jye

You walk along its edge, breath lifting in slow clouds, the hem of your coat gathering frost as it brushes against the reeds. The air is metallic with cold, each inhalation sharp enough to taste, yet you keep walking because the world inside the dormitory feels smaller each day, all lace collars and rehearsed laughter. 

Out here the silence stretches open, and for the first time in weeks you can hear your own thoughts moving. 

Your gloves are damp from snow, the perfume at your wrist faint but still alive. White peach, the kind your faveroutie nanny once pressed into your hands before winter holidays, whispering that sweetness protects almost as good as prayers. It rises softly now, mingling with the smell of pine and distant smoke, an invisible thread binding you to something unnamed. 

The light has turned liquid by the time you reach the slope beneath the chapel, the horizon already bruised with evening. Snowflakes settle in your hair, melting into small, cold pearls against your skin. Everything feels suspended, as if the day itself is holding its breath. 

The loneliness does not ache anymore; it hums quietly, like a secret under the ribs. You lift your eyes to the lake, its surface glazed with fragile ice, and for a moment you believe the world could break with a whisper.

The sound reaches you first—a hollow thud against the slope, a soft groan that doesn’t belong to the wind. You turn toward the noise, scanning the whiteness until movement catches your eye. Down where the hill dips toward the lake, something dark breaks the symmetry of snow. You hesitate only a moment before descending, your boots sinking deep, the chill creeping through the seams of your stockings.

He’s half-buried in frost when you reach him, sprawled on his side beside a fallen snowboard, a tangle of limbs and breathless pride. One of his gloves is missing, fingers red against the snow, his ankle turned wrong beneath the sleek black of his trousers. Blood stains the white fabric, a small shock of color too vivid to ignore. You drop to your knees, the cold biting through the wool, and for a second he looks at you like he can’t decide whether you’re real.

“I’m fine,” he says quickly, voice sharp with the kind of defiance that only hurts more when spoken. He tries to push himself upright but winces, the effort collapsing into stillness.

“You’re not,” you answer, quieter but firm.

He glares at the snow as though it’s betrayed him. There’s something polished about him even here—expensive jacket, the faint glint of a gold medallion at his throat, a family crest you’ve seen before in the papers they keep in the headmistress’s office. His face is pale beneath the flush of cold, jaw tight with humiliation. You can see he hates being seen like this, broken open in front of a stranger.

“Go back,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the horizon. “It’s nothing.”

You could. The sky is darkening fast, the air sharper now, the first whisper of a storm forming over the lake. But you stay, pressing a hand to the snow near his leg, watching how the red spreads in slow threads through the white. Something small inside you resists the order to leave—maybe loneliness recognizing itself, maybe something else entirely.

“It’s bleeding,” you say. “You’ll make it worse.”

He exhales, the sound halfway between frustration and surrender. “You don’t have to help.”

“I know.” You remove your gloves anyway, fingers shaking slightly as you unfasten the black ribbon from your hair. It unfurls, smooth and dark against your palm, the only thing in this landscape that holds warmth. When you tear it into a strip, he watches with a flicker of disbelief, as though he’s never seen someone ruin something delicate for something useful.

The wind picks up while you work. Snow gathers on your lashes. You wrap the fabric around his ankle, tight enough to hold but not hurt, and when your hands brush his skin he flinches, not from pain but from surprise. His gaze flicks to your face, eyes dark and uncertain, and you realize he’s still a boy trying to be something bigger than fear.

“Don’t move yet,” you murmur, pressing fresh snow over the wound to slow the bleeding. The scent of white peach drifts between you, fragile and out of place in the iron air.

He watches you in silence, breath coming shallow, eyes tracing the concentration in your expression. You think he wants to thank you, but pride holds his tongue.

The world narrows to the two of you—the snow, the blood, the faint warmth where your hands meet. Somewhere far above, the chapel bell begins to toll, its sound folding through the cold like a benediction. He doesn’t know your name, and you don’t ask for his, but something invisible settles between you, as soft and persistent as perfume.

The air smells of winter peaches and blood, and he thinks mercy must have a scent after all.

He tries to stand before you can stop him, jaw set with the same stubbornness that probably made him fall in the first place. You see the tremor in his leg, the sharp breath he draws through his teeth, the way he refuses to let you see pain win. You rise with him, steadying his arm without asking permission, your hand barely reaching his sleeve. He doesn’t lean on you, not quite, but his weight shifts toward you just enough to betray the truth.

