heat up your neck and all you muster is a quiet “Thank you.” Then he gently pulls the helmet down and closes the plastic visor with a grin.

“All set,” he pats the top of the protective headwear before putting on his own. He swings his leg over the bike and motions for you to get on behind him.

“Just hold on to me,” he tells you.

You somewhat clumsily climb on and consider just gripping the side of the machine, but as soon as he turns his keys and the bike roars to life, your survival instinct kicks in and you sling your arms around his waist. 

He pulls off into the street and soon you’re leaving behind the small town and with it your broken-down car.

Jungkook, thankfully, seems to be considerate of his passenger, because you are pretty sure he’s not even going the speed limit. You still cling on to him for dear life, probably choking him out, but he does not complain. You’re not particularly fond of not being encased in metal while on the road is what you’re learning right now.

After a few miles and your body starting to cramp from clutching on to Jungkook and the bike, you pull up in front of a motel. The parking lot is full of trucks, rarely any regular cars. Jungkook helps you off the motorcycle and takes off his helmet. He seems to be wondering about the amount of trucks, as he raises his eyebrow. Carefully, he removes your helmet for you as well before you can even try to do it yourself. Your hair feels damp and matted, making you cringe slightly as you run your fingers through it.

Jungkook retrieves his backpack from the satchel and pockets the keys.

“This must be a regular stop for truckers to rest, huh?” you wonder out loud to which Jungkook shakes his head.

“Not usually.”

Picking through the small compartment of your backpack, you finally find some tissues. 

“Can I just..?” you ask Jungkook, gesturing towards his face with the towelette. 

He seems to be confused but doesn’t stop you from wiping at his forehead. You clean the smear of grease off his skin and pocket the tissue. 

“That’s better,” you smile at him and when he locks his big soft eyes with you, the corners of his mouth upturned, it makes you gulp. His gaze flickers down to your lips for just a fleeting moment. 

With both helmets in hand, he walks you to the check-in counter, where you find the most unenthusiastic-looking clerk you’ve seen in your life.

“Hello,” you address him. “I need a room, please.”

“Really?” he responds in a mocking tone. “Who would’ve guessed that?”

Jungkook slams one of the helmets on the counter, startling the guy.

“Mind checking if you have any available?” he intervenes, a fake smile plastered on his face. One could mistake it for a snarl if it wasn’t for his politeness. With his hand planted firmly on the counter and the muscles in his arm tensed, the clerk seems to have taken the hint. 

Woah. Apparently he’s not one to mess around with. It’s kind of hot.

“Alright, alright,” the clerk gives in, suddenly very meek and sheepish, and checks his computer.

“Seems like you’re out of luck, everything’s booked,” he shrugs his shoulders. “There’s some trucker meet-up happening close by, they basically overran the motel.”

Jungkook and you sigh simultaneously. What the hell are you supposed to do now? You really don’t want to go on another road trip if you can avoid it. He pulls out his phone, scrolling furiously, probably trying to figure out an alternative as well.

“Ah, wait,” the clerk suddenly perks up. “There’s someone checking out in a bit. Once we’ve cleaned up the room, it’s yours.”

Oh, thank god. You couldn’t care less that the place is run-down and the employee is a shithead. You’ll just shower and head to bed anyway, maybe scroll a bit on your phone. The aesthetic or lack thereof doesn’t really matter, unless you’ll find suspicious stains on the pillows. Which, to be fair, is not that unlikely, now that you think about it.

“We have a bar,” the employee tells you with an exasperated sigh, as if this was the hardest he’s ever had to work. “You can wait there. It’s gonna be like 2 hours max.”

You nod and turn to Jungkook, who looks a little disgruntled.

“Uhm, will you come pick me up again tomorrow? I kinda don’t have a ride.” The fact that he has to drive you again is gnawing at your pride, but he said it himself, no Ubers around.

He looks at you, quizzically.

“I’m not gonna let you wait around here by yourself,” he shakes his head. “I’ll stay with you until the room’s ready.”

Before you can even start arguing that you don’t need an escort, he’s already placed his hand on the small of your back to guide you towards the bar. For whatever reason you just let it happen. You’re a grown woman, you don’t need a white knight to look out for you. But also, some company would be nice instead of sitting around all alone, just waiting for time to pass. Since he’s also nice to look at, why shouldn’t you indulge a bit longer.

The bar is just as dingy as the rest of the place. All the seats are worn, tears across the old leather.  The room reeks of stale smoke and cigars so bad that you scrunch your nose as you step in.

There’s two guys sitting at the bar drinking beer. By the looks of it it’s not the first one of the day either. Probably some of the truckers the clerk mentioned.

Jungkook pushes you into the booth of a table, sliding in next to you without taking his eyes off the dudes at the bar, and shrugs off his leather jacket. Sitting next to each other when you’re only two people has always been weird to you, makes it kind of awkward to chat.

“What do you want to drink?” he asks from beside you.

You take out your phone, checking the time. It’s 7 pm. You could do with a beer as well, so you tell him and he moves out of the seat to get your drinks.

You watch him from your table, only to realize that the two men are staring you down, one even cocks his eyebrows at you. Disgusting. You pull a face at him, but that doesn’t seem to deter him at all, grabbing at his junk while his mate laughs along.

Jungkook is watching this play out, you can tell when his back stiffens. He’s coming back with two beers in hand, immediately sitting down next to you on the bench again, so close this time that your thighs are touching.

“What are you doing?” you ask him, surprised when he puts his arm on the backrest behind you.

“Sorry, but I’m not gonna let those two sleazebags get the impression that you’re here by yourself, no chance,” he grumbles before picking up his glass and taking a big gulp.

The fact that he’s doing this only for show makes you feel a tinge of disappointment, which is just dumb. He’s just being nice, you tell yourself, also reaching for your beer, trying to relax with him being so close to you. It’s not because he’s making you uncomfortable, rather the opposite. You just seriously need to chill.

“How much was it?” you ask him, pointing to your drink, to which he just waves you off.

“Take it as compensation for me putting grease all over your jeans,” he smiles at you.

For a while you two just sit there, his arm around you, sipping away on your beer quietly. Jungkook shoots the gross dudes death glares every now and then. To which you are thankful because the thought of being in here alone with them makes you shiver. Maybe you were in need of a white knight actually. Just this once.

“So,” Jungkook breaks the surprisingly comfortable silence. “Judging by your plates, you’ve been on the road for a while, huh?”

You hum in agreement. “Just a road trip to visit an old friend of mine. Never been to this part of the country.”

“I can tell,” he laughs.

“And you?” you proceed to ask. “Have you ever been out of these parts?”

Jungkook’s fingers tapping away softly on your shoulder while he talks makes blood rush to your cheeks. 

“Not really, I grew up around here. Only gone as far as the surrounding cities.”

“So you like living here then?”

He shrugs his shoulders as if he doesn’t really have an opinion on it.

“It’s just, you don’t seem like a small town kinda guy,” you continue when he stays silent.

“Now, why’s that?” he looks at you with a smirk, visibly amused now.

You just motion at his tattooed arm and the piercings, trying not to say anything he might take offense to. It’s his home after all.

Luckily, he doesn’t seem to be offended at all, because he chuckles at your assessment.

“You know, the next city is just like an hour’s drive away,” he lets you know between laughs. “We’re not cut off from civilization. Not totally.”

You chat away for a while, mostly just small talk. He never takes his arm off your shoulder while you learn that he owns and runs the repair shop by himself and you tell him that you’re in between jobs right now.

You’re laughing at a funny remark Jungkook dropped when the clerk pops his head in.

“Room’s ready,” he lets you know before he trudges away again.

“Before you try to argue - I’m walking you to the room.”

You figured.

So after picking up the key from the front desk, you make your way outside and up some stairs to find your assigned room with Jungkook close behind. On your way there, you can hear some loud bellowing laughter from behind doors as well as a smashing sound, as if a vase or something broke. This really doesn’t feel that welcoming after all, you think as you yank open the dilapidated door. It’s not even hanging straight in its hinges, so you have to lift it up slightly so it doesn’t catch on the floor. Yikes.

Both of you walk inside and Jungkook looks around the room after putting the helmets on a wobbly sideboard.

“What a nice view,” you joke, having walked up behind him to the window, looking down at the parking lot. The laughter gets caught in your throat when you can hear someone loudly fighting outside. When you peek out the window again, you see that it’s two big guys shoving each other and yelling, beer bottles in hand. Please let this night go by fast, you plead silently. You brought your earphones so hopefully you can drown out anything that might go on outside, be it murder or an orgy. You thank whoever invented noise cancelling in advance.

Jungkook turns to you. “Look,” he starts with a serious expression. You have a feeling you know where this is going, so you walk up to the sideboard and push his helmet towards him.

“Thank you for everything, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Jungkook shakes his head and doesn’t move even an inch.

“I can’t let you stay here,” he says, decidedly. “Not by yourself. You’ve seen the kind of guys that hang around here!”

You liked his savior antics earlier, but you still have some pride left.

“I’m not some damsel in distress in need of saving,” you scoff and walk to the door. “I’ll just lock up and sleep by myself like a big girl.” You jokingly wiggle the lock around before realizing it’s almost falling apart at your touch. Oh. This actually doesn’t bode well with you.

Jungkook looks at your wide eyes with a quirked brow, waiting for you to reconsider what you just told him. And you do. Damn.

Then there’s suddenly more clamor seemingly right outside your door. As if someone was crashing into the wall. The look in your eyes turns to pleading. Now you’re actually hoping Jungkook’s offer, whatever exactly it entails, still stands.

“I’ll stay. Don’t worry,” he reassures you as if he just read your mind. Probably not that hard, considering the situation.

“Thanks,” you mumble while looking around the room. There’s exactly one bed, a dresser with a tiny TV on it and what you assume to be the door to the bathroom. And a worn-out leather arm chair.

Jungkook follows your gaze and takes the words out of your mouth when he speaks up.

“I’ll just stay in the cuck chair, you can go ahead and go to sleep.”

The good old cuck chair, a must-have of any rented room that’s worth anything. What would people do without it? Although this one actually seems like it’s been in heavy use. Ew. At least you’re not the one having to sit in it.

To your horror, this stuffy room has no air conditioning, only a ceiling fan above the bed that barely does its job. Opening the window is no use at this time of night either, as it’s still hot out.

“I could never get used to this heat,” you huff and sit down at the edge of the mattress, causing the bedframe to squeak. “Don’t think I can even sleep while it’s this hot,” you add, groaning.

Jungkook brings his stuff over to his designated spot for the night to keep watch of the door or whatever his plan actually is. Your knight in shining armor, you scoff to yourself. The fact that you’re sharing a motel room with some stranger is outrageous and very much out of scope of what you had planned for this trip. Even if said stranger is nice to look at. You watch him from the corner of your eyes as you kick off your sneakers and pull your legs up on the bed into a criss-cross position. His white shirt has gone see-through in the back from sweat and it’s sticking to him. No wonder - he’s been wearing a leather jacket and also you clung to his back earlier like a koala while driving here.

It's only around 9 pm when you check your phone and start scrolling through various social media apps, quickly getting bored. Beads of sweat are forming on your forehead, you feel like you’re being boiled alive sitting here in jeans, but you’re not about to strip in front of Jungkook, who’s also taken his spot in the chair with his phone in hand.

“Hey, you want to get some more beer?” you ask him, sure that you’ll be up for quite a while and beer always makes you sleepy, so that might help.

“Sure,” he nods, walking over to you and holding his hand out. “We can get some from the bar.”

You let him help you off the bed and slip back into your shoes. It’s a quick trip, Jungkook never taking his arm off your waist as he walks you through the premises.

Equipped with 4 cold bottles of beer you return to your room where Jungkook immediately opens one for you with a lighter from his back pocket.

The cool liquid goes down smoothly, making you sigh in content as you sit down on the end of the bed so you can actually face him in his spot where he is currently holding the bottle against his neck in an effort to cool off.

Striking up a conversation while you down the first drink, you inquire further about his repair shop.

“It’s been in the family for a few generations,” he lets you know. “I’ve been around cars since I was little, back when it was my grandfather’s still.”

“Did you ever consider doing anything else? College or something?” you wonder.

Jungkook laughs at the idea. “I’m way too dumb for a degree. And I like getting my hands dirty. Manual labor takes my mind off of things. I enjoy it.”

You get it, the road trip was supposed to serve the same purpose - taking your mind off what’s been troubling you. Could’ve figured that driving by yourself for hours makes your thoughts race instead. Maybe you’re dumb too.

Jungkook asks about you being in between jobs then, since you mentioned it to him earlier.

“I quit so I could leave my place for a while. Wasn’t that great of a job anyway, so no loss there.”

You put the now empty bottle on the ground and flop back on the mattress with your eyes closed, letting the ceiling fan blow hot air around you for a bit.

“You alright?” Jungkook’s voice chimes up.

“Yeah,” you hum out from your horizontal position. Mostly thanks to him, you ponder and find yourself glad your car started going to shit in his vicinity and not some place else. You just chill for a moment, trying to drown out the ruckus outside of your room. You’re in here, safe, protected. Jungkook is pretty beefy, so you’re not too worried about any truckers trying to bust their way into here. The ones that crossed your way so far looked out of shape. Not that you’re judging, you probably wouldn’t opt for a gym session after driving for hours on end either.

“Thank you again,” you sit back up, feeling like you're admitting defeat. “For staying with me. I’m sorry for all the troubles.”

Jungkook only replies with a smile and hands you the second bottle of beer. “I didn’t have any plans for tonight anyway. Your company beats watching TV alone by miles.”

He’d probably have air conditioning though and wouldn’t have to swelter in this dump. His face is shiny from the sheen of sweat, making his dark hair stick to his forehead, which he brushes away with his fingers continuously. Actually, maybe you got lucky having him stuck here with you, cause the fabric sticking to his chest is … really something. You reluctantly peel your eyes away from his muscles, not trying to be a creep after all he’s done for you. Can’t be ogling him like one of those sleazy truckers did to you earlier. Maybe it’s the beer finding its way to your brain or you’re just really not better than a man.

Your body doesn’t feel much drier than him, though you are sure the sweat doesn’t look even half as attractive on you.

While sipping on your third beer, you talk about more benign things, discovering that Jungkook and you share a lot of favorite bands and musicians. During your conversation, he keeps putting the glass bottle up to his face like he did earlier, obviously uncomfortable from being hot.

The ceiling fan only swirls the hot air around, but on the bed and directly under it, it provides at least some relief from the unrelenting heat while he’s suffering in the cuck chair.

“You know you could just come sit on the bed, right?” you interrupt him waving his hand in front of his face like a makeshift fan.

He pauses, considering your offer, and then sighs. “Nah, I’m stinky from working, don’t want to make it all gross.”

“Please, I don’t want to find you melted into a puddle in that fucking chair tomorrow morning,” you joke. “Sounds like one hell of a clean-up. Also, who’s gonna fix my car if you perish from overheating?”

“I might not be the first dead body in that chair, now that I look at it,” he wrinkles his nose as he gets up and eyes the worn-out leather.

“But I’ll take a shower first, if that’s alright with you,” he finally gives in.

“Sure,” you nod. “Go ahead. Haven’t checked out the bathroom - hope you won’t come out dirtier than before.”

Jungkook chuckles as he makes his way into the little side-room.

While you hear the shower run, you empty your beer and shoot your friend a message that your arrival will be delayed because of your shitty car.

Shortly after the water turns off, Jungkook sheepishly peeks around the corner.

“My shirt is soaked,” he tells you with an apologetic smile. “I’ll air it out and put it back on, yeah?”

His coyness makes you burst into laughter. How cute.

“Jungkook, your shirt has been see-through for the last 2 hours, I’ve seen it all. Now don’t be stupid and come sit with me.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh and throws his moist t-shirt on the sideboard, hoping it will dry down, before putting his shoes and socks next to yours by the door.

“Which side are you gonna sleep on?” he asks you, making you raise an eyebrow.

“I’m not going to put my greasy ass down where you have to sleep,” he explains and gestures at the smears on his pants. “This bed is probably already gross enough.”

You take a tentative whiff of the pillowcase on your side. “It’s actually not so bad,” you shrug your shoulders before patting the mattress on the unoccupied half of the bed, urging him to finally come and sit.

So, in this incredible turn of events, you’re now sitting shoulder to shoulder with a shirtless small-town mechanic, watching TV in a decrepit motel.

Switching through countless porn channels, you finally happen upon re-runs of The X-Files, which makes both of you perk up in excitement.

“I love Gillian Anderson,” you gush as her glorious red hair appears on screen.

“I love David Duchovny,” Jungkook replies with a sigh. “Gillian’s not bad either.”

His remark doesn’t surprise you as you recall the very bisexual collection of raunchy calendars displayed in his shop.

You both settle against the headboard, getting comfortable, and dive into the episode, following along as Scully and Mulder track down a mutant man that’s hiding in vents to eat people’s livers. Mulder has just foiled the abomination’s attempt to murder some family when Jungkook’s head suddenly drops onto your shoulder.

You can tell he’s asleep by the way his body is slumped against yours. So much for watching the door, huh?

His soft, slow breathing is fanning over your neck and you decide to just let him nap, watching the intro to the next episode roll. That is, until your back starts to hurt from your current position, so you shift slightly, which startles Jungkook awake.

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry,” he looks at you horrified when the initial post-nap confusion has worn off. “Did I drool on you?”

You assure him it’s fine and that he did not. Jungkook stands up and stretches his arms over his head, your eyes following the movement of his bared muscles as he does. He yawns and shuffles over to the window, cracking it open and sticking his head outside.

The clamor has calmed down it seems, no more yelling and fighting audible, you realize in relief.

“I think we can keep this open now,” Jungkook decides. “It has cooled down like… at least 1 degree.”

You agree, even if it won’t help with the warmth, some fresh air won’t hurt.

“You should try and get some sleep,” he proposes. “I’m guessing you still have some miles to drive tomorrow.”

He’s probably right and you can feel the beer you had swimming around in your head, relaxing your body.

Jungkook goes to switch off the big light and settles back into the cuck chair. Apparently he’s not planning on resuming his little nap but is back on duty.

You pull off your socks, leaving you in jeans and a shirt still, which is not your preferred way of going to bed. Since you’re still hot, you just lie down on top of the duvet, turning to your side and pulling up your legs.

“Good girl,” Jungkook coos at you from across the room and you can feel his smirk without even looking at him.

The minutes pass by and you just toss and turn, not able to wind down at all.

“Can’t sleep, huh?” Jungkook asks when you reach for the phone on your nightstand after the futile 30-minute attempt to drift off has gone nowhere. You’re uncomfortable in your clothes, sweating, and your mind keeps straying to exactly the places you’ve tried to outrun with your road trip.

Before you swing your legs off the bed you reach to turn on the lamp on the bedside table as you don’t dig sitting around in complete darkness. You’re in the process of stretching your neck and shoulders while Jungkook rummages through his backpack. It seems like he found what he was looking for because he perks up.

“Wanna smoke?” he asks you, holding up a pre-rolled joint with a bright smile on his face.

You laugh and go through your own bag, producing a ready-to-go spliff as well.

“I’m taking this as a Yes,” Jungkook chuckles and moves to the opened window where you join him. You squeeze past him so you can hop up on the windowsill, sitting with your legs dangling in the air and your side leaning against the window frame.

Jungkook rests his upper body against the other side before he fishes the lighter out of his pocket and ignites the joint between his lips.

Passing the doobie between each other, you pick up the topic of his shop again, still curious.

“You plan on staying in your town forever?” you ask him. “Like, just keep the garage going until you’re too old to work anymore?”

He takes a drag and huffs out some smoke while he thinks about it.

“I like the mechanic work,” he starts. “But I’m not really keen on living the rural town life for the rest of eternity.”

“I knew you weren’t the type.”

“Yeah. But I just can’t let go of the shop. I thought about selling it before, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It would probably kill my dad if I did.”

“He’d want you to be happy, no?”

He hums pensively, takes another hit and hands you the joint. Jungkook lets his fingers linger on yours for a moment when he does. His side is pressing into your thigh since there’s not much space in the window. The way his eyes are locked on yours is making your breath hitch and you almost choke on the smoke you inhaled. You cough, which makes him reach behind you to stroke your back. Your free hand grabs his naked shoulder while you recover from the coughing fit.

Once you catch your breath and sit back up straight, Jungkook doesn’t return to his spot next to you, but instead remains in front of you, basically between your legs.

His hand slides away from your back though, holding on to the windowsill next to your leg instead.

“I didn’t really quit my job for the trip,” you sigh, looking down at your dangling feet. The weed really seems to loosen up your tongue tonight. “Just couldn’t do it anymore, it kept burning me out to a pathetic pile of ash.”

“I’m sorry,” Jungkook earnestly tells you, squeezing your arm lightly in a comforting manner.

Apparently your weed-riddled brain decides to just lay out all your business to him, because before you can stop yourself, you are already dropping the rest of your recent lore.

“’M driving through the whole country to my friend’s place because I found out I got cheated on. The breakup hit me quite hard after such a long time together. Needed to get far, far away.”

“Must be a fucking idiot,” Jungkook shakes his head and tries to catch your gaze, which makes you lift your head when he starts to crouch to look up at you.

He moves closer to you then, making your knees spread further to accommodate his frame.  After flicking the butt of the joint out of the window, he places his palm on your thigh while his other hand comes up and brushes some of your hair behind your ear. His head is cocked to the side and you’re locking eyes, with his fingers still resting softly against your cheek.

It’s like time freezes and then you’re suddenly leaning forward and your lips collide, slotting together effortlessly, like they were never meant to be apart to begin with. You sigh against him as if you’re letting go of a breath you didn’t know you were holding and he uses the moment to slip his tongue between your parted lips. His hand has wandered to your neck while yours found their way to his shoulders, pulling him closer, as your tongues dance against each other. All the stress of today just falls off you, like a lizard shedding his skin. The kiss is all-encompassing, leaving no room for any thoughts in your head other than taking away every inch of space between your bodies. As you make out, the palm on your thigh slowly caresses from your leg to your side and then back down to your ass, where it rests and squeezes ever so lightly. Even this soft touch makes your hips hitch towards Jungkook and you feel him smile against your mouth and exhale a laugh through his nose. You would be embarrassed if he wasn’t pressing himself into your crotch, holding you in place, obviously just as excited to feel you against his body. He nibbles on your lower lip before licking across it and then his face is suddenly gone from yours. You just stare at him all dumb and breathless, still entangled with him. His thumb brushes over your lip, wiping away the moisture left behind from the kiss and continues to put it in his mouth. You stifle a whine at the sight, trying to collect yourself at least a little bit, so you slide off the windowsill. Not taking into account Jungkook’s close proximity to you, the movement makes you rub yourself against his groin by accident. He’s not shy about the groan that leaves him at the contact, but he steps back a bit to give you space anyway.

“Want to give sleep another shot?” he asks you, brushing over your cheek one last time before removing his hand.

“Mhm,” you nod. “I’m gonna take a shower first though.”

“Good idea,” Jungkook sends you off with a pat to your ass, making your face heat up even more.

Oh, you really need a cold shower for more than one reason.

You finally step out of your sweaty clothes, dropping them in a pile on the bathroom floor. When the spray of water hits you, you sigh. It feels so good to finally wash away the grime. What you can’t rinse off is the tight feeling between your legs as you think about Jungkook, shirtless and sweaty, pressed to your body. You take a few minutes to just stand under the water raining down on you, fighting the urge to touch yourself, that’s how riled up the kiss has gotten you.

When you turn off the water and get out of the shower, you realize that there is only a small towel, nothing that could actually cover your body in any decent way. You only brought panties to the bathroom with you. The only thing you find attached to the door is a questionable bathrobe. Better than nothing, you think after inspecting and smelling it, deciding it’s clean. You quickly towel-dry your wet hair with the small cloth so you don’t look like a dog that got caught in the rain before slipping on your panties and the robe, closing it around you with its belt.

Jungkook has returned to the cuck chair when you come back out. He’s reclined back into it, leisurely stretching his spread legs out as he eyes you with heavy lids. He’s so fucking sexy lounging there in just his jeans, his upper body glazed by sweat, making his tattoo glisten in the dim light of the bedside lamp. You nibble on your lower lip absentmindedly, slowly stepping closer.

And he’s looking right back at you like he wants to ravish you. The slight tent in the front of his pants is reassuring proof that the kissing didn’t leave him unaffected either.

“Are you not hot in this?” he gestures at your robe while looking you up and down before sitting up straight.

“Are you not hot in your jeans?” you tease in response, making him chuckle.

“C’mere,” he curls his fingers at you to beckon you closer and your feet move before your brain even catches up.

Once you’re in reach, he grabs the belt of the bathrobe and pulls you into him, hands snaking to your backside when there’s no more room between you. He massages your ass cheeks through the soft fabric at an agonizingly slow pace and you’re already becoming impatient, so you take initiative and climb into his lap, your knees around his thighs. There’s just enough room in the chair for you to fit. With your arms locked around his neck, you immediately go in for another kiss, licking into him. Spurred on by your eagerness, his hands slip under your robe, making the belt slowly unravel with each movement of his palms against your naked skin underneath. You didn’t think it was possible in this heat, but you erupt in goosebumps when his fingers slide over your waist, up to the side of your breasts where he lets them linger before splaying them out to cup your tits.

“Your skin is so soft,” he mutters against your lips just as one of his digits brushes over a pert nipple, which makes you inhale a sharp breath. His mouth moves to the side of your neck, where he sucks on your skin, surely leaving behind bruises. The sensation makes you grind your hips down against his growing cock, craving friction. He groans into the crook of your neck, so you keep swiveling your lower body in his lap, both of your breathing increasing in speed as your arousal is escalating to new levels.

Finally, he’s had enough of the bathrobe covering his view of your body and when you let go of him, he slides it off your shoulders, dropping it to pool on the floor by his feet.

With your bare tits in front of his face, he hums in approval, his hands roaming the skin of your nude torso.

“Wow,” he sighs in appreciation, licking over his lips once before latching on to a nipple. The flicking of his tongue elicits a whimper from you and makes your back arch, pressing your chest closer to him.

You can feel the rough denim covering his dick though the thin fabric of your underwear, which is already going damp as you rub yourself over him again and again.

You lift yourself off his crotch, your hand finding his belt, undoing the buckle. When you struggle to open the fly of his pants one-handed, he removes his hand from your tit and looks up at you.

“You sure?” he asks you softly and when you nod, he helps you out by popping the button himself, so you just have to pull down the zipper. He lifts himself off the seat just enough to wriggle the jeans down to his thighs. His hard dick twitches excitedly when you palm him through his Calvin Klein boxers.

Jungkook reaches between you, his fingers finding your still clothed pussy, just ghosting over your core, tentatively. You instinctively press down into his touch, sighing, which impels him to run his digits over the moistened fabric harder. Feeling your arousal through the panties already, he pulls them to the side, giving him access to run his finger between your labia. “Like silk,” he muses quietly, before dipping in further, gathering your wetness.

“Dripping for me already,” he groans, his breath fanning over your neck now. “So fucking hot.”

His middle finger finds your entrance then and pushes in slowly before curling it once inside. You writhe in his hold, impatient to be filled by him.  After pumping a few times, he slides in a second finger, the pads dragging across your walls which each movement of his wrist, making you whine.

When the thirst for his cock takes over you, you reach down to the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down just far enough to free his hard dick. He moans lowly when you wrap your fingers around him, squeezing before giving him a determined tug, your thumb spreading precum across his tip.

His fingers slip out of you then, leaving you clenching around air. His hand comes up on top of yours on him, engulfing your smaller one completely, guiding your pumps. Your juices on his fingers add to the glide, every stroke along his length now producing a nasty squelching sound.

With his free hand, he fishes out his wallet from his jeans, producing a single condom. You basically rip it out of his fingers, tearing the package open with your teeth. After slapping his own hand away from his dick with the back of yours, you roll on the rubber.

He takes hold of your wrist and gently twists you palm up under his face, then lets a drop of spit fall into it. You spread the drool around his shaft before lining yourself up to the tip of his cock.

Jungkook grips on to your waist as you lower yourself down on him until you’re flush to his crotch. The stretch makes you whimper as he slides into you, his own head falling back on to the chair with his eyes closed.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice strained. “You feel amazing.”

That’s enough encouragement for you to start moving, your hips going in circles as you bounce up and down. His cock curves just the right way to rub over your g-spot each time you slam your ass down into him.

His fingers have wandered to your ass cheeks, kneading at the supple flesh. He’s not guiding your movement, he lets you take the reigns as you ride him like your life depends on it.

The damn cuck chair is restricting you though, your knees confined by the armrests, you can’t get into it the way you know would blow his fucking mind. When you lift yourself off his cock, his head shoots back up, looking at you quizzically as you move off his lap and lower yourself on the floor between his legs. He spreads them immediately, accommodating you kneeling before him.

You peel off the condom, throwing it aside, before bracing yourself on his thigh with one hand. His palm comes down to land on top of your fingers running over the muscle of his upper leg. He caresses your hand as you close in on his cock, poking out your tongue to give it tiny kitten licks all over. His gaze never leaves you when your lips finally close around his leaking tip and he immediately twitches in your mouth with a whimper. Your lips are wet from precum and you let them run over his tip and down his shaft before taking him in properly. While you work your way down his length, your tongue flat against it, small whine-like sounds keep escaping him, contrasting the low groans he huffed out before and it’s making your head swim with need.

You hollow out your cheeks, sucking him down as far as you can go, your tongue swirling over his frenulum and through his slit on every upwards move. He’s too big to get all of him into your mouth, so you wrap your fingers around the remaining length, aiding with flicks of your wrist.

The groans from earlier begin to mix in between the higher-pitched whimpering, his fingers gripping on to yours harder as you keep going.

Jungkook is staring at you through the whole blowjob, mouth slightly agape, his chest heaving.

“So damn pretty with my cock in your mouth,” he muses between huffs, his free hand tangling into the back of your hair.

The praise goes straight to your pussy, throbbing and feeling neglected. You’re sure though it’s not going to be for long while you keep bobbing your head. And you were right, because soon after he peels you off himself gently by your hair, his other hand helping you up. He pulls you closer to him, slotting his lips against yours for a lazy kiss with his fingers grazing your jaw.

After breaking the kiss, he gets up, his sweaty back sticking to the leather producing a moist squelch, taking you with him and walking you over to the bed while stepping out of his jeans and boxers on the way. He lays you down on your back with an arm around you.

This time it’s him getting on his knees at the end of the bed. Jungkook grabs you by your waist and pulls you towards him, your legs spread around his head. He removes the panties still bunched up next to your pussy, taking a deep whiff of them before tossing them aside. He dips his head between your thighs immediately, mumbling against your core.

“You smell like heaven,” you can barely make out, his voice muffled by your skin, but it’s enough to make you moan at the dirty compliment. Maybe you have a praise kink that you weren’t aware of before, because he’s driving you insane.

The last thing you see before your head falls on the mattress is his twinkling eyes looking at you with hunger-blown pupils. Then his mouth is on you, his tongue running along your slit, lapping up the gathered arousal. Each pass of his tongue is pulling you further into oblivion and when he finally sucks your clit between his lips, all you can do is gasp and grip the bedsheets. His nose is pressed to your pubic mound as he lavishes at your pussy, relentlessly flicking over your most sensitive spot. He’s really not wasting any time, already having you right on the edge.

He alternates between his tongue and his lips in a mind-numbing rhythm and then two of his fingers push into you as well. Feeling him press his fingertips into your walls and working your clit at the same time has you arching off the bed.

“Don’t stop,” you plead, your orgasm approaching in a rapid pace.

With one last curl of his fingers inside you, you clench around them and come on his face. Your thighs close around his head, caging him in as your hips lift off the mattress accompanied by a strangled whimper. Your body twitches helplessly as he keeps lapping at your clit, bordering on overstimulation as your orgasm slowly ebbs down and you finally have to push his face away from between your thighs.

“Fuck, I could eat you out forever,” he groans, his lips and chin dripping in spit and your wetness as he reluctantly detaches from you. “I can’t get enough of your pussy. So sweet.”

You laugh breathlessly, slumping back on to your elbows. “Yeah, I could tell.”

He comes up from the floor, his palm wrapped around his rock-hard cock, stroking himself. When he looks down on you with hooded eyes, you grab his arm and pull him down. Jungkook chuckles as he lands on top of you, holding himself up with one arm so he doesn’t crush you.

His leg slots between yours and his cock drags along your hip, smearing precum on your skin when he crashes your lips together. After feverishly letting your tongues tangle and bodies rub against each other, giving you time to recover, he pulls away and rolls onto his back. Using the moment, you grab a condom from your backpack next to the bed before you follow along, swinging your leg over his thighs to straddle him. You put the protection on him with gentle hands, only tugging lightly a single time when you’re done. Hovering just above his twitching cock then, you start exploring his torso, fingers running across his abs up to his chest, feeling the taut muscle contract under your hands. You trace the tattoo that goes from his arm, over his shoulder down to his pecks. His nipples are hardened and you can’t resist brushing over them, small, dark and stiff, contrasting his pale skin. His hips hitch up at the teasing touch, making his cock glide between your labia. He whimpers and curses under his breath as he keeps sliding along your pussy, still puffy from the orgasm. The tip of his dick catches on your clit with every hump, your body now moving in sync to his motions, increasing the delicious friction.

On your last slide downwards, you angle your hips and with you still being soaked and spit-slick, his cock enters you without resistance. His hands on your ass tighten their grip as he sucks in a harsh breath. You can’t hold back your own drawn-out moan as your pussy is finally being filled out again. With your fingers splayed on his abdomen for support, you lift up slightly just to slam back down. There’s no slow start, you’re not playing around, immediately gyrating your hips with every bounce, your pussy gripping his cock tightly like it’s trying to rip it off.

The room is filled with the sound of skin slapping on skin, wet squelching every time you move back down on his cock and a symphony of both your moans echoing off the walls.

Jungkook lets you lead again, but after a while, he can’t help but thrust up into you, matching your rhythm and speed. You straighten out your back so you can reach behind you, cradling his balls, massaging them while you rock in his lap, before dipping down further to press into his taint firmly, pulling another whimper from him.

“Damn,” he presses out, his dick pumping into you. “You’re the best fucking ride of my life.”

With his cock dragging along your walls, you let yourself fall forward and his arms close around your lower back, holding you close. You rest your head against his shoulder, your ass still drawing circles on him, your cheeks ricocheting every time your hips meet. At this angle, your clit is now rubbing against him, making you gasp at the much-needed friction while he shoves into you from beneath. It doesn’t take long for you to get close again, so you grind down harder, chasing your high.

When your moans increase in volume, Jungkook digs his hands back into your ass.

“That’s it,” he breathes against your ear. “Come on my cock like a good girl.”

His words unravel you immediately, the coil in your stomach snapping and you come for a second time with a cry, the intensity almost overwhelming. Your pussy clenches around him tightly, making him groan through gritted teeth under you. You sob into his shoulder while you try to keep riding out your orgasm with trembling thighs and your whole body convulsing.

Jungkook doesn’t give you a chance to calm down this time. With strong arms, he lifts you off him and on your back. He stares down at you with dark eyes as he positions himself between your legs before he grabs the back of your knees and basically folds you in half. Jungkook rams his cock back into you without warning, the bed creaking loudly under the pistoning of his hips. You can do nothing but take his delicious slams into your sensitive pussy, too fucked out to contribute, your breathing coming out in shallow huffs between moans.