“Slowly,” you tell him.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re limping.”

He looks at you then, a flash of boyish defiance bright beneath the bruising light. “Then don’t look.”

You almost smile, but the cold catches it before it forms. His pride clings to him like armor, but the edges are cracked. When he tries another step, his balance falters, and this time he lets your hand stay on his arm. Together you start up the slope, the chapel bells muffled by the thickening snow. The hill stretches longer than you remember, but the lights above burn steady, like small gold prayers hung in the dusk.

He walks in silence for a while, jaw clenched, breath coming short. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, threaded with something you can’t name. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“Neither should you,” you answer, and the corner of his mouth tilts as if he hadn’t expected you to answer at all.

The wind stirs again, filling the space between your words with a fine flurry. You can feel the warmth of him through his coat sleeve, and it startles you—the reality of another pulse so close. He’s heavier now with exhaustion, but he hides it well, forcing each step with the grim precision of someone who refuses to owe the world anything. You wonder what kind of house teaches a boy that pain must always be hidden.

When you finally reach the clearing beneath the chapel, he stops, breath misting the air in sharp bursts. The bell above begins to chime, slow and hollow, each note falling through the snow like a heartbeat out of rhythm. He looks toward the sound as though trying to memorize it. You can tell he’s searching for something to say, but the words never come.

You tighten the ribbon around his wrist to secure the makeshift bandage. “Keep pressure on it,” you say.

He glances down, fingers brushing the strip of black fabric against his skin. “What if it freezes?”

“Then you’ll have a reason to remember it.”

Something in your tone makes him still. His gaze lifts to your face—steady now, curious, caught between gratitude and confusion. You think he’ll thank you, or tell you his name, or ask for yours. Instead he says, “You could’ve walked away.”

You shrug, half-smiling. “You’d still be bleeding.”

His laugh is quiet, breathless, not used to being seen. “You don’t even know me.”

You meet his eyes for the first time and say, “Maybe I don’t need to.”

For a moment he can’t look away. Later, he will wonder if fate really begins in the instant two strangers decide to stay instead of leave.

You step back, your silhouette already dissolving into the snowfall. The chapel’s light frames you for one suspended heartbeat before you turn toward the path that leads back to Saint-Margaux. “Try not to hurt yourself again,” you call, voice soft and clear, carrying through the wind like something meant to last.

He doesn’t answer. Just watches you walk until the snow swallows your outline and the night takes what little warmth was left between you.

The black ribbon stays knotted around his wrist, dark against the pale skin, the faint scent of white peach clinging to the fabric. He presses it to his face once before tucking it inside his glove. Years will pass before he understands why his chest still tightens at the memory of a girl who smelled of sweetness in a world built of ice, why mercy can feel like a promise made by the future itself.

And when he smells it again —in a room too golden, on a girl too familiar — he will think the word for it must have always been fate.

He dreams of you that night, though he would never admit it to anyone, not even to himself. The chapel bells fold themselves into his sleep, soft as breath through snow, and the scent of white peach lingers in the hollow of his wrist where your ribbon rests. It lies against skin too young to understand mercy, but it remembers all the same. He turns it between his fingers, half-awake beneath Saint-Margaux’s rafters, while snow keeps falling outside the window, endless and silent.

Years pass. The world changes shape around him: cities rise, fortunes shift, wars of legacy play out behind gold doors — but memory doesn’t age; it waits. And one evening, in a hall too gilded to be holy, it finds him again.

The chandeliers drip with crystal light, laughter curving through the air like perfume, and across the room stands a girl wrapped in white silk and duty. You. He doesn’t know your name yet, not the way the world will say it later, but his body remembers something older than language. The scent reaches him before you do — white peach — and for a heartbeat he is seventeen again, kneeling in the snow beneath a chapel bell.

His breath stops. A thousand faces blur, yet yours stays sharp as confession. He watches you helping your sister, steady and calm beneath the weight of expectation, unaware of how destiny has already bent itself toward you. When you look up, it isn’t recognition that flickers in your eyes — only caution, politeness, a distant curiosity. You don’t remember him.

In a room too golden, on a girl too familiar.