With a particularly harsh thrust, you hear a bed slat crash into the floor. Jungkook doesn’t seem to care that he’s not only taking you apart, but also the bedframe, rapidly approaching his orgasm judging by the stuttered grunts that reverberate around you. You feel like you’re getting vertigo from Jungkook all over and inside you, the effects of you coming so hard still lingering, having you blissed out and your brain comfortably empty.

It doesn’t take long for his movements to go choppy.

“Fuck, how are you still so tight… so… perfect,” he struggles to grit out between heavy breaths before his hips still and he releases his load inside you accompanied by stuttered moans. The fingers on the back of your thighs dig into your skin, probably leaving marks, as he continues pumping into you sloppily until your pussy has milked every last drop of cum out of him and he can’t hold himself up any longer. His body gives out, trembling, and he lets go of your legs before collapsing on top of you.

With his face in the crook of your neck, he exhales a shaky, incredulous laugh. Your fingers tangle into the back of his hair, caressing his scalp while he comes down. You are close to drifting off with Jungkook’s weight pressing into you, a calming feeling washing over you, when his voice startles you awake again.

“Are you okay?” he asks you with a hoarse voice, lifting himself off you, taking off the condom and settling against your side instead. His arm finds your middle and he pulls you closer.

“Better than the bed,” you giggle sleepily.

Reluctantly, you move out of his embrace, not willing to risk having to continue your road trip with a bladder infection.

“I’ll be right back,” you let him know.

You traipse to the bathroom to pee and when you come back, Jungkook is on his back, snoring lightly. You quickly pull on a baggy t-shirt and some panties and climb back into bed, careful not to wake him. When you snuggle into his side, his mouth curls into a smile and he hums.

“I’m taking you to breakfast before we go back tomorrow,” he mumbles with a sleep-tinged voice before drifting back off.

Masterlist

Everything Jeongguk does has some sort of musicality to it. Even the way he kisses feels melodic. He’s the only person who can play you like a fiddle, or the only one you allow to. 

“It’s open,” you holler from the kitchen. 

It isn’t the norm for you to keep your door unlocked, but you already knew he was coming. Not because you two talked about it beforehand or because he texted you on his way over. This is just what you two do, and have done, for two years shy of a decade now. 

Light shines in from the street lamps outside when Jeongguk enters your house, drops his bag, and kicks off his shoes. The sounds are understandably familiar given how many times this exact scenario’s played out. And just like clockwork, a couple seconds after the door clicks shut, you feel two warm, strong arms wrapping around your middle. 

“This all for little ole me, huh?” Jeongguk whispers where his lips are grazing your neck. 

You hear him inhale your scent and contentedly hum between his soft kisses along your throat, leaving you to fight off the urge to totally melt into him. 

“Why would it be? Is today a special occasion or something?” 

He chuckles into your skin. It’s low and deep, making it obvious how tired he is, but still as bright as ever. 

“Oh, not really. Just Bangtan’s golden anniversary.” 

“Ah, I see.” While he continues to paint your neck in affection, you add the finishing touches to the seaweed soup you made. “Well, I’ll have you know you guys don’t own the date June thirteenth.” 

“No?” 

His cheerful giggles tickle your ear and cause your head to tilt, unintentionally giving his mouth more space to work. 

“Nuh uh. It also happens to be my, um, my grandma’s cat’s birthday,” you retort.

It’s such a stupid joke, but hearing Jeongguk’s loud laugh is enough to tell it again and again. 

“My apologies,” he drawls with a final peck. “To the cat.” 

By the time he turns you around in his arms, you’re giggling, too. It’s par for the course whenever you’re together, just like his hands caressing the bare skin of your waist below your top. 

He looks so unbelievably handsome, even with evidence of fatigue written all over his face. His black hair’s gotten longer since you last saw him, but it’s parted on one side to show off his forehead and pretty, doe eyes. 

On instinct, you reach up to comb through the front pieces and Jeongguk instantly wilts. His eyes close, shoulders drop, and muscles relax, bringing his body an inch closer to you.

“You didn’t have to come, you know.” As if to directly counter your statement, one of his arms loops around your back. “It’s been a long two days, no?” 

“Missed you.” 

His response is so quick it’s almost like muscle memory and you have to fend off the butterflies in your stomach as a result. 

“I’m not going anywhere. You could’ve stopped by tomorrow or something.” When Jeongguk shakes his head with a slight pout, it triggers your memories of him doing the exact same thing as a kid. He hasn’t changed at all since you two grew up together here in Busan, even though it feels like a lifetime ago. “Ggukie.”

“I…” His eyes open again and a smile slowly breaks out across his face as he surveys you. “I didn’t wanna wait. I needed to be with you tonight.” You can’t resist mirroring his expression. “Is that alright?” 

After a long inhale, you nod. 

“It’s always alright.” 

That’s apparently all he needs to hear because he kisses you without missing a beat. It’s mundane and regular to feel his lips against your own. Of course, it is. He was your first kiss as a teenager and you’ve lost count of how many you’ve shared since then. 

Jeongguk’s lips are consistently soft, pleasant, and gentle. He kisses you like it’s the first time even in the middle of your raunchiest affairs. Sometimes he’s so delicate you forget the type of relationship this really is. 

To be fair, Jeongguk doesn't treat you like just some friend with benefits or a random situationship. The years of familiarity between you garner a much deeper respect than that. But that also allows your heart to occasionally get the wrong idea. 

He isn’t yours, and you’re not sure if he ever will be. Which is okay. All you ever want is to have him in your life and whether that’s platonically or romantically, you don’t care. The only thing you could never withstand is losing him altogether. 

Although, it’s a lie to say you won’t miss the feeling of his hands on your spine and your chests pressed together if your relationship suddenly becomes friendly. His long fingers occupy the majority of your back whenever he holds you like this, encompassing you in his presence until it’s all you can think about. Not to mention how his mouth guides your own open so he can slip his tongue inside. 

This is how he gets you every time without fail. You can be completely focused on something, but as soon as his lips are on you, it’s game over. 

For instance, the meticulously planned meal on the counter behind you.

“Jeo — Jeongguk,” you murmur between kisses. “The food’s getting cold.” 

He just laughs at your feeble attempt to stop him. 

“You have a microwave for a reason, no?”

His head tilts to the opposite side so he can kiss you with more fervor, but you push on his chest to force him back. He looks cartoonishly offended by your actions and you have to lace your fingers together just wipe the frown off his face. 

“You’re really choosing pussy over food? That’s a little out of character.” 

“Nah, not when it’s you,” he argues. “You gotta know by now you’re my favorite meal.” 

An embarrassingly bright blush creeps in which you try to hide by glancing to your left, but Jeongguk knows you too well. He uses your chin to turn your head before smiling like a devil because of how pink your cheeks are. Leading you to swat his hand away and pivot in the opposite direction. 

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?” 

You barely make it two feet before he catches you with a single arm, tugging you into his chest while you squeal and pretend to fight back. Jeongguk triumphantly cackles in return as he carries you to the couch and flops onto his back, bringing you down with him. 

The position leaves all your most sensitive areas wide open and he takes full advantage by tickling you wherever he can reach. It’s no different from when you were kids on the playground, although back then the behavior wasn’t inundated with sexual tension. Because despite him making you screech and flail, a tender heat follows his fingers where they dance across your skin. His lips are also right beside your ear and the puffs of air from his laughter spreads goosebumps all down your arms.

“Ggukie,” you whine, but he ignores the protest.

Well, partially. He stops tickling you, but only so his hands can slide beneath your shirt to feel your bare skin. One arm fully wraps around your stomach to keep you close while the other sneaks upwards until he finds your bra. His fingers push the material up so he can grope you unimpeached, eliciting a quiet moan when he begins massaging your breast.

In the meantime, he starts kissing your neck again. And like a true musician, he marries the tempo of his hand and mouth so every peck coincides with a firm squeeze. It turns your brain to putty and all you can do is let him keep touching you like his own personal piano. 

“God, you’re so warm.” His lips are dangerously close to your weak spot, the skin right before your shoulder that always makes you squirm. “This is always what I miss the most.”

“Oh, so you don’t miss my company? Just my body?” 

Jeongguk giggles and it’s so damn cute you almost forget your tit’s engulfed in his palm. 

“Of course, I do,” he assures you. “I miss everything about you. All the time.”

You hate when he says shit that makes your heart race. It isn’t fair because you can’t respond in kind or else you risk scaring him away. 

He’s the one who asked for this arrangement; to be able to stroll through your door whenever he’s in town and have you all to himself until he has to leave again. It’s not like you mind. You’ll give yourself to him any day of the week if he asks, but it means there are boundaries he’s allowed to push and you aren’t.

Still, you find ways to skirt around your limitations.

“I missed you, too. It’s been so long.”

“Mm. When was the last time I was here? March?”

“Yeah.” Before you can finish your sentence, he switches to your neglected breast and repeats his ministrations. “Right before the album dropped.” 

“I’m sorry, sunshine. I didn’t mean to neglect you.” 

His lips move to your earlobe and it sends a familiar chill down your spine. 

“S’okay. I’ll forgive you as long as you actually touch me,” you tease. 

When he laughs again, you swear it’s like everything in the world just feels right. 

Rather than responding, Jeongguk trails his other hand down your torso until he reaches the waistband of your jeans. He doesn’t dip his fingers beneath the fabric, though, instead choosing to fiddle with the buttons while you grow increasingly more impatient.

“Gguk.” 

“Hmm?”

Along with a dry chuckle, you twist your upper body so you can see him.

“You think you’re so cute, don’t you?” 

You could drown in his responding smile. 

“No.” His hands move to your hips as he sits you both upright. “But I do know you.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Even though you’re in a less compromising position, you’re still between his legs with your back half against his chest.

“For starters, you made me seaweed soup to celebrate the special occasion,” he answers. “And you know I just got done with back-to-back concerts. So I’ll be two seconds into fingering you when you hit me with, ‘no, Ggukie, you deserve to come before I do.’”

Unfortunately, his impression of you is spot on, but you can’t let him have a complete win.

“Eh, five seconds.” 

Perhaps you deserve the reprise of his tickle attack, but you still try evading it by standing to create more distance between you. The only problem is Jeongguk’s arms are long enough to catch you, allowing him to force you onto his lap so his hands can torture you for however long he pleases. 

Which is thankfully not long at all, because once you’re straddling his thighs, his fingers creep underneath your shirt to yank it over your head. Your bra’s his next victim, joining your top on the floor before he leans in to suck your nipple into his mouth. 

“Oh,” you gasp as one hand sinks into his hair. “Fuck.”

He hums around your nub while pinching the other between his thumb and forefinger. 

You would let him play with your tits all night if only you had the time. He’s an expert at bringing you pleasure with his fingers, teeth, and tongue. Alas, he’s right about you wanting him to come first. It’s only fair after how hard he’s been working lately. 

As much as you’d love to let him keep going, you use your grip on his scalp to pull his head away from your chest so you can kiss him. His mouth’s warm and swollen from his efforts, making it all too easy to nibble on his bottom lip until you hear a low groan. 

Jeongguk’s hands are already on a different quest now, too, moving up and down your bare back and leaving goosebumps in their wake. Eventually, one of them glides up into your hair where he turns your soft strands into a mess of knots. 

It’s not like you mind, by the time you two are done your hair’s usually unrecognizable. 

“You should be proud, Ggukie.” You leave his mouth alone to pepper his sharp jaw with kisses. “Thirteen years is a long time.” 

He breathes out a laugh.

“Are you proud of me?” 

The question halts you. Not because of the words themselves, but their sincerity. You lift your head so you can see his eyes and just like you expected, there’s a glimmer of expectation in them.

“I’m always proud of you.” Your fingers in his hair begin to brush some locks away from his face before trailing down his cheek. “And I always have been. Since the day you left for Seoul.” 

A nostalgic smile graces his lips.

“You mean when I kissed you goodbye at the train station?” 

It was your first kiss, his as well, and although it was nothing more than a millisecond-long peck, it stopped your heart. 

“Oh, I’ve never been prouder of you than in that moment.”

His grin grows before he cranes his neck for another kiss, albeit much more chaste than its predecessors. 

“I can’t thank you enough for always being here,” he remarks. “And I’m not just talking about the sex. I know you know that, but I wanna make sure you understand how much you mean to me.” 

It’s so hard getting sentimental without your shirt on because then he can see your whole chest and neck flushing with affection. 

“I know,” you tell him.

Jeongguk sighs and lets his head fall forward into your sternum where he places a couple gentle kisses. 

“You smell nice.” 

The unexpected compliment causes you to snicker. 

“Yeah?” He nods. “Well, surprisingly, you do, too.”

“Because I showered, you brat!”

He’s forced to glance up again when your laughter makes his resting place shake too much, but he doesn’t seem to mind. There’s a wistful smile on his lips as his eyes flit around your face. 

“It’s because you’re expecting to get your dick sucked, isn’t it?” As much as he tries to hide it, the lopsided smirk that forms immediately gives him away. “You greedy bastard.” 

“Oh, please, like I’ve ever stepped through your doors and not gotten my dick sucked.” 

Alright, you suppose that’s fair. 

“Whatever. It still shouldn’t be expected.” 

His tongue hits the roof of his mouth. 

“So it’s not happening?” 

“I never said tha —” 

“Then why aren’t you on your knees yet?” You gawk at him before smacking his chest, leaving him melodramatically clutching his left pec. “I was kidding!” 

“No, you weren’t,” you challenge. 

After another moment, he drops the act and lets his hands roam your hips. 

“I mean, don’t you think I deserve it? Thirteen years of working day in and day out. The least my best friend can do is let me fuck her pretty little mouth.”

It’s genuinely diabolical how wet you become from his words alone. 

“You have a sick interpretation of what best friends are for.” 

Jeongguk doesn’t respond, just tilts his head to one side while waiting for you to give in, because he knows you will. You always do because you want him just as badly as he wants you. That’s why this arrangement works so well and has lasted this long. 

Like clockwork, you roll your eyes and drop to your knees in front of him. It produces an overconfident grin as Jeongguk sinks into the couch and spreads his legs apart to make room for you. 

“And yet, here we are,” he comments. 

You gaze up at him with a fiery glare, but it’s contrary to how your hands are already undoing his belt buckle. He pitches his hips up to help you pull his jeans and boxers down, revealing just how hard he is after everything you two have gotten up to so far. 

His dick’s so pretty; long and thick with big veins running down his shaft. You haven’t even touched him yet, but he’s twitching and leaking precum all over his cockhead. 

“No wonder you’re so demanding tonight, you look like you’re about to bust.” 

He groans when you place your hands on his thighs instead of touching him where he clearly needs you. 

“Please, sunshine, I’ve been thinking about you all fucking day.” 

“Oh?” Your fingers inch higher, but not nearly close enough. “How so?”

“Y/N.”

“If you tell me, I’ll give you what you want,” you sing-song.

Jeongguk’s head falls back onto the cushions as another sound of protest passes through his lips. He must realize you won’t give in, though, because he eventually looks down to hold your eye contact. 

“Since the moment I woke up this morning I’ve been picturing all the different positions I wanna put you in. Could barely focus during soundcheck because of how badly I need you.” 

Well, that was a bad idea because now you’re freaking drenched. But you still gotta maintain a little dignity.

“Is this one of them?”

Before replying, he slowly nods.

“Of many.” 

You sure like the sound of that. It also seems particularly mean to continue torturing him. Not to mention how terribly you want him after months apart. It isn’t the longest you’ve gone without seeing each other, but any amount of time is tough when he’s the only person who knows how to make you feel good. 

So, you move your hands up to give yourself enough leverage before leaning in to kiss his tip. His whole body lurches from your touch, but once your tongue darts out to collect his precum, he relaxes against the couch cushions.

At the same time you moan over his familiar taste, he groans and tosses his head back again. His fingers find your scalp and latch onto your hair, simultaneously pulling it away from your face and giving him an anchor. 

You don’t waste time, not like how you normally do by dragging your tongue up and down his shaft. Tonight you immediately take his head into your mouth while letting spit drip out to lubricate him. 

Jeongguk’s clearly happy with the decision because you feel a harsh tug on your hair as well as his thighs clenching beneath your hands. 

“Fuck, baby, just like that,” he mindlessly encourages you. 

Except it actually almost stops you in your tracks. He’s never called you baby before, or any pet name, at least not during a sexual encounter. Maybe while trying to tease you or in a general manner, but never like this. 

He doesn’t seem to notice, though, so you chalk it up to him being deep in the throes of pleasure. 

After pushing the comment from your mind, you inhale through your nose and sink lower, swallowing another inch of length as Jeongguk loudly moans above you.

“God.” While you focus on not gagging, his free hand combs more of your hair back so he can see your lips stretched around his thick cock. “You have no idea how good this feels, sunshine. No one does it like you.” 

You hum in acknowledgment, eliciting another deep moan. 

Before his praises can distract you any longer, you take in one last gulp of air and force your head all the way down to his pelvis. Both you and Jeongguk choke, but surprisingly, his own lasts longer than yours. You’re used to having his dick deep inside your throat, so although it’s been a while, you only need a moment to adjust. 

On the contrary, Jeongguk’s practically losing his mind. Both of his hands land on your head as he endlessly groans and pants your name. 

“Oh, fuck. Jesus… fuck.” It’s hard not to laugh at how seemingly mesmerized he is. “Y/N, baby, please move. Need you so bad.” 

Another one? How does he expect you to give him the blowjob of his dreams when he keeps calling you that? 

Luckily for him, you’ve been doing this long enough to overcome his abnormal behavior. 

You already know exactly how he likes it; slow, sloppy, and wet. Jeongguk’s an attention whore and loves knowing all of your focus is solely on pleasuring him. Hence why you begin leisurely bobbing up and down while using the tip of your tongue to trace the underside of his cock. 

He sighs in relief and you can feel all his muscles unwinding, giving you quite the confidence boost. Jeongguk’s always responsive in these situations, but he seems particularly drunk on you tonight. 

Besides the actions of your tongue and lips, you alternate between moaning and humming whenever his tip sinks deeper into your mouth. You also repeatedly let more spit roll down his shaft, which creates a sinful cacophony of sound when mixed with Jeongguk’s whines and groans. 

“Shit. Oh… my god.” 

When you glance up, all you see is a sharp jawline and pretty neck. But it isn’t long before a pair of shiny, doe eyes meet your gaze. 

Jeongguk’s pupils blow wide when he realizes you're watching him and you even feel his dick twitch inside your esophagus. Soon enough a proud smirk appears and one of his hands traces your profile until he’s caressing your cheek.

“You look so beautiful, sunshine.” He pulls on your hair to bring your mouth back up around his head and you instantly understand the silent memo. Rather than swallowing his length again, you circle and tease the sensitive ridge of his tip with your tongue. “That’s it. Always s’good for me, aren’t you?”

After humming and batting your eyelashes at him, you feel another sharp jolt from his cock. You take it as your cue to keep going and even start massaging his balls that are covered in your drool. In response, Jeongguk shouts a string of curses and his fingers scratch your scalp as he struggles to stay sane. 

You’ve done this enough to know he’s close, but you need a break before you can finish him off. Following one last lap of your mouth, you let your hand take over so you can replenish your oxygen.

“Goddamn,” he huffs as his eyes follow your finger’s movements along his shaft.

“Where do you wanna come?”

His focus shifts to your face again, so you send him a mischievous grin.

“C’mon, sunshine, you already know where.”

“You never know,” you counter. “My tits look pretty good tonight.”

Jeongguk snickers. 

“They always look good.” The next thing you know, he’s leaning down and using his grip on your face to guide you closer. “But I wanna fill you up right here.” 

There’s no need for clarification because he kisses you to explain himself. It’s messy and amorous, not only because of how swollen your lips are, but because Jeongguk shoves his tongue inside your mouth. 

You both moan and more precum leaks from his tip as your wet muscles tangle together. If you aren’t careful, he might come before you even wrap your lips around him again. 

When you finally pull back, a string of saliva stretches between your mouths that Jeongguk swipes away. He leaves his thumb there for a moment, pressing down on your bottom lip before slipping his finger between your teeth. 

Even though you know what he wants, you playfully bite down on his knuckle instead. Following his shocked yelp, you both burst into laughter.

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he scolds you. 

“Well, this brat’s still got her hand around your cock.” 

You squeeze his head to make a point, causing Jeongguk to hiss and yank on your hair in retaliation. 

“Can we change that?” As if you two weren’t just teasing each other a second ago, he gently cradles your face again. “Will you let me paint your pretty throat white?” 

If only you could muster a witty response, but all you can manage is an aimless nod that leaves him smirking as he sits back against the couch once more. 

There isn’t any reason to wait, so you let your hand drop back down to his balls before encasing his head between your lips. You immediately bring his entire length inside your mouth again, picking up where you left off without any hesitation. 

Similarly, it doesn’t take long for Jeongguk to teeter on the brink of ecstasy. After only a few strokes, you feel his balls tighten and then his hot cum floods your mouth. His release makes him groan so loud you actually worry your neighbors will hear, but you also don’t care when you’re busy swallowing his seed. 

Jeongguk always tastes good and you can’t resist moaning while moving up and down his shaft to collect all his cum. 

“Holy shit, baby,” he gasps as you continue lick and suck throughout his climax. “Fuck, don’t stop.” 

Not like you need to be told twice. You love breaking him off just as much as he does. 

Once he’s practically devoid of semen and you’re out of oxygen, you release his cock and sit back on your heels. Jeongguk melts into the couch afterwards, including his eyes rolling back as his whole body relaxes. 

“Good?” 

He humorlessly laughs.

“The best fucking head of my life.” 

In the middle of you pridefully giggling, Jeongguk hooks his arms under your shoulders to hoist you back up. But you have other plans, and before he can manhandle you into his lap, you grab the bottom hem of his shirt to pull it off. 

He’s so fucking sexy it makes your head spin, especially after how much he’s been working out on tour. You could spend hours just running your tongue along his abs if he’d only let you. 

“Oh, is this what you want?” 

Instead of waiting for a response, Jeongguk tugs your jeans and panties to the floor in one smooth motion before guiding you to straddle him again. 

As if he wasn’t wet enough from your blowjob, your cunt lands right on his dick and all the essence you’ve been leaking since the moment he stepped inside your house lubricates him even more. 

“Oh, my god,” you whine, causing him to smile over his effect on you.

“You get this wet just from sucking me off, sunshine?” Despite how embarrassing it is, you nod. “Good. Want you to be nice and soaked when I fuck you.” 

“Ggukie, please.”

“Yeah, is that what you want? For me to fuck you just right? Like I always do?”

“Mmhm.”

Based on past patterns, you expect him to drive his cock into you without another word, but his hands just trace your curves while his eyes map your features. 

You’re about to question his hesitation when he delicately cups your jaw, causing your eyebrows to pinch together.

“What if I want more?” He asks sincerely, in complete contrast to a moment ago.

“What?”

Jeongguk inhales and licks his lips.

“What if I don’t want to just see you whenever I’m in Busan? What if I want to see you in my bedroom and my kitchen and lying on my couch?”

“In… in Seoul?” 

He smiles.

“Itaewon.”

If your heart wasn’t about to beat out of your body, your eyes would roll back so far they’d get stuck. 

“Jeongguk, my whole life’s here. My job, my family —”

“I know, sunshine. I do.” His fingertips brush against your cheek and it takes all your willpower not to rest your head in his palm. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy or can happen right away, but eventually…” He looks uncharacteristically nervous and it makes you hold your breath in anticipation. “Eventually, I want your face to be the first thing I see when I come home at the end of the day.” 

The air you were keeping captive disappears in an instant as you digest his words. You desperately want them to mean exactly what they sound like, but you’re terrified of misinterpreting the situation. 

Except when you focus on how Jeongguk’s looking at you, with starry eyes full of wonder and hope, you don’t believe you are. Which elicits quite possibly the biggest smile you’ve ever worn before you lean in to kiss him. 

Jeongguk catches on quickly, his fingers on your face sliding into your hair so he can keep you close. Your own hands move from his shoulders to his neck while his opposite arm circles your waist. It doesn’t even matter that you’re naked, all your attention’s on the fluid movement of your mouths and how undeniably happy you are. 

“I’m crazy about you, Y/N,” he whispers to your lips. 

Although you delightfully giggle at first, you soon pull away to smack his chest. 

“What took you so damn long, huh?” 

He momentarily gawks before parroting your laughter.

“I’m sorry, baby. I just didn’t think I’d be able to handle it all.” 

“I wouldn’t have cared,” you protest. 

“But I would’ve. I needed to make sure I could be an idol and the boyfriend you deserve before asking you to be anything more than this.” 

As much as you want to fight him on it, there’s no going back now, and all you truly care about is having a future with him. 

“And you feel like you can do that?” 

You trust him to be everything you deserve and more, but you want to ensure he won’t be spreading himself too thin for your sake. 

“I do. More importantly, I want to,” he clarifies. “I want you so fucking bad, and I don’t mean sexually. I wanna cook you dinner, take you out for ice cream, and go on walks near the Han river.” 

“Oh, I’ve never been there.”

“I know! I’ve been dying to take you for years.” 

It’s been a long time since you’ve seen Jeongguk this excited about something, and your possible life together being the reason is more than you could ever wish for. 

“I want that, too,” you declare. “I’ve always wanted you, Ggukie.”

When he smiles in response to your confession, it feels like the entire world around you falls away. In fact, you barely register him closing in for another kiss. And you certainly don’t realize he’s flipping you over until you feel the cushions on your back. 

Nothing else really matters after that, anyway. You two have had sex so many times over the years it’s the last thing on your mind in comparison to the future. 

Not to say you don’t thoroughly enjoy yourself when he puts you in all those positions he mentioned earlier, but all you can think about is what sex will be like in a shared bed. One you’ll wake up and fall asleep in together, for many years to come. 

With each step closer, the music’s beat grows heavier and lower, like your own heartbeat. There’s no reason to be scared—just cautious—as you sneak a glance at a bald, muscular man who looks intoxicated and ready to chew someone’s head off.

This is no fancy club. There are no velvet ropes, no long lines, no excitement lingering in the air. At least, not for you.

If it weren’t for a twist of events, you would never come here voluntarily. Your outfit says otherwise, though.

You stand close to your friends, practically glued to their sides, as the man who looks like a straight-up junkie moves toward the club’s door. Oh, he’s the bouncer.

As he eyes all of you with empty orbs, part of you wishes he would turn you away and not let you enter this place. Your wish isn’t fulfilled. The bouncer gives Mario a curt nod, and that’s all it takes for your friend to lead the way.

As soon as the door opens, the music becomes sharper and clearer. There’s only a small space before it leads downstairs to the basement. This place is everything a mother would tell you to avoid.

Good thing you don’t have one.

Neon lights grow more visible with each step, covering the floor in flickering electric pink, acid green, and colors you don’t even get to notice as they shift too quickly. As you make it down to the main room, your mouth drops—and so does your heart.

The place is packed, so much so that it makes you question if it’s really that good. The exterior alone—the entire neighborhood—is just not it. How does Mario even know a place like this? How does he even know this part of town?

You make a mental note to question him later, because he sure as hell didn’t mention any of it. All he said was that the booze is cheap and the place is fine. If leaving means paying more for the few shots you’re about to have, so be it.

From the looks of it, everyone else is on board and follows him.

The air is thick with a mixture of scents you can’t even name. There’s a distinct smell of cigarettes, weed, and perfume—the rest, you’d rather not identify. By the time you’re out of here, you’ll reek of this place and probably have to burn the nice dress you’re wearing.

Mario promised he was only dropping something off, so this should be quick— in and out. It should be quick enough for you to grab a drink and hopefully head somewhere else.

El leans closer, her shoulder bumping into yours as she tries to be heard over the pounding music. Her voice still barely cuts through it.

“What is this place?”

You follow her gaze—and that’s when you see it.

Ahead of you, past the blur of bodies and neon light, there’s a ring. Not the kind you’d expect. Not clean, not professional. A fence cages it in completely, metal bars rising high enough to make it feel less like a sport and more like containment. Like whatever goes in there isn’t supposed to get out.

It looks barbaric. Primal. Like it was built for animals.

And the people gathered around it—too many, too eager—aren’t just passing by. They’re waiting.

You swallow, leaning in so El can hear you.

“It looks like a nightmare.”

El lets out a short breath that might be a laugh, might be something else. She tilts her head, eyes scanning the ring with something closer to curiosity than concern.

“I’ve been to worse.”

For once, you don’t question her.

El’s always been the one to drift into places like this without hesitation, coming back with stories she tells like they’re nothing—like they didn’t happen. You used to think she exaggerated.

Now, standing here, you’re not so sure.

The crowd shifts, tightening around the fence as if pulled by the same invisible string. Someone shoves past you, the smell of sweat and smoke clinging to them. Another voice shouts something you can’t make out, swallowed whole by the bass.

You glance around for Mario, but he’s already a few steps ahead, carving a path like he belongs here.

That doesn’t sit right.

Your fingers curl slightly at your sides, the fabric of your dress suddenly feeling too thin, too out of place in a room like this. The air presses in, thick and suffocating, buzzing with anticipation.

Whatever is about to happen in that ring—

You’re not sure you want to see it.

But the crowd isn’t leaving.

And neither are you.

Mario weaves through the crowd like he’s done it a hundred times, barely checking if you and El are still behind him. You push through shoulders and elbows, the press of bodies tightening the closer you get to the fenced ring.

He finally stops, gesturing toward a narrow stretch of space wedged between a rusted railing and a couple already arguing over something you can’t hear.

“Here.”

Seats is a generous word. It’s more like a claimed patch of ground—third row, if you had to guess. Not close enough to touch the fence, but close enough that whatever happens in there won’t be easy to ignore.

You glance toward the ring again.

Up close, it’s worse.

The ground inside looks… wrong. Like it’s been scraped clean over and over again. The surface is uneven, rough in places—but there are faint traces that didn’t quite disappear. Darker patches. Stains that the dim, flickering lights can’t fully hide.

Your stomach tightens.

Mario claps his hands once, like he’s wrapping something up. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Your head snaps toward him. “What do you mean stay here? What the hell is this place?”

He sighs, but it’s not sharp or annoyed—more like he just doesn’t have the energy for this right now. His eyes flick briefly toward the ring, then back to you.

“I’ll get you your drinks,” he says, already half-turning away. “What d’you want?”

You hesitate, glancing around again—the crowd, the fence, the floor inside the ring.

“I’m not sure I want to drink anything from this place.”

El snorts beside you, loud enough to earn a glance from someone nearby.

Mario rolls his eyes. “God, you’re such a snob.”

You scoff immediately. “I’m not—”

“We’ll have vodka,” El cuts in, waving a hand like she’s sealing the deal.

Mario nods once, like that settles everything, and disappears back into the crowd before you can argue further.

For a second, it’s just you and El, the noise, the heat—

And then the music cuts.

Just like that.

A sharp hum of feedback cuts through the silence, and a man’s voice follows, loud and grating through the speakers.

“Alright, alright—eyes up!”

You look toward the ring.

The man holding the microphone steps into the light, and for a moment, you’re not sure if you should take him seriously. He looks like he’s somewhere in his forties, head completely shaved, his clothes hanging off him like they don’t belong to him—too big, too worn, sleeves slipping past his wrists. The kind of outfit that looks like it was pulled from one of those street donation bins, the ones meant for charity but always picked through before anything gets there.

He has that same look, too.

Like the kind of guy you’d cross the street to avoid.

But here—here, he owns the room.

“Welcome, you animals!” he shouts, grinning wide enough to show crooked teeth. “You came hungry tonight, yeah?”

A laugh almost slips out of you.

It’s not even that funny—but something about the way he says it, like he means it, like he’s not talking to the crowd but about them, hits in a strange way. Humor, sharp and dry, cuts through the unease curling in your stomach.

Because you already have a feeling what that ring is for.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

The reaction is instant.

The crowd erupts—loud, aggressive, overwhelming. It slams into you from all sides, so intense it makes you flinch. It’s not just cheering. It’s something rougher. Hungrier.

You hadn’t realized how many men were packed into this place until now. Your stomach twists.

The man laughs into the mic, feeding off it. “That’s what I like to hear!”

He paces along the edge of the fenced ring, dragging the moment out before throwing one arm toward the entrance on the opposite side.

“Let’s not waste time. Get ready for your first fighter of the night—give it up for…” he pauses, milking it, “…Blue Viper!”

The name hits, and the crowd roars again.

A man steps into the ring.

He’s lean, all sharp lines and defined muscle, abs catching the harsh lights as he moves. Royal blue shorts hang low on his hips, matching gloves already strapped tight around his hands. He lifts his arms the second he steps inside, like he’s already won, soaking in the noise like it belongs to him.

It probably does.

“What the fuck,” you mumble under your breath.

Beside you, El swallows, eyes fixed on the ring.

“How does Mario even know about this place?” you add, quieter now, like saying it too loud might make it worse.

But there’s no time to think. The man with the mic raises his hand again, the crowd slowly settling—not quiet, never quiet, just waiting.

“And his opponent…” he continues, voice dropping just enough to build it back up, “—ah, this one doesn’t need much of an introduction.”

A ripple moves through the crowd. You feel it before you understand it.

“He’s your favorite,” the man grins. “Your undefeated—your JK!”

For a split second, your brain doesn’t catch up.

And then—

The crowd explodes. Louder than before. Wilder. People shouting, pushing forward, fists hitting the fence.

The fence door screeches as it’s pulled open.

And then he steps in.

JK.

The noise swells instantly, people pressing closer, shouting his name like it means something—like he means something. But he doesn’t even acknowledge it. Not a glance, not a flicker. His focus is locked straight ahead.

On his opponent.

He moves like he already knows how this ends.

Every step is controlled, deliberate. His body shifts under the harsh lights, all muscle and definition—abs tight, arms flexing with even the smallest movement. There’s no wasted motion in him. No nerves. Just quiet, coiled readiness.

His opponent tries to hold his ground, but you catch it—the slight tension in his stance, the way his shoulders tighten under JK’s stare.

Like he already feels it.

Up close, you catch more of him. A sharp jawline, clean and defined, his expression unreadable. When he turns slightly, the line of his back comes into view—lean, strong, every muscle moving under his skin like it’s carved there.

You hate to admit it.

But—yeah. He’s hot.

And apparently, you’re not the only one who noticed.

You glance at El, and—

Right. Of course.

She’s staring at him like she just found religion, eyes practically sparkling.

“Holy fuck,” she breathes. “Suddenly I like being here.”

You snort, shaking your head, even though your own attention has definitely sharpened.

Still…

Your gaze drifts back to the ring, to the fence, to the crowd pressing in like this is the only thing that matters. You’re not sure you like this.

Because it’s obvious now. This isn’t just some weird club attraction. This is underground fighting—illegal, brutal, the kind of thing people don’t talk about in daylight.

And somehow, Mario brought you here.

Of all places.

Your brows pull together slightly as you scan the crowd again, unease settling back in.

Mario has always had… questionable connections. The kind you and El never really asked about, choosing instead to ignore whatever didn’t fit into your version of him.

Mario slips back beside you like he never left, pressing a cold glass into your hand. “What’d I miss?” he asks, far too casually.

You turn to him immediately, irritation rising. “What the hell is this, Mario? What are we doing here—and how did you think this was a good idea?”

He exhales, already looking like he doesn’t want to deal with this conversation, but you don’t let up.

“Seriously. This place—this isn’t normal.”

El doesn’t even glance at him. Her attention is locked on the ring, eyes sharp with interest, like she’s already decided this is worth watching. You, on the other hand, can’t stop thinking about the cage, the crowd, the way everyone seemed to be waiting for something violent to happen.

“What is this place?” you ask again, quieter now, but no less firm.

Before he can answer, a sharp bell rings out, cutting through the noise and pulling every ounce of attention back to the ring.