Something inside him shifts, a quiet fracture between what was and what will be. He should let it pass — the perfume, the echo, the ache — but fate has a cruel sense of humor. When the chaos begins, when voices rise and choices splinter, he speaks before thought can stop him. I want this one.

The words fall like prophecy.

Later, when the world calls it marriage, when you stand beneath the cathedral’s chandelier with a ribbon veiled in black, he will see it again — that same strip of darkness gleaming against silk, the mirror of the one that once stopped his bleeding. 

He will feel the same tightening in his chest, the same quiet gratitude tangled with hunger, and the same ghost of your scent threading through the air like memory come home.

Years will blur between then and now, between blood and perfume, between the mercy you gave and the power he took. And somewhere in that golden haze of love and ruin, he will finally understand that some bonds are written not by choice, but by recognition.

────୨ৎ────

He lies awake long after the chapel bells fall silent. The infirmary smells faintly of antiseptic and melting snow. Moonlight cuts through the frosted windows, laying a thin line of silver across his blanket. Beneath it, his hand moves restlessly, tracing the ribbon tied around his wrist.

The scent still clings to it, white peach and frost and something warm he doesn’t have a name for. He holds it close, half-afraid the air will steal it, half-afraid it already has. The nurses think he’s asleep, but his eyes stay open, heavy with the ache of unspent words.

His life has always been built on rules that leave no room for mercy. The Jeon household does not allow softness — only precision, achievement, silence. Even as a boy, he learned that mistakes draw blood and kindness draws suspicion. The world outside Saint-Margaux had already begun shaping him into the kind of man who never falls, never bleeds, never asks for help. Yet tonight, someone saw through that. A girl whose name he doesn’t know, whose face blurs each time he tries to recall it, had touched him without fear.

He thinks about your hands, the quiet steadiness of them, and feels a strange pull in his chest that he cannot define. It isn’t gratitude or love. It’s something older, heavier — like the universe has pressed a thumbprint into his skin and whispered remember.

The nurse pauses beside his bed, checking his temperature, her voice soft. “What’s that you’re holding, darling?”

He looks down at the dark ribbon and, after a moment, answers, “A promise I owe someone I never thanked.” His voice comes out quiet, almost reverent. She smiles absently and moves on, unaware she has just witnessed the beginning of something that will not die easily.

When the door closes, he turns the ribbon in his palm again. Outside, the wind carries the scent of pine through the cracked window, and for the first time in his life, he feels the weight of wanting to be worthy of something pure.

Snow keeps falling beyond the glass, covering the footprints on the slope where she found him. In time, it will melt. The blood will fade. The ribbon will fray.

But some threads belong to fate alone. They lie buried in the bones of the cruel and the gentle alike, waiting for the scent of white peach and the touch of a black ribbon to find them again.

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Darkness envelops everything, bringing with it the acrid smell of rust and rot. For a moment, you wonder if this is just a fever-dream, perhaps brought on by too much wine, or a cruel hallucination woven from fear. But when you attempt to move, the sharp restraints around your wrists provide cruel clarity - this is neither dream nor nightmare. This is reality.

Your breath catches as panic builds slowly from your core, rising like an unexpressed scream caught in your throat. Then you hear it - footsteps, measured and confident, followed by a voice as smooth and dry as dust on marble. "Sleeping beauty wakes."

You remain silent, letting the stillness become your armor. A match strikes, its sudden flare piercing the darkness just enough to reveal half his face in shadow - Leo Maranzano. The man who ruined your wedding stands before you, wearing gloves and a patient smile.

"You know," he muses with a slight tilt of his head, "I expected more fight."

Struggling to sit up, your body protests with every movement. The effort only draws an amused laugh from him.

"Don't worry," he says, crouching beside you. "You're not here for long. Just long enough to understand something."

He keeps his distance, knowing his presence alone is a form of torture.

"I'm going to tell you a little secret," Leo murmurs, his tone dripping with venom-sweet malice. "Your brother sold you. Cheap, too. Barely put up a negotiation."

Each word seeps into your bones like poison. You shake your head in denial, but he continues, each syllable a calculated strike.

"Families are funny that way," he says. "They'll protect their blood... until something more valuable comes along."

Somewhere, a door creaks open, then slams shut. The temperature plummets as cold water traces down your neck from an unseen source. In the consuming darkness, only his voice remains - that haunting echo and the ice settling deep in your chest.

"You thought being Jeon's wife meant something, didn't you?" he says, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Poor girl. You really thought monsters could love."