The fight starts instantly. The other guy lunges first, throwing a punch that should land—but JK shifts just enough for it to miss, his movement so subtle it almost looks lazy. Another swing follows, then another, each one missing by inches as JK slips past them with controlled precision, like he’s already mapped out every move before it happens.

You don’t even realize your grip on the glass has tightened until your fingers start to ache. There’s something hypnotic about the way he moves—smooth, efficient, completely unbothered. He doesn’t rush or panic, doesn’t even try to overpower. He just watches, waits, and lets the other guy wear himself down.

For a moment, it almost feels intentional, like he’s letting him try.

Taunting him.

The thought settles just as the other man commits to another strike, stepping in harder this time, putting everything behind it—and that’s when JK finally moves forward. His fist connects cleanly, the impact sharp enough to echo even through the roar of the crowd, sending the man stumbling back until his body slams into the fence with a harsh metallic rattle.

The reaction around you is immediate and overwhelming, the crowd exploding with noise that makes your brows pull together as it crashes into you from all sides. But your focus stays on the ring, on the thin line of blood already slipping from the man’s nose, stark against his skin.

Your stomach twists, but not enough to make you look away.

Without thinking, you lift the drink Mario handed you and down it in one go, ignoring the burn, the taste, the suffocating thickness of the air. Your eyes stay locked on the fight, tracking every movement, every shift.

And somewhere in the middle of it, you realize your attention isn’t just caught—

it’s hooked.

The fight doesn’t slow down—it shifts entirely in JK’s favor.

Once the other man hits the ground, something in JK changes. Whatever restraint he had disappears as he follows him down without hesitation, delivering punch after punch with the same controlled force. Each hit lands with a dull, sickening impact, the sound carrying even through the roar of the crowd.

The man barely manages to get his arms up, but it doesn’t do much. Blood spreads quickly—across his face, down his chest, soaking into the already worn surface beneath him. Those faint stains you noticed earlier are no longer subtle. They’re fresh now, darker, undeniable.

JK’s gloves are black, thick. The color hides most of the blood, swallowing it instead of putting it on display, but not entirely. A darker sheen clings to them, catching under the harsh lights every time his fists rise and fall.

Your stomach tightens as the noise around you grows louder, more aggressive, feeding into every hit instead of pulling back from it. It starts to feel like too much—too close, too real, too far past the point where someone should have stepped in already.

“Mario,” you say, leaning toward him, your voice strained as you try to be heard over the chaos. “Is there—do they have a restroom or something?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his attention still fixed on the ring, jaw set like he’s invested in how this ends. For a second, you think he didn’t even hear you, but then he glances over, quick and distracted. “Yeah. Down the hall, to the left.”

You nod, already shifting your weight as you turn to El. “Come with me.”

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t even look at you. Her eyes stay locked on the ring, her expression sharper than before, completely absorbed in what’s happening. It catches you off guard, enough that you pause for a second, staring at her like you don’t quite recognize this version of her.

“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath, but she doesn’t react, and it leaves you standing there alone with the noise pressing back in.

Because the fight wasn’t bad at first—it was controlled, almost impressive in a way you didn’t expect—but this is different. This is something else entirely.

Your gaze drifts back to the ring despite yourself, catching the way the man on the ground jerks under another hit, a broken grunt slipping from him as he tries to move, to shield himself, to do anything at all. No one steps in. No one even looks like they’re thinking about it.

A cold thought settles in as you watch.

You hope this isn’t one of those fights—the kind that doesn’t end until someone doesn’t get back up—because the way that man looks right now, barely moving, barely holding on, makes it hard not to think he’s already getting close.

Before you can see anything else, you’ve had enough.

You don’t care how dodgy this place looks anymore—only that you need a second to breathe. The thought crosses your mind, sharp and unwelcome, that walking out alone probably isn’t the smartest idea. A single woman slipping away from a crowd like this doesn’t exactly scream safe. Still, you push it aside, stand up, and follow the direction Mario gave you.

The further you move from the ring, the more the place reveals itself—and none of it is reassuring. The air is thick with alcohol and weed, clinging to the walls, to your skin, to the back of your throat. The dim lighting doesn’t help, casting everything in a dull, grimy glow that makes even the hallway feel like somewhere you shouldn’t be.

You tug your dress down instinctively, suddenly too aware of how short it is, how out of place you feel. The red lipstick you put on earlier now seems like a mistake. If only you had known where you were coming.

The restroom is worse.

One look inside is enough. The smell hits first, then the stained tiles, the flickering light, the general state of neglect that makes your stomach turn. You don’t even consider using it. Instead, you step up to the sink, eyes lifting to the mirror.

You look… composed.

More than you expected, at least. Even with the frown that’s probably been stuck on your face since you walked in, you don’t look shaken. Not on the outside.

You turn on the tap, rinsing your hands out of habit more than anything, the faint taste of vodka still lingering on your tongue. Somewhere in the distance, even from down the hall, you can still hear it—the cheers, muffled but persistent, like a reminder that whatever is happening in that ring hasn’t slowed down.

You don’t want to be here.

But you also don’t want to be left out.

The thought pushes you into motion again. You dry your hands quickly and head back out, picking up your pace as you move down the hallway, unease settling deeper with every step. The walls are lined with old posters, most of them ripped or peeling, leaving behind only fragments—faces without names, events long gone, nothing fully readable.

It only adds to the feeling that you shouldn’t be here.

You’re halfway down when it happens.

You nearly stop in your tracks.

He’s there.

The man from the ring—the one who was just getting beaten—walking toward you like nothing happened. Up close, it’s worse. Blood still clings to him, smeared across his face and chest, his steps uneven, his body barely holding itself together.

And behind him—

The man with the microphone follows, saying something you can’t quite catch.

Your attention snaps forward again.

Because coming straight toward you—

JK.

He’s already out of the ring, moving fast, like the fight meant nothing. The gloves are gone, replaced by white wraps around his hands, slightly darkened in places. His hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, his skin glistening under the dim lights as he closes the distance without slowing down.

For a second, you freeze.

Then instinct kicks in and you step aside quickly, pressing yourself against the wall just as he passes. He doesn’t even look at you. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t acknowledge you at all.

It’s like you’re not even there.

Like if you hadn’t moved—

He would’ve walked straight through you.

Your thoughts barely have time to settle before they’re cut off.

“El—?”

She rushes into view, nearly colliding with you, her expression completely different from the one she had just minutes ago. Whatever excitement she had is gone, replaced with something far more overwhelmed, almost frantic.

“I need the bathroom,” she blurts out, slightly breathless. “Like, right now. I had—shit—I had like three shots in five minutes.”

You blink at her, still catching up. “Where’s Mario?”

El glances back over her shoulder, like she expects him to magically appear behind her. “He said he needed to go too. Just disappeared into the crowd.”

You frown immediately.

Of course he did.

You bite back the first thing that comes to mind, irritation flaring as you glance past her, half-expecting to spot him somewhere down the hall. Nothing. Just the muffled noise from the main room and people moving around like nothing just happened.

Great.

You’ll definitely have to curse him out later—for leaving you alone earlier, even if the whole crowd had still been focused on the fight. At least then, everyone’s attention had been locked on the ring. Now? The fight is over, the tension is shifting, and you don’t even know how to guess who won.

Worse, El could’ve gotten lost in that mess.

Or someone could’ve—

You cut the thought off as your attention sharpens.

Because you can feel it now.

The looks.

They weren’t as obvious before, not when everyone had been too distracted, but now that the focus has broken, it’s different. There aren’t many women here—you’ve noticed that much—and the way some of the men look at you now makes your stomach twist. Lingering stares. Slow, knowing grins that feel far too comfortable.

You scoff under your breath, disgust curling in your chest as you turn back to El.

“The bathroom’s a nightmare,” you warn her. “Like, seriously not usable.”

El groans, clutching her stomach slightly. “I don’t care. My bladder is about to explode.”

Yeah. No arguing with that.

You nod, stepping aside to let her move past you. “Fine. Go. I’ll stay right outside.”

She doesn’t hesitate, already pushing the door open.

You stay put in the hallway, crossing your arms loosely as you position yourself near the wall, trying to look like you belong there more than you feel like you do. The noise from the main room is still there, dulled now, but enough to remind you you’re not completely alone.

Still—

You really hope no one tries to talk to you.

You don’t have to wait long before something shifts again.

Footsteps echo down the hall, heavier this time, more purposeful. A guy comes into view—blonde, maybe mid-twenties, wearing an oversized shirt that hangs loose over a pair of worn jeans. There’s nothing particularly threatening about him at first glance, but the way he carries himself makes people move.

“Get lost,” he says, voice flat, like he’s said it a hundred times before.

The men lingering too close—too interested—pause. You hadn’t even fully clocked how near they were getting until now. One of them mutters something under his breath, low and irritated, but before anything can escalate, a woman slips up beside them. She leans in, whispers something quick into one of their ears.

The reaction is immediate.

Their expressions shift, something greedy lighting up in their eyes, and just like that, they back off, leaving without another glance.

You feel your stomach turn.

Disgust settles in deep as you press your lips together, forcing yourself not to react more visibly. Whatever she said—it worked too easily.

You take a few steps further down the hall, needing the distance, the space. Behind you, the noise from the main room is starting to die down, the chaos thinning out into something more controlled. It sounds like they’re clearing people out, or at least resetting the space for whatever comes next.

That thought alone makes your skin crawl.

Ahead of you, the blonde guy reaches a door—one you hadn’t paid much attention to before—and pushes it open without hesitation.

And for a split second, you see inside.

It’s a medium-sized room, dim but cleaner than the rest of this place, like it serves a different purpose. Your brain barely has time to process the layout before something—someone—snags your attention completely.

Mario.

Standing there like he belongs.

Your breath catches, surprise hitting first, sharp and immediate. So much for the bathroom. He didn’t even come this way—the toilets are further down, you know that now.

But the shock doesn’t stop there.

Because sitting in one of the chairs—

JK.

Up close, under better light, he looks just as composed as he did in the ring, even now. Someone—a young guy, too young if you’re being honest—is crouched in front of him, carefully unwrapping the white tape from his hands. The fabric is stained in places, and as it comes loose, you catch glimpses of reddened skin underneath.

The kid works quickly, like he knows what he’s doing, like this is routine.

Of course it is.

Nothing about this place is legal. Nothing about it is normal.

Your eyes flick back to Mario, disbelief settling in heavier now. He lied. Not even well—just enough to get away from you and El without questions.

Before you can take in anything else, the door swings shut.

You’re left staring at it, mouth slightly open, like your brain hasn’t caught up to what you just saw.

Mario. In there. With him.

“El?”

She comes back a second later, pushing the bathroom door open with a relieved sigh. “Ready?”

You turn to her, still half-stunned. “I—there’s a room down here. Mario’s in it. And… the guy who was in the ring is in there too.”

El freezes. “What?”

“And some kid—like, actually a kid—is cleaning him up. I don’t even—” You shake your head, trying to piece it together. “This is weird.”

El blinks a few times, processing, then shrugs slightly. “Maybe Mario just knows people here?”

You stare at her. “That doesn’t make it less weird.”

She hesitates, glancing between you and the closed door. “So… what are we doing? Waiting?”

You frown, something in you snapping into place. You’re done waiting. Done being brushed off, lied to, dragged somewhere without knowing why.

Without another word, you step forward and push the door open.

The reaction is immediate.

Conversation cuts off mid-sentence. Every head in the room turns toward you, like you just walked into something you weren’t supposed to see.

Mario looks the worst out of all of them—caught, completely unprepared. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out.

Your gaze shifts past him.

JK is still sitting, his hands half-unwrapped, the young guy working on them pausing mid-motion. For a second, he doesn’t even acknowledge you. His eyes stay lowered, focused on his hands—

Then he looks up.

Your eyes meet, just briefly. Long enough for something to register—sharp, assessing. His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, before his expression tightens slightly, like he’s already decided you don’t belong here.

“And what are you doing here?” the blonde man asks, voice flat, almost tired, like this is an inconvenience.

El hovers just behind your shoulder, peeking in, her eyes going wide the second they land on JK. “Fuck,” she whispers, not nearly as quiet as she probably thinks.

You don’t react to her.

Your attention is locked on Mario now. “I should be asking you that.”

He winces slightly, like he expected that, but still doesn’t have a good answer.

The men in the room don’t miss the tension, the way your eyes narrow, the way Mario shifts under it. Something clicks between them, unspoken.

The blonde man exhales sharply, already over it. “Listen, you have no place being here.” His gaze flicks to Mario. “Take your bitches out of here.”

“Excuse me?” you scoff immediately, offense flaring hot and fast. The word hits wrong—too casual, too familiar, like it’s something he says often.

He doesn’t even react. If anything, he looks bored, like he’s seen this exact reaction a hundred times before.

Maybe he has.

“Look, just—give us a minute,” Mario cuts in quickly, stepping forward like he’s trying to manage damage control. “I’ll come out and explain, okay?”

“And wait out there? With all the junkies?” you shoot back, anger creeping in sharper now. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

Your patience is gone.

Before Mario can respond, movement pulls your attention again.

JK stands.

The shift in the room is subtle, but it’s there. He rolls his shoulders once, flexing his hands slightly as the young guy quickly gathers the bloodied wraps and cotton, tossing them aside.

“Take this outside,” JK says, voice low and steady, carrying easily through the room.

It’s not loud, but it doesn’t need to be. It lands heavy anyway.

He doesn’t look at anyone again.

Just walks past, disappearing through another door without a second thought.

Silence lingers for a second after he’s gone.

Then the blonde man steps forward slightly, already done with this entire situation. “I’ll be in touch,” he says curtly, though it’s clearly meant for Mario. His gaze flicks back to you and El, sharp, unimpressed. “Out.”

He gestures toward the door, not even pretending to be polite about it.

It’s not an offer.

It’s an order.

You let out a sharp scoff, already drawing breath to snap back at the blonde man—because who the hell does he think he is—but El is faster. Her hand wraps around your wrist, fingers tightening in warning, and at the same time Mario steps in, grabbing your shoulders and steering you back.

“Hey—” you start, but he’s already pushing you out.

The door shuts behind you with a dull thud.

You turn on him immediately.

“What the actual fuck, Mario?”

He exhales, dragging a hand over his face. “Not here.”

“Oh, not—” you scoff, ready to go off, but he’s already moving, heading down the hall like he expects you to follow.

You do. Of course you do.

El stays close, unusually quiet now, her earlier excitement completely gone. The hallway feels different on the way back—emptier, colder somehow. By the time you reach the main area, it’s almost unrecognizable. The crowd is gone, replaced by only a few people cleaning up like nothing ever happened. Trash is being swept, bottles collected, and in one corner, you catch a glimpse of a stack of cash being counted and shoved into a duffle bag.

That’s enough.

You don’t say anything as you follow Mario out, but the second the cold air hits your skin, it’s like everything snaps back into focus. You step forward quickly, grabbing his forearm and forcing him to stop.

“Speak,” you demand.

He looks at you—not angry, not defensive. Just… tired. Defeated, almost.

“Not here, please,” he says quietly. “Let’s just go back to my place.”

Your eyes narrow immediately. The way he glances around, quick and subtle, doesn’t help.

Alarms go off in your head.

You don’t agree, not really—but you don’t argue either. Not yet.

The car ride is silent. Tense. The kind of silence that presses in on you, heavy with everything that hasn’t been said. El sits beside you, staring out the window, unusually still, like she’s replaying everything in her head. You don’t interrupt. You’re doing the same.

By the time you reach Mario’s building, the quiet hasn’t lifted.

It follows you all the way into his apartment.

The door closes behind you, and just like that, the outside world is gone—but the tension stays, thick in the air, waiting.

Mario moves first, like he needs something to do with his hands. “Tea? Or—something?” he offers, already heading toward the kitchen.

Anything to stall.

You don’t answer right away. You just watch him, arms crossed, expression unmoving. Eventually, you nod once, more out of impatience than acceptance, and take a seat on the couch beside El. She sinks into it quietly, still not saying much, her usual energy replaced with something more withdrawn.

Mario brings the cups over a few minutes later, setting them down carefully in front of you both. You don’t thank him. You don’t even look at the tea.

You just look at him.

He takes the chair opposite you, exhaling slowly before running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think it would escalate like that.”

You cut him off immediately. “What did you think, Mario? That we’d just be okay watching that?” Your voice sharpens. “Did you genuinely think we’d enjoy an illegal fight?”

He blinks, caught off guard for a second. “How do you even know it’s illegal?”

You stare at him, almost incredulous. “Are you serious? Nothing about that place screams legal.”

He doesn’t argue.

So you keep going.

“I thought we were going to a club,” you say, your frustration spilling over now. “And then you change plans last minute, and suddenly we’re standing next to a cage, watching a guy get nearly beaten to death?”

The words hang heavy between you.

Mario exhales again, slower this time, and there’s something in his expression that finally cracks—guilt, maybe. Regret.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “I really am. I just… I had to deal with something, and one of my friends was there. I thought it’d just be a fight. I thought you two might—” he hesitates, then shrugs weakly, “—I don’t know. Enjoy it. You like boxing, right?”

That lands badly.

Because whatever that was—wasn’t just boxing.

You lean back slightly, exhaling through your nose, but the tension doesn’t leave your body. If anything, it settles deeper.

“Why do you even hang around people like that?” you ask, your tone quieter now but no less pointed.

Mario winces a little at that, like he expected it. “I’m sorry,” he says again, rubbing the back of his neck. “I really am. I won’t bring you there again. Hell, I probably won’t even go back myself. It was a stupid idea.”

You study him for a second, trying to decide if you believe that.

Then you sigh, some of the edge in you softening, just a little. “I didn’t feel safe there,” you admit. “And it’s a good thing nothing happened to us.”

Your fingers curl slightly around the warm cup, grounding yourself before you add, “What even is that place?”

Mario hesitates, like he’s choosing how honest to be. “It’s… yeah, it’s illegal,” he finally says. “But it’s one of the fastest ways to make money. People go there to bet. Not just that—they go because they like the fights. They want to see something real.”

You let out a quiet scoff. “We clearly have very different ideas of what a good fight is.”

He nods, accepting that. “Listen—it’s usually not like that. It gets stopped before it goes too far. Yeah, some guys don’t look great after, but tonight… tonight was intense. I didn’t know JK was gonna be the one fighting. Usually it’s more… controlled.”

You blink at him, stunned. “Oh my god. How many times have you been there?”

“Not that many,” he says quickly, holding up a hand. “Seriously. But I know it’s not usually like this. There had to be a change of plans when JK showed up. That’s why it was so packed. I should’ve known. I should’ve just left with you the second I realized.”

You shake your head slightly, still trying to process. “Who even is he?”

Mario shrugs. “Just a guy that got popular there. He fights well—really well—and people like watching him. That’s why it gets so crowded when he’s around.”

Your stomach turns at that. “People enjoy watching him beat someone nearly to death?”

“There’s a lot of money involved,” Mario replies, his tone quieter now. “And for some of those guys… it’s easier to earn money that way. One good fight can get you more than a regular job.”

You frown, not convinced. “I don’t get it. I mean, boxing isn’t a bad thing—but when it’s legal. What we saw? There’s a reason that’s not allowed.”

Mario exhales, leaning back in his chair. “The world’s a lot rougher than you think. That place—it’s just one of those corners where people make money however they can.”

You don’t respond to that. Not really.

Instead, you shift your focus, needing something else. “Did you at least deal with your friend? The one you said you had to meet?”

“Yeah,” he nods quickly. “Yeah, that’s done.” He pauses, then adds again, “And I’m sorry. Really. I won’t drag you into something like that again.”

You study him for a moment, then let out a small breath, deciding not to push it further. “Let’s just… hope we’ll laugh about this in twenty years.”

El makes a small sound beside you—half a scoff, half a sip of her tea—and you glance at her.

“Why are you so quiet?” you ask.

She shrugs, staring into her cup for a second before looking up. “I mean… yeah, it was weird. And I definitely wouldn’t go there alone.” She pauses, then adds, almost reluctantly, “But it was kind of interesting to see.”

You drop your head back slightly. “Oh my god.”

El rolls her eyes, but there’s a faint smile there now. “I’m not saying I want to go back. I don’t. I’d rather we stay far away from that place.” She nudges your arm lightly. “Next time, though? We’re going to an actual club. A good one. We finally convince you to go out, and this is where we end up?”

You huff out a laugh despite yourself, some of the tension finally easing. “Fine. You pick the next place, and I’ll consider going.”

“That’s a yes,” she says immediately.

“It’s a maybe,” you correct, but you’re smiling now.

The night winds down after that, the heaviness of it lingering but not as sharp. You stay over at Mario’s place like usual—nothing new there. You and El take the bed, while he crashes on the couch without complaint.

It should feel normal.

Familiar.

But as you lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, sleep doesn’t come easily.

Because every time you close your eyes, you see it again.

The ring. The blood. The crowd.

And him.

Those dark, steady eyes that barely looked at you—yet somehow linger anyway, slipping into your dreams as the night stretches on, replaying everything like a broken movie you can’t quite turn off.

Life moves on.

Or at least, it pretends to.

In the days after that night, everything slowly slips back into place. You fall into your usual routine—meeting El for junk food runs, sitting in dimly lit bars, catching up on the kind of small, meaningless things that make life feel normal again. Work, gossip, random complaints. The kind of conversations that don’t carry weight.

And for a while, neither does that night.

It starts to feel distant. Unreal, even. Like something you watched in a movie rather than something you actually stood in the middle of. You avoid that part of town completely, not even entertaining the idea of going near it. The building, the people, the noise—it all becomes something you push to the back of your mind.

Still, sometimes it creeps in.

A thought here and there. A question you don’t really want answered. How many people got hurt that night? How often does that happen?

You learn not to follow those thoughts too far.

The first week is the worst. Your dreams are restless, filled with flashes of the ring, the sound of fists hitting skin, the roar of the crowd. It’s like your brain is trying to process something it only ever expected to see on a screen, not up close, not real.

But after a couple of weeks, even that fades.

It becomes just a faint memory.

Something that happened.

Something you don’t talk about.

Life moves on. Or at least, it tries to.

In the days after that night, everything slowly slips back into place. You fall into your usual routine—meeting El for junk food runs, sitting in dimly lit bars, catching up on the kind of small, meaningless things that make life feel normal again. Work, gossip, random complaints. The kind of conversations that don’t carry weight.

And for a while, neither does that night.

It starts to feel distant. Unreal, even. Like something you watched in a movie rather than something you actually stood in the middle of. You avoid that part of town completely, not even entertaining the idea of going near it. The building, the people, the noise—it all becomes something you push to the back of your mind.

Still, sometimes it creeps in. A thought here and there. A question you don’t really want answered. How many people got hurt that night? How often does that happen?

You learn not to follow those thoughts too far.

The first week is the worst. Your dreams are restless, filled with flashes of the ring, the sound of fists hitting skin, the roar of the crowd. It’s like your brain is trying to process something it only ever expected to see on a screen, not up close, not real.

But after a couple of weeks, even that fades.

It becomes just a faint memory. Something that happened. Something you don’t talk about.

Lately, you’ve been seeing El more often. Mario’s been busy, which isn’t unusual. He’s always had something going on, mostly revolving around cars. Buying them, fixing them, flipping them. Old ones, newer ones—it doesn’t really matter. He calls it an investment, says the money always comes back if you know what you’re doing.

And apparently, he does.

Between the cars and whatever connections he’s built over time, he’s become the guy people call when something breaks. You’ve done it yourself. The last time your car had an issue, he fixed it in a day and saved you from dealing with overpriced repair shops and all their nonsense. He’s reliable like that.

Just not always honest.

Tonight, it’s just you and El at one of your usual bars, tucked into a booth that’s a little too worn but familiar enough to feel comfortable. You didn’t feel like drinking, so you’ve been sticking to soda while she’s had a couple of shots.

It reminds you of a phase you’ve already gone through—back when you were younger, figuring out your limits. These days, you don’t really care for it.

El, though, seems off.

At first, you assume it’s her ex. She spent way too long getting over him, and for a moment you wonder if she slipped back into that. But then she checks her phone again. And again. And again.

You watch her for a while before finally speaking up. “Okay, something’s up.”

She barely looks at you. “Nothing’s up.”

“You’ve checked your phone like ten times in five minutes.”

“I’m just waiting for a message.”

“From who?”

She shrugs too quickly. “No one important.”

You don’t buy it, but you don’t push right away. The feeling lingers, though, settling in your chest.

Something’s not right.

By the time the waitress tells you they’re closing, it’s already close to ten. You both gather your things and step outside, the cooler air a relief after the stuffy bar. You start telling her something about work—some pointless drama—but she barely reacts, her attention drifting back to her phone.

Then she checks it again.

You stop mid-sentence and look at her. “Okay, you have one minute. Tell me what’s going on, or I’m dropping you off and going home.”

She laughs nervously, scratching her cheek. “Don’t be mad.”

You roll your eyes. “Just say it.”

“I know where Mario is.”

You blink. “Okay? He’s probably working.”

She exhales, muttering, “He’s gonna kill me for this.”

“El.”

“Okay—he went back there.”

You frown. “Back where?”

Her voice lowers. “The ring.”

You stare at her, still trying to process it, the memory of that place snapping back into focus like it never really left.

“What do you mean, the ring?”

“He’s there. Right now.”

You let out a slow breath, disbelief settling in. Of course he is. After everything he said. After promising he wouldn’t go back.

“Unbelievable.”

El shifts slightly, her grip tightening around her phone. “The thing is… he was supposed to text me. And he hasn’t. It’s been, like, four hours.” She glances at the screen again, like it might suddenly light up. “He promised he would.”

You frown. “Wait—did you know he was going there?”

She hesitates, then nods, a little ashamed. “Yeah. He told me.” She quickly adds, “And he made me promise not to tell you.”

You scoff. “Of course he did. He didn’t want to hear my ‘smart remarks’ again. He probably thinks I’m his mom at this point, pestering him.”

“That’s not it,” El says, shaking her head. “He knows you worry about him. We both do. And honestly? You have a reason to.” She exhales, then continues, “I only agreed because he said he’d text me the whole time. Just so I’d know he’s okay.”

You cross your arms. “And?”

“The last message I got was around seven,” she says, her voice tightening. “He said he was going in.”

You glance at the time. It’s way past that now.

“What was he even doing there?” you ask.

El shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. He just said he had some business to take care of. That it’d be quick.” She lets out a quiet, uneasy breath. “Clearly it’s not.”

Silence settles between you for a moment, heavier this time.

“I don’t want to panic,” she adds, her voice quieter now, “but after what we saw there… the kind of people that were around…” She swallows. “I’m scared something happened to him.”

That lands.

Because yeah—Mario’s not small. He’s got height, some lean muscle, enough to handle himself in most situations.

But that place?

That’s not most situations.

He’s still your friend.

And something about all of this doesn’t sit right.

El looks at you, worry written all over her face. “What are we gonna do?”

You sigh, already knowing the answer.

“What else?” you mutter. “We have to go back and find him.”

Her expression tightens. “What if he’s not there?”

“Then we hope he made it there and someone saw him,” you reply, already turning and heading toward your car. “And we figure it out from there.”

You don’t give yourself time to second-guess it.

El hurries after you, sliding into the passenger seat as you start the engine. For a brief second, you just sit there, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter than usual.

You had hoped you’d never go back.

But just like that—that hope is gone.

You park a little further down the street, not wanting to pull up right in front like last time. The engine dies, and for a moment neither of you moves. The place hasn’t changed at all. The street still feels wrong—too quiet, too empty, like it’s been deliberately erased from everything around it. You glance at El, and she looks just as uneasy as you feel.

“Let’s go,” you mutter, pushing the door open.

You both walk toward the entrance, slower this time, more cautious. When you reach the door, El tries to push it open, but it doesn’t budge. Locked. She turns to you, brows knitting together. “What now?”

Before you can answer, the door creaks open from the inside. The same bouncer steps into view, and for a second you don’t recognize him. Then it clicks—the same sharp, heavy-lidded eyes, the same detached, almost stoned expression. It feels like no time has passed. His gaze drags over both of you, slow and deliberate, lingering a little too long on your bare legs, and you instantly regret dressing up for the bar tonight.

“You’re late,” he says, voice rough. “Let people in an hour ago.”

You don’t bother arguing. You reach into your purse, pull out a bill, and press it against his chest. He catches it easily, glancing down before tucking it away. A smirk pulls at his mouth. “Would’ve preferred you in my arms,” he mutters. You grimace, not even hiding your disgust this time, while El’s grip tightens around your hand as the door opens wider and you both slip inside.

The moment you step down the stairs, the noise hits—loud, heavy, suffocating. The smell follows right after. Sweat, weed, alcohol. It’s exactly how you remember it, maybe worse. The main area is completely packed, even more than last time, bodies pressed together so tightly it feels impossible to move. You barely even glance toward the ring. That’s not why you’re here.

“Room,” you remind El, leaning closer so she can hear you.

She nods quickly, already following your lead as you both start pushing through the crowd, weaving between people with purpose. You keep your focus forward, mentally retracing the path from last time. The stairs. The hallway. That door. That’s where you last saw Mario, and right now, that’s the only place that matters.

“El—this way,” you say, tugging her slightly as you manage to break away from the tightest part of the crowd and angle toward the stairs. There are still people gathered there, but it’s easier to move, easier to breathe. “We check the room first. If he’s not there, we’ll figure something else out.”

The microphone cuts in, sharp and loud, but you don’t stop. The announcer’s voice blends into the background as you keep moving, slipping past another group, already stepping toward the hallway. You’re close now, close enough that you can almost see the door in your mind.

“…and tonight,” the voice drawls.

You ignore it.

“First time in the ring—”

Still moving.

“—and bold enough to throw down a challenge—”

You’re already turning, already heading for the hallway.

“—challenging JK himself—”

The crowd reacts loudly, but it barely registers. You’re focused on getting there, on finding him before anything else can go wrong.

“And let’s hear it for—”

You don’t slow down.

“Maaaario.”

El stops so abruptly it almost throws you into her back, your steps catching at the last second as the name echoes through the space. For a moment it doesn’t register—not fully. It stretches out in the air, swallowed and amplified by the crowd’s reaction, like your brain refuses to connect it to anything real.

Then it hits.

Your body goes still as your mind catches up, the realization crashing in all at once. Around you, the crowd erupts, louder than before, excitement surging like this is exactly what they came for. El doesn’t move in front of you, her posture rigid, and your hand tightens slightly where you’re still holding onto her.

Neither of you says anything.

Because you both heard it.

And suddenly, finding Mario doesn’t feel like a question anymore.

It feels like a problem.

The countdown starts somewhere above the noise, the announcer stretching each number out like he’s feeding the crowd. It barely registers at first, your mind still stuck on the name you just heard, but then the final number hits and everything erupts at once. Before you can even think, the fight begins.

You and El move at the same time without saying a word. There’s no hesitation now, just urgency as you push into the crowd, forcing your way through bodies that don’t want to move. Shoulders slam into you, someone curses, another shoves you aside, but no one really stops you. They’re too focused on the ring, too caught up in the fight to care about anything else. The noise is overwhelming—yells, cheers, fists hitting metal—and it makes your chest tighten because you can’t see anything. Not knowing what’s happening somehow feels worse than seeing it.

El takes the lead, using her strength to pry a path open, her grip tight around your wrist as she drags you forward. You stumble after her, trying to keep up as she forces space where there isn’t any. It feels endless, like you’re stuck in a wall of bodies that won’t break, but eventually it does. You reach the ring, not close enough to touch it comfortably, but close enough to see.

And what you see makes your breath catch.

Mario is on the ground, one hand pressed to his face as blood spills from his nose. He looks disoriented, struggling to steady himself, and for a second it doesn’t even register as a fight. It looks like damage, like something that’s already gone too far. Your fingers slip through the fence without you thinking, gripping the cold metal as your eyes dart to his opponent.

JK is circling him.

Not rushing, not pressing—just waiting. There’s something unsettling about the way he moves, controlled and calm, like he already knows exactly how this ends. He lets Mario struggle, lets him try to get up, almost like he’s giving him space on purpose. Like he’s drawing it out.

Your stomach twists as you try to make sense of it. Can’t he just stop it? Can Mario tap out? Are there even rules here?

You don’t know.

“Oh my god,” El whispers beside you, her voice tight with fear.

“Come on,” you say under your breath, gripping the fence harder. “Get up. Get up.”

There’s no way he can hear you through the chaos, and yet somehow he moves. Mario pushes himself up, unsteady, barely holding his balance as he spits blood onto the ground. The sight makes your stomach churn, but he lifts his hands again, trying to reset, trying to fight.

He throws the first punch, driven more by instinct than skill. It’s messy, desperate, lacking control, but it’s something. JK avoids it easily, shifting just enough for it to miss. Another swing follows, then another, each one missing by inches as JK moves around him like it’s nothing. There’s no panic in him, no rush. Just patience.

Then he strikes.

It’s quick. Sharp. Clean.

The first hit snaps Mario’s head to the side, the second lands before he can recover, and the third sends him stumbling backward. JK doesn’t overextend, doesn’t waste movement—every punch is calculated, deliberate, landing exactly where it needs to. Mario tries to hold his ground, but it’s obvious now. He’s outmatched.

One more hit lands, harder than the rest, and it drops him.

You gasp, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it as Mario hits the ground again. His face is already swelling, one eye starting to close, blood spreading across his skin in a way that makes your chest tighten painfully.

“Mario!” you shout, panic rising fast. “Get up!”

El is yelling too now, her voice breaking as she calls his name, the two of you pressed against the fence, desperate, urging him to move, to stay conscious, to do anything. The fear settles deep in your chest because what if he doesn’t get up this time? What if this doesn’t stop?

Mario shifts slightly, barely lifting his head, and then his gaze turns. Not toward JK, not toward the crowd—but toward you.

People cheer.

The sight of his face makes something in you twist. Swollen, bloodied, barely recognizable, and still he finds you in the chaos. Your breath hitches as you realize he sees you here.

JK notices.

It’s subtle at first, just a shift in his focus, the way his eyes narrow as he follows Mario’s line of sight. And then he looks at you. Really looks, his gaze locking onto yours in a way that feels too direct, too aware.

For a second, everything feels still.

Then he moves.

He crouches beside Mario, and your stomach drops as his hand shoots out, fingers tangling into Mario’s hair. The grip is tight, controlling, forcing his head up despite the lack of resistance. Mario barely reacts, his body too weak to fight back, and panic spikes in your chest.

JK doesn’t look away from you. His dark hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, his skin barely marked compared to Mario’s. Like this fight hasn’t cost him anything.

And then he smirks.

Your chest tightens as his grip tightens with it, lifting Mario’s head just enough—

Before slamming it back down against the ground.

The sound is sickening.

It cuts through everything.

Mario goes limp.

And for a second, you don’t breathe, don’t move, don’t think. You just stare, because something in you knows that whatever line there was before, it’s gone now.

The sound crashes back all at once, loud and overwhelming, like nothing just happened. Like what you just saw is entertainment, nothing more. JK steps back, the win clearly his, and the fence is already being opened for him as if it was expected. Of course it was. He walks out without a glance back, already moving on while the crowd feeds off the aftermath.

You don’t.

You can’t.

Two men enter the ring almost immediately, grabbing Mario under his arms and hauling him up. His body hangs between them, limp, unresponsive, his head lolling slightly with the movement. The sight knocks the air out of your lungs.

You force yourself to move.

Your throat tightens as you swallow hard, shaking yourself out of the daze as you grab El’s arm. “Come on,” you manage, your voice barely steady, your eyes locked on Mario as they carry him away.

You follow them.

They move fast, cutting through a path that clears easier for them than it ever did for you. When you and El catch up, one of the men glances back, clearly annoyed, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes you in. El’s panicked whispers don’t help.

“Oh my god… Mario, we’re here. You’re gonna be okay—”

“Hey,” one of the men snaps. “You can’t—”

“He’s our friend,” you cut in quickly, your voice sharper than you expect. “We’re staying. Where are you taking him?”

They don’t look like they want to deal with you. Not now. Not with this. The two of them exchange a look, something silent passing between them before one sighs, clearly deciding it’s not worth the argument.

“He’s getting treated,” he says shortly, already turning away.

You don’t ask by whom. You just follow.

The hallway feels tighter this time, the noise from the main area fading behind you as they lead you into one of the rooms. It’s smaller than you expected, cramped and worn, with dented lockers lining one wall and a narrow bed in the center that looks like it once belonged in a hospital.

They set Mario down without much care. His body barely reacts, his head rolling slightly to the side, and something in your chest twists painfully at how still he is.

You and El move immediately, stopping just short of touching him, both of you hovering, afraid of making it worse.

The door opens again.

A young man steps in, probably in his early twenties, maybe a bit older, his build lean but steady. He’s dressed simply—dark shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows—and there’s a certain efficiency in the way he moves, like he’s done this too many times to think about it. His hair is slightly messy, falling into his eyes as he pulls on a pair of gloves, his expression focused rather than concerned.

“What do we have this time?” he asks, glancing over Mario with quick, practiced eyes.

“Probably a broken nose. Maybe more,” one of the men replies.

The young man exhales quietly, stepping closer to the bed as he tilts Mario’s head slightly, inspecting the damage without hesitation. “Yeah,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Another one who thought he could last longer than he actually could.”

Mario gets treated like you and El aren’t even there.

The young man moves around him with quiet efficiency, cleaning the blood, checking his nose, pressing gauze where it’s needed. The two men who carried him in linger for a moment before stepping aside, talking in low voices, completely unfazed. It’s like this is routine. Like people getting carried in half-conscious isn’t anything out of the ordinary.

You can’t stand still.

You start pacing the small room, your steps short and sharp, your arms crossed tight over your chest as your thoughts spiral. No matter how hard you try to focus on Mario, your mind keeps dragging you back to the ring—to that moment. The way JK looked at you. The way he made sure you saw it. That last hit.

The way Mario just… stopped.

Your jaw tightens.

Even when Mario lets out a low groan, shifting slightly on the bed, it doesn’t pull you out of it. El is at his side immediately, her voice soft but urgent as she leans closer. “Mario? Hey—can you hear me?” He mumbles something incoherent, his words slurred, barely forming, and El glances up, worry etched all over her face. “Doesn’t he need a hospital?”

The young man doesn’t even look up from what he’s doing. “If he goes to a hospital, questions get asked,” he says flatly. “Police get involved.”

“Maybe they should,” you cut in sharply, stopping your pacing to look at him. “Maybe that would finally shut this place down.”

That gets his attention.

He shoots you a look, sharp and unimpressed. “Hate to break it to you,” he says, tone edged with something colder now, “but your friend would be the one in trouble. This is illegal. He signed up for it.”

You don’t care.

You don’t care what he says, what excuses they have, what twisted logic they follow in this place.

Your anger is already too far gone.

“Where is he?” you ask suddenly.

The room stills for a second.

“Who?” one of the men asks.

You look at him like it should be obvious. “JK.”

They exchange a glance, something unreadable passing between them. “Why?” the other one mutters.

You don’t answer that.

You just look at El. “Stay here. Keep an eye on him.”

She blinks at you, clearly trying to figure out what you’re about to do. “Wait—”

But you’re already moving.

You leave before she can stop you, before anyone can question you further, your steps quick and determined as you head back down the hall. You don’t even know if he’s still there, if he went back to that room or somewhere else entirely, but you don’t stop to think about it.

You’re too angry to think.

You reach the door and push it open hard.

Empty.

The room looks exactly the same as before—the couch, the chair, the faint trace of something cleaner in the air compared to the rest of the place—but he’s not there. You step further in, scanning it anyway, like he might suddenly appear.

“Where the hell—”

The door opens behind you.

You turn immediately.

JK stands there.

He doesn’t look surprised to see someone in the room. If anything, he looks mildly annoyed, like you’re an inconvenience he didn’t feel like dealing with tonight. His hair is wet, strands sticking to his forehead, steam still curling faintly from the doorway behind him—bathroom, you realize. He’s changed, now wearing a pair of dark cotton shorts, a towel in his hands that he uses once before tossing it aside onto the couch like it doesn’t matter.

Like nothing matters.

He doesn’t even acknowledge you.

That’s what sets you off.

Before you can think, you’re already moving toward him, anger taking over completely as you shove both hands against his chest. The contact is solid—his skin still warm from the shower, heat lingering under your palms, his muscles hard and unyielding beneath your push. It’s like trying to move a wall.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you snap, your voice sharp with fury. “You could’ve killed him!”

He barely moves.

Not even a step back.

Just stands there, looking down at you as if you’re something mildly irritating, one brow lifting slightly as your hair falls out of place from the force of your movement.

“You done?” he asks.

The words hit harder than they should.

You freeze for half a second, caught off guard—not just by how close he is, not just by hearing his voice directed at you for the first time, but by how little he seems to care.

“Not entirely,” you snap back, your anger flaring again as you move to shove him once more.

This time, he catches your wrist.

Effortlessly.

His grip is firm, stopping you mid-motion like it’s nothing, like you weren’t even a challenge to begin with.

“You’re a piece of shit,” you tell him, your voice tight.

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, slow and unimpressed. “And yet,” he replies coolly, tilting his head slightly as his grip doesn’t loosen, “your friend stepped into the ring with me anyway.”

“Let me go,” you snap, yanking against him.

For a second, he just watches you, completely unimpressed, like this is nothing new to him.

Then he lets go.

Abruptly.

You stumble back a step as he pushes you away, not rough enough to hurt, but enough to put distance between you, like he’s brushing something off.

“Careful,” he says, voice low, almost amused, “you’re gonna hurt yourself before you even get close to hurting me.”

The arrogance in his tone only makes your blood boil more.

“You’re an arrogant prick,” you snap without hesitation, your voice sharp enough to cut through whatever calm he’s pretending to have. “Do you feel good about it? Almost killing people for a bunch of money?”

Something shifts.

It’s subtle, but it’s there. The smirk fades just enough, his eyes darkening as he looks at you, really looks this time.

“Out,” he says.

You don’t move.

You don’t even consider it.

“You’re in no position to tell me what to do,” you fire back immediately. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t justify himself.

That only makes it worse.

You step closer again, closing the distance, your finger lifting as you point it toward his chest. “You don’t get to act like this is normal. Like you’re not the problem here.”

His hand moves before you can react.

Fast.

Your wrist is caught again, but this time there’s no patience behind it. No casual ease. Just control.

“You’re pushing it,” he says, voice low, edged with warning.

“Good,” you snap, trying to yank your hand free. “Maybe someone should—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

In one swift movement, he turns you, your back hitting the wall with a dull thud before you can process what just happened. Your breath catches as he pins your arms behind you, one hand locking both of your wrists in place, the other braced near your shoulder, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

The shift is instant.

You’re not in control anymore.

Your heart jumps, adrenaline spiking as you struggle against his hold, but it’s useless. He’s stronger, faster, and far too used to this kind of contact.

He leans in slightly, just enough for you to feel the heat still radiating off his skin.

“You talk a lot,” he mutters, his grip tightening just enough to keep you from trying anything else, “for someone who has no idea what she just walked into.”

His hand still holds your wrists behind your back, and now his other arm shifts slightly, boxing you in. The heat from his body hasn’t faded yet, his skin still warm under the dim light, his breath just brushing near your ear without quite touching.

Your pulse spikes despite yourself.

“Yeah?” you manage, your voice tighter than you’d like. “What did I walk into?”

There’s a beat.

Short.

Deliberate.

Then—

“A place you don’t belong,” he says quietly, voice low and steady, right by your ear.

No hesitation. No explanation.

Just fact.

His grip tightens slightly, not enough to hurt—just enough to remind you he’s still in control.

“And a fight you can’t win.”

He lets go of you.

The shift is sudden enough that you almost stumble forward before catching yourself. You turn on him immediately, your chest rising and falling too fast, your pulse still racing from the proximity, from the grip, from everything. For a second, you just stare at him, trying to steady yourself, trying to hold onto the anger that brought you here in the first place.

“Leave,” he says.

Just like that. Flat. Dismissive.

You blink at him, still catching your breath. You don’t even know what you expected coming here—an apology, a reaction, something—but all you got was this. Him. Unbothered. Untouched. Like what happened in that ring meant nothing.

You open your mouth, but before you can say anything—

The door swings open.

A blonde woman steps in, her energy shifting the moment she notices you. The grin she walked in with disappears almost instantly, her eyes flicking between you and him, lingering a second too long on the fact that he’s still shirtless.

The air changes.

“Who’s this?” she asks, her tone edged, curious but already leaning toward annoyed.

Jungkook doesn’t rush to answer. He doesn’t even look at her right away. Instead, he grabs an oversized shirt, pulling it over his head like this conversation doesn’t concern him in the slightest.

“She’s leaving,” he says, like that’s enough.

You let out a sharp scoff. “The hell I am.”

That gets a reaction.

Not from her.

From him.

It’s subtle—just the corner of his mouth pulling into something that almost resembles a grin, like he finds you more entertaining than anything else. It’s not warm. Not kind.

Provocative.

The blonde woman shifts her weight, clearly irritated now, her gaze narrowing slightly as she looks at you again. “I think you heard him.”

You don’t move.

Not an inch.

“I heard him,” you reply coolly. “I just don’t care.”

Her annoyance sharpens, visible now, but Jungkook doesn’t step in. Doesn’t correct you. Doesn’t repeat himself. If anything, he looks more interested now, watching the tension build like it’s something worth his time.

The woman steps further into the room, and now that you actually look at her, it’s obvious. The red dress clings to her body, cut far too short to be anything but intentional, the fabric hugging her curves like she walked in here knowing exactly what she came for.

Not the fight.

Him.

You almost snort at the realization.

She barely spares you another glance before her attention shifts fully to Jungkook, like you’ve already been dismissed. “You were incredible tonight,” she says, her tone smoothing out into something softer, almost impressed. “I was here. Watched the whole thing.”

Jungkook doesn’t react the way she expects.

He doesn’t even look at her.

“Good,” he says simply, already reaching for a bag that looks like his, slinging it over his shoulder like the conversation means nothing.

The woman doesn’t seem discouraged.

If anything, she leans into it.

She steps closer, her movements slow, deliberate, like she’s used to getting attention this way. And maybe she is. But this time, there’s something else in it too—something sharper. When she shifts closer to him, her gaze flicks to you for just a second.

Oh.

There it is.

She sees you as a problem.

A threat.

The realization makes something in you click—and instead of being bothered, you grin.

Actually grin.

You shake your head lightly, almost amused now as you look between them. 

Her hand brushes lightly against his arm, her voice dropping as she says something under her breath, something meant just for him.

JK finally looks at her.

Not interested. Not even tempted.

“Not tonight,” he says flatly, pulling his arm away without hesitation. There’s no softness in it, no apology. Just a quiet finality that lands harder than anything else.

It’s enough.

Her expression tightens, the confidence slipping just slightly as she straightens, clearly not satisfied with the answer. For a second, it looks like she might push it, but she doesn’t. Instead, she exhales sharply, shooting you one last look before turning on her heel and walking out.

The door closes behind her.

Silence settles for a beat.

Then his attention shifts.

Back to you.

And this time, there’s no amusement left in it.

Just irritation.

“You’re still here,” he says, like it’s a problem that hasn’t fixed itself yet.

You let out a sharp breath, disbelief mixing with the anger that never really left.

“I can’t believe you,” you say, your voice tight, almost shaking. “You just walk out of there like it’s nothing. Like it didn’t even happen.”

He doesn’t respond.

That only makes it worse.

“Mario is in there,” you continue, stepping closer again, your frustration building all over again. “Barely conscious, coming in and out of it—and you’re just… here. Moving on. Like this is normal.”

Your eyes flick briefly to the door, then back to him.

“And what, now it’s back to this?” you add, your tone sharper. “Girls lining up because you won? Like that’s all this is to you?”

His expression barely shifts.

If anything, it hardens.

He doesn’t react the way you expect.

No apology. No defense.

Instead, he reaches into his bag, pulls out a thick fold of cash, and before you can even register it, he grabs your hand and forces it open, pressing the money into your palm.

“Enough?” he asks, tone flat. “Or you gonna keep talking?”

You stare down at it for half a second, disbelief hitting first, then anger flooding right after.

You’re about to throw it straight back at him—

But he speaks again.

“Give it to him,” he adds, nodding slightly toward the door. “Call it… a consolation prize.”

There’s a pause, just enough for it to land.

Then, quieter, with that same careless edge, “For getting dropped that fast.”

Your fingers tighten around the money without you meaning to, your jaw clenching as the insult settles heavy in the air.

Before you can react—

He moves.

It’s quick. Too quick.

His hand comes up, and his thumb brushes over the corner of your lips, slow enough to feel deliberate, wiping at something you didn’t even realize was there. The touch is brief, but it lands heavier than it should, heat lingering where his skin just was.

You freeze.

Not because you want to.

Because you didn’t expect it.

He pulls his hand back, glancing at his thumb like he’s checking the faint smear of red before letting out a quiet, almost amused breath.

“Fix yourself,” he says, voice low, edged with something mocking. “Wouldn’t want you going back to your guy looking like that.”

His eyes flick back up to yours, that same faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Lipstick’s smudged, Red.”

And just like that, he’s done. He grabs his bag, throws it over his shoulder, and walks past you without another glance, like the conversation never mattered to him in the first place, like you never mattered enough to leave an impression. The bag shifts as he moves, heavy, the faint rustle unmistakable—you don’t even need to look twice to know it’s stuffed with cash. Easy money. Hard-earned in all the wrong ways. He carries it like it’s nothing.

The door shuts behind him with a quiet click, and the shift is immediate—the room falling into a stillness that feels almost unnatural after everything that just happened.

The silence presses in, heavy and unfamiliar. The faint trace of his cologne lingers in the air—something sharp, clean, expensive—cutting through the stale mix of sweat and smoke that clings to everything else in this place. It doesn’t belong here. It doesn’t fit the cracked walls, the worn furniture, the quiet evidence of violence that lingers in every corner. And somehow, neither does he, even though he clearly owns it.

You don’t move right away. Your hand is still loosely curled around the cash he forced into your palm, your other lifting without you realizing it, fingers hovering near your lips where his thumb had brushed just moments ago. The sensation is gone, but not really. It lingers in your head, in the way your body reacts before your mind can catch up, and that alone is enough to make your jaw tighten.

Your heartbeat hasn’t slowed. If anything, it’s worse now—faster than it was before you even walked in here, louder in your ears, harder to ignore. You swallow, forcing your hand to drop, grounding yourself, dragging your focus back to something real. Back to why you came here in the first place.

Because whatever that was, whatever just passed between you and him, it doesn’t matter.

Mario is still down the hall, hurt, barely conscious, and this place hasn’t changed just because you stepped into one room and out of another. It’s still exactly what you thought it was—a place where violence is entertainment, where people walk in and don’t always walk out the same, and where no one stops to care what happens once the fight is over.

“I don’t want them to think I forgot where I came from,” he told you, hands stained with ink as he sat at the kitchen table.

You took his hands, washing them gently in the sink. “Then don’t forget,” you said softly. “Show them who you are and what you always do when it comes to your work, your passion in your arts, tattooing.”

And he did.

He spoke about tattooing as survival. As working-class art. As stories carved into skin when words failed. He spoke about being a young father, about making mistakes, about rebuilding after the pain.

People listened. Soon, his name carried weight.

The studio expanded. Apprentices watched him with so much delight. Clients traveled across continents.

But at home, Jungkook remained the same.

Barefoot in the kitchen. Kneeling to Jieun’s eye level. Letting Jaehyun sketch designs beside him. Rocking babies to sleep while you rested your head against his shoulder.

For one exhibition, a photographer asked if you’d model.

You hesitated at first but Jungkook shook his head gently. “No needles,” he said firmly. “Only henna.”

He painted your skin himself with delicate patterns along your arms and back, temporary and intimate.

“This is only for me to touch and feel,” he murmured. “And also for you.”

The photograph went viral after.

The Tattooist Who Refuses to Mark His Muse.

You smiled every time you saw it.

-

Yuna saw it by accident.

A magazine cover at a café. Jungkook’s face- bolder, steadier, confident. You beside him. Children laughing in the background.

She sat frozen.

This wasn’t the man she left.

This wasn’t the life she believed he could never give her.

She looked away.

Some realizations come too late to matter.

⸻

That night, Jungkook returned home to chaos.

Toys scattered across the floor. Twins crying. Jieun demanding a bedtime story. Jaehyun asking about dragons.

You stood in the doorway, tired- but smiling.

Jungkook dropped his bag and crossed the room in three strides, pulling you into his arms.

“I still can’t believe this is my life now,” he whispered against your hair.

You smiled softly. “You built it.”

Later, when the house finally fell quiet, Jungkook stood on the balcony, city lights glowing below. You joined him, slipping your hand into his.

“I used to think love was just surviving together,” he said quietly. “But it’s choosing. Every day.”

He turned to you, eyes shining.

“I choose you,” he said. “Every version of you. Every past. Every future. Only you, Y/N. You know I never regretted knowing you and having you in my life from that bar. It's a special place now for me because of you,”

You leaned into him, heart full. Jungkook kissing the top of your head and the wind touches both your skin.

While inside, four children slept peacefully.

Now, that ink already washed from his hands. Nothing left to prove to the world.

Only love that had learned how to prove itself from all the promises he made and soon- that he will promise for you and for your whole family to come.

End.

Part 10 Epilogue

-

“Why do you do this?” he asked one night, his voice rough, frustration bleeding into the words. “Why do you keep… waiting here for me?”

You swallowed hard, staring at the floor. “Because someone has to.”

His jaw tightened. He stepped back, shaking his head as if your kindness was too much for him to carry.

“Stop it,” he said sharply. “Stop looking at me like that. I can’t—” His voice broke, and he turned away. “I can’t give you what you want.”

The words cut deeper than you expected. You pressed your lips together, forcing a smile that trembled anyway. “I know,” you whispered. “I never asked you to.”

But when he walked away that night — his shadow fading into the streetlight — it felt like he had taken something from you anyway.

⸻

Days passed. You didn’t wait at the studio. You didn’t bring him coffee. You didn’t smile at him when his shoulders slumped.

And for the first time, Jungkook noticed the silence.

He noticed how empty the hallway felt without you leaning against the wall. How cold the practice room seemed without your laughter in the background. How his chest tightened when Sohee screamed again, when the cycle repeated, when he looked around after and realized — you weren’t there to hold him anymore.

The guilt came slow, suffocating.

Late at night, he lay awake replaying the look on your face when he pushed you away. The way your smile broke, the way your voice trembled. He pressed a hand over his chest, hating the weight that settled there.

Because in hurting you, he had hurt himself too.

⸻

And still, you waited. Not outside his studio. Not with coffee in hand. But quietly in your heart, loving him in silence. Hoping he’d one day find his way to you.

-

Reader’s POV

You learned to walk past the studio without stopping.

No more waiting outside with coffee cups warming your hands.

No more small notes tucked under his bag.

No more soft smiles when his eyes found yours.

It hurt too much.

Because every time he left, he was running back to her.

Every time his phone buzzed with Sohee’s name, he pulled away.

And every time you caught your reflection in the studio mirrors, you hated how obvious your feelings must have looked.

So you pulled back. Not because you stopped loving him, but because you loved him too much to keep breaking your own heart.

⸻

But loving Jungkook was like breathing. Even when you tried to hold it in, it slipped out in small, unnoticeable ways.

When he showed up to practice looking pale, you quietly left vitamins on the table.

When he skipped meals, you dropped off packed food at the front desk without signing your name.

When he caught a cold, you called his manager anonymously to make sure someone checked on him.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just kindness. Just habit.

But deep down you knew — you’d always care for him, even from the shadows.

⸻

Then one night, fate turned cruel.

You were leaving the café near the studio when you saw him outside, leaning against the wall. His hood was pulled low, his shoulders slumped, his eyes red like he’d been crying.

Your first instinct was to turn away. To hide. To keep walking like you promised yourself you would.

But then his voice broke the silence.

“Why are you avoiding me?”

You froze. Slowly, you turned. He was looking right at you now — tired, broken, but desperate.

“I’m not,” you whispered, even though the lie burned your tongue.

“You are.” He pushed off the wall, his steps unsteady as he came closer. “You don’t wait for me anymore. You don’t… you don’t look at me like you used to.” His voice cracked, raw. “Do you hate me now?”

Your chest tightened, tears stinging your eyes. “No, Jungkook. I could never hate you.”

“Then why—” His words trembled, breaking apart. “Why are you leaving me too?”

For a moment, you almost told him everything — how you loved him, how waiting for him shattered you, how you couldn’t keep bleeding quietly while he gave his heart to someone else.

But instead, you forced a small smile. The kind you always gave him when he was hurting.

“I’m not leaving you,” you said softly. “I’m just giving you space… so you can find what you’re looking for.”

His eyes widened, something sharp flashing in them, like guilt, like regret. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.

And before he could see the tears spilling from your lashes, you stepped back.

“Take care of yourself, Jungkook,” you whispered. Then you turned and walked away, even though every step felt like tearing yourself apart.

⸻

Later that night, Jungkook sat in the empty studio, his head in his hands. He replayed your words, your smile, the way your voice shook when you told him you’d never hate him.

And for the first time, he realized…

You weren’t just kind.

You weren’t just patient.

You were the only one who had loved him without condition.

And losing that was a weight heavier than anything Sohee had ever put him through.

-

The storm had finally broken.

You were sitting on your couch, wrapped in a blanket, trying to convince yourself that sleep would come. That you wouldn’t keep replaying the look in Jungkook’s eyes when he asked if you hated him. That you wouldn’t keep feeling the ache of walking away from him.

Then came the knock.

Soft at first. Then louder. Urgent. Desperate.

When you opened the door, Jungkook stood there, soaked from the rain, hair plastered to his forehead, chest heaving like he’d run the whole way. His eyes locked onto yours, wild with something raw and unguarded.

“You…” His voice broke. He swallowed hard. “You can’t keep avoiding me.”

Your throat tightened. “Jungkook—”

“No,” he said firmly, stepping inside before you could stop him. “I let you go once. I pushed you away. I told myself it was easier… because I was too weak to admit the truth.” His hands trembled as he reached for you, cupping your face like you were something fragile he’d been too reckless with. “But I can’t lose you. Not you.”

Tears blurred your vision. “I told you I never asked you to love me—”

“But I do,” he cut in, voice cracking open. “God, I do. I’ve been so stupid, wasting myself in a place where love only hurt me. And the whole time, you… you were right here. Waiting. Caring. Loving me without asking for anything back.”

His forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling with yours, shaky and warm. “Let me love you now. Please. Let me make up for every moment I didn’t.”

⸻

The kiss came fierce, trembling, almost frantic. Years of swallowed feelings, of stolen glances and unspoken words, all crashing into one desperate moment.

You melted into him, hands clutching at his soaked shirt as if to anchor yourself. His mouth moved over yours like he was starving, like he had finally found the only thing that could save him.

When he lifted you into his arms, carrying you to the bedroom, it wasn’t lust that filled his eyes — it was devotion. Redemption.

“Let me show you,” he whispered against your skin. “Let me love you the way I should have from the start.”

⸻

What followed wasn’t hurried, wasn’t careless. It was slow, reverent, aching. Every kiss was an apology. Every touch was a promise. His hands mapped your body like it was sacred, like he needed to memorize every curve, every breath, every sound you made.

Where once he had pulled away, tonight he clung to you. Where once he had broken you with silence, tonight he spoke with his body, his lips, his trembling voice whispering I love you, I love you, I love you.

You felt the guilt melt into something else — something healing, consuming, whole. Because he wasn’t just taking from you this time. He was giving himself back, fully, completely, without fear.

⸻

When dawn came, he was still there, wrapped around you, his head on your chest as if he never wanted to let go. His voice was husky when he whispered into your skin:

“I should’ve chosen you sooner. But I swear… from now on, it’s only you.”

And for the first time, you believed him.

Because this time, his love wasn’t just words.

It was every touch, every kiss, every broken piece of him finally fitting into yours.

-

The steam curled around you, warm and gentle, as the two of you sank deeper into the water. Jungkook’s head rested against your shoulder, his wet hair clinging to his forehead, eyes closed as if he finally allowed himself to feel safe.

You dipped your hands into the water, scooping shampoo into your palms. He cracked one eye open, curious.

“What are you doing?”

You smiled softly, lathering the soap between your hands. “Taking care of you. Close your eyes.”

He chuckled low in his throat, but obeyed, shutting them with exaggerated obedience. You began working the shampoo into his hair, your fingers massaging gently at his scalp. His lips parted, a small sound escaping — half sigh, half laugh.

“Feels… too good,” he murmured. “If you keep doing this, I might fall asleep.”

“Good,” you teased, leaning forward to rub the foam behind his ears. “You never rest enough.”

Suddenly, his hand shot up, tickling at your waist under the water. You squealed, nearly dropping the shampoo.

“Jungkook!” you gasped, laughing despite yourself.

He grinned, eyes still closed but lips curved mischievously. “What? I couldn’t help it. You sound cute when you laugh.”

You shook your head, pretending to be annoyed, but the fondness in your chest ached. Foam clung to his hair, dripping down the side of his face. You reached forward to wipe it away, and in that moment, he opened his eyes.

The world slowed.

His dark, damp lashes framed those wide, vulnerable eyes — looking at you as though you weren’t just someone who loved him, but someone who had saved him.

“I’ve never felt this before,” he whispered, voice quiet but heavy with truth. “Not with her… not with anyone. Only you.”

Your breath caught. You leaned in, heart pounding, and his lips found yours — slow, gentle, almost hesitant at first. Then deeper, like he was sealing a promise. Shampoo lather still clung to his hair, bubbles floating on the surface, but neither of you cared.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t perfect. It was messy, wet, slippery.

But it was real.

And for the first time, Jungkook wasn’t lost.

He was home — right here, in your hands, in your love.

He moved into the house next door when you were seven and he was only six. You knew from the moment you met him, hiding between his mom's legs, that he would be an easy target.

The neighborhood bullies caught on quickly, too. But they learned even faster that if they messed with the bunny, they had to answer to you. You spent half your childhood with scraped knuckles and a bloody nose, standing in front of a trembling Jungkook and daring anyone to take another step toward him.

You’re reminiscing now, scrolling through your phone on the couch, when a violent sound shatters the peace of your apartment.

It’s 9 PM, and someone is slamming into your front door. The pounding is heavy and you're on your feet in an instant with annoyance radiating off you as you march toward the entryway.

"Who the fuck is it at this hour?" you mutter. You're ready to chew out whoever is trying to break the door down. You grab the handle and yank it open, the words already flying out of your mouth. "Someone better be dying or–"

The rest of your threat dies in your throat. You were prepared to fight, but the sight in front of you brings you to a dead stop.

“Noona…”

Your best friend, leaning heavily against the doorframe, breathing as if he just ran a marathon. His skin is slick with sweat, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead.

“Jungkook?” You step forward, feeling your annoyance instantly replaced by worry. “What are you doing here? What happened?”

It’s hard to reconcile the man standing in front of you with the little boy who used to hide behind you. Back then, you were the shield. Now he towers over you. He hit a growth spurt in high school that never seemed to stop, and then he discovered the gym.

He is massive now. His shoulders are broad, tapering down to a waist thick with muscle. He’s easily a head taller than you now, a wall of solid muscle.

Over the years, tired of being seen as "cute," he did everything he could to tough up his image. You were there for all of it. He started hitting the gym religiously. You held his hand when he got his eyebrow pierced, watching the piercer wipe away the blood while you stayed glued to his side for reassurance. You were there when he got the hoop in his bottom lip, telling him he looked cool so he wouldn't panic about the swelling.

And the tattoos. God, the tattoos.

His right arm, currently gripping your doorframe so hard you’re actually worried he might leave a permanent dent in the wood, is covered in a full sleeve of colorful ink.

He even has a matching tattoo with you on his left one. It’s a small, simple star. You’d both gotten them the summer of your second year of college as a permanent reminder of the way you’ve always been each other’s lucky star.

Your best friend doesn’t look like a victim anymore. He looks like someone who could snap a predator in half, at least until someone focuses on his big doe eyes and round face, but you’d never be the one to tell him that.

Jungkook doesn't need you to fight his battles anymore. He has a good life. A solid job. A good group of friends who don’t care about his species. You like them, especially Jimin, a sweet calico cat hybrid he met in college who Jungkook became instant friends with.

But despite the muscles, the ink, the piercings, and the height, he is still looking at you with those big, brown doe eyes. The only difference now is that they’re filled with desperate panic.

“Noona,” he wheezes. “Help… please.”

Before you can get another word out, Jungkook collapses, stumbling forward and practically falling into your arms.

“Whoa!”

You brace yourself, your feet sliding on the entryway floor as you try to catch him. Or rather, as he engulfs you. He wraps his arms around your waist, burying his face into the crook of your neck, and just... lets go.

He goes completely limp against you, forcing you to stumble back against the wall so you both don't end up on the floor.

“Jungkook!” you hiss, trying to wedge your hands between his chest and yours to get some breathing room. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Stand up!”

Ignoring you, he tightens his grip, pulling you even closer against his body. He inhales sharply, dragging his nose right behind your ear.

“Mmmm,” he whimpers. “You smell so good.”And presses his lips to the side of your neck.

You freeze. Your entire body goes rigid. Heat rushes to your face so fast it makes you dizzy. You’ve had a massive, secret crush on this idiot for years and having him nuzzle your neck is doing things to your heart rate that you do not appreciate.

“Jungkook!” You shove his shoulders, using all of your strength to finally peel him off you, just an inch. “Stop that! What the hell is happening?”

You’re a fox. You know scents. And now that he’s this close, the smell coming off him is unmistakable. It’s thick, musky, and sweet.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you breathe as the realization drains you. “You’re in heat.” You stare at him, stunned. “Did you take your suppressants?”

Jungkook mumbles something, his forehead dropping to rest on top of your head, seeking your contact again.

“I forgot,” he confesses miserably, rubbing his cheek against your hair. “I forgot to refill the prescription. Thought I could... I thought I could wait a few days.”

“A few days? Kook, you’re a bunny. You don't just 'wait out' a hormonal nuke like this,” you mutter, smacking his arm lightly as you look at him. . “You absolute dumbass,” you groan, letting your head thump back against the wall.

He whimpers at your harsh tone, burying his face deeper into your hair as if trying to crawl inside your skin. "I'm sorry, noona! I'm really sorry!"

“Okay, okay, calm down,” you mutter, more to yourself than him. You need help. You need backup. “Come on, you big idiot,” you grunt, wedging your shoulder under his armpit.

It takes every bit of your strength to drag him from the hallway to the living room. Jungkook is dead weight, his feet drag on the floor as he slumps against you, mumbling incoherently about how good you smell. 

Once you get him to the couch, you practically dump him onto it. He immediately curls in on himself, clutching one of your throw pillows.

“Stay,” you order, pointing a finger at him.

He looks up at you through his messy bangs. He looks like a kicked puppy, or rather, a very sad, very horny bunny.

You need a solution, and you need it five minutes ago. Patting your pockets, only to realize you left your phone on the entryway table in all the chaos. You definitely won’t leave him alone to go get it because you don’t trust him not to follow you like a lost duckling.

You lean down to where Jungkook is curled up and start patting his pockets, your hands moving over his thighs in a way that is definitely not helping the situation.

"Noona," he whines, his body twitching under your touch. Instead of pulling away, he leans into your hands. "Please... help me, noona... please."

"Oh, stop being so dramatic," you mutter, finally find his phone. You snatch it, the screen lighting up at your touch. Locked. You quickly type in the six digits of your own birthday, and the home screen slides open.

The image staring back at you distracts you. It’s a photo taken during a hike up Bukhansan last autumn. You’re leaning into his side, his arm draped comfortably over your shoulders, heads tilted together, smiling at the camera. To any stranger passing by, you looked like a happy, loving couple.

You wish.

Shaking off the thought, you scroll to his favorites. Jimin is right at the top, sandwiched between "Mom" and your own contact name. You hit call and press the phone to your ear, pacing in front of the coffee table. “Pick up, pick up, you furry little shit,” you hiss.

Suddenly, strong arms wrap around your waist from behind. Jungkook has dragged himself up from the couch and is currently pinning you against him.

“Jungkook!” you yelp, trying to maintain your balance as he pulls you against his chest.

“Hello?” Jimin’s voice crackles through the speaker, sounding amused. “Jungkookie? Are you at–” 

“It’s Y/N,” you interrupt him, trying to pry Jungkook’s arms off your stomach, but it’s to no avail. You grunt, wondering how he can be so fucking strong when his brain is clearly melting.

“Oh, hi!” Jimin chirps, sounding far too cheerful.

“I need help,” you say, your voice tight as you wedge an elbow between you and the broad chest pinning you.

“With what?” Jimin asks. “Do we need to bury a body?”

“What? No!” you huff, trying to stay upright. “It's Jungkook. He’s in heat, Jimin,” you say bluntly.

“Oh!”

“He forgot to refill the prescription,” you explain, struggling against the bunny hybrid attached to your back. “Now he’s sweating like crazy and he’s... Jungkook, stop it!” You swat the top of Jungkook’s head. He’s started licking the sensitive spot behind your jaw.

“He’s licking me!” you shout into the phone. “Did you hear that? He’s licking me! Tell me what to do! His pills? Can I go get them for him? Will they work?”

“Uh, no,” Jimin says, his voice turning apologetic. “That’s not how biology works, Y/N. The pills are suppressants. They stop the hormones from spiking. But once the spike happens… you can’t stop it.”

Jungkook groans, rubbing the front of his body against your backside.

“Sit!” you bark, spinning around to push him back towards the couch. “Jungkook, sit down right now! Bad bunny!”

He whimpers but he sits back down on the edge of the cushions. He looks up at you with those wide, glossy doe eyes.

"Don't look at me like that!" you snap, pointing a finger at him to keep him from lunging again. You turn your back on him, trying to ignore the heat crawling up your neck as you focus on the phone. “So what do I do?” you demand, turning back to the call. “I can’t just... leave him like this.”

“Well,” Jimin sighs. “You have two options. Option A: You lock him in a room and you let him ride it out alone. It’ll be miserable for him, bunny heats are painful if they aren't, uh, addressed.”

Unlike predators, who usually get aggressive or territorial, prey hybrids get needy. Desperately needy. It is a biological imperative for them to breed, and when a heat hits, it hits hard.

“And Option B?” you ask. You already know the answer, but you need to hear it.

“Option B,” Jimin says, and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “You help him out.”

You choke on air. “Jimin!”

You know exactly how to fix a bunny heat. Everyone does. It is biology 101. They need sex, lots of it. But this is Jungkook. He’s been your best friend since forever. And yes, you might have been in love with him since high school, but you push that thought violently out of your brain. Absolutely not.

“Hey, you asked! He needs release, Y/N. And not just once,” Jimin chuckles, voice low and amused. “He needs to be… attended to.” He pauses, grinning like he knows exactly what he’s saying. “And there is literally no one else on this planet he would want right now but you.”