His footsteps retreat like a tide pulling back before a tsunami, leaving only his final words hanging in the air: "Let's see how long that faith lasts. Welcome to the dark."

Then he vanishes into the shadows, his presence lingering like a ghost. The darkness wraps around you like a shroud, bringing with it a bone-deep cold and the hollow echo of your heart shattering in the silence. You are completely, utterly alone.

And this is only the beginning.

────୨ৎ────

The steady dripping of water marks time like a cruel metronome as you lie there, unable to measure how long Leo has been gone. Time loses meaning in the darkness.

Despite the burning in your wrists and the aching of your body, your mind remains sharp and focused. You hold onto something deeper than hope - a crystalline clarity that refuses to be extinguished.

When the door finally opens and Leo's silhouette appears in the frame, you remain steady, watching him through the darkness like a flame that refuses to die out. He moves with deliberate steps, claiming the space as his domain with each measured movement.

The soft clink of glass being set down breaks the silence, followed by the harsh scrape of a chair. His voice cuts through the darkness with calculated precision: "Did he ever tell you how many people he's buried beneath his empire?" he asks, the words hanging heavy in the air. "Your husband."

The word "husband" tastes like ash in your mouth as you remain silent, refusing to give Leo the satisfaction of a response.

Leo's smile grows faint as he leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. "You wear diamonds paid for in blood, and still — you looked at him like he was your savior."

Your continued silence seems to crack something in Leo's composure. "He took everything from me," he says, his voice turning cold and bitter. "My father. My legacy. My place in this city."

You glance down at your bound wrists before meeting his gaze, your voice barely above a whisper. "Then you chose the wrong time."

Leo stills at your words as you continue, voice trembling yet resolute. "I left him. Walked away. Told him not to come after me."

He studies you with calculated intensity, his smile transforming from amusement to pure cruelty. "Let's see if monsters like him can love."

Rising to his full height, his shadow stretches menacingly across the floor. "Or perhaps you believe monsters like Jeon are capable of letting go?"

────୨ৎ────

Jungkook finds your letter placed neatly on the black marble table, waiting in silence like an unwelcome prophecy. One look at the handwriting and something in his chest coils, sharp and tight. He reads it three times, each pass more desperate than the last, until he finally crumples it in his fist with the violent urgency of someone searching for a pulse that's already gone. The silence that settles in the penthouse isn't peaceful - it's surgical, precise in its emptiness.

His breathing shifts first. Then the glass of whisky he'd been pouring doesn’t even make it to his lips — he hurls it across the room. The shatter is so loud it echoes through every inch of the space you used to fill. Your perfume still lingers in the air. Peach and warmth and something soft he never had a name for.

He tears through the apartment methodically yet frantically - flinging open doors and ransacking closets in the bedroom, bathroom, and terrace. Some desperate part of him hopes to find you tucked away in some small corner, waiting to be found.

"Y/N!" The rawness in his voice echoes through empty rooms, met only with silence.

His hands shake as he dials your number repeatedly, each call going straight to voicemail after a few hollow rings. Desperate calls to Namjoon, Hoseok, and Jimin yield nothing - no one has seen you, no one knows where you've gone. You've simply vanished.

Jungkook finally stills, the pain inside him crystallizing into an arctic coldness that seeps through his veins, corroding everything it touches.

And in that stillness, surrounded by shattered glass and the black ribbon tangled in the sheets you left behind, Jungkook's voice breaks the silence with a hoarse whisper: "You said don't come after you." His eyes close as his jaw clenches before he growls, "Fuck that." After all, monsters never let go of what they've claimed.

────୨ৎ────

Jungkook storms into your family's estate without warning, the door slamming open with thunderous force. The sound echoes through the decaying house, where half-finished renovations barely mask years of neglect. A dissonant mixture of wet paint and rotting plaster mingles with expensive cologne and rising panic.

His footsteps resound through the once-silent front hall as he strides past the stammering butler, claiming the space as his own. And it is his, in a way - every restored ceiling, every gilded molding, every attempt to hide this family's rot was paid for with Jeon money. Your husband's money.

And now his wife is gone.

"You let her leave?" The words crash into the room like breaking glass.

Your father stands frozen, mouth working silently before managing, "What are you talking about?"

"She's gone." Jungkook's voice trembles with fury beneath his grief. "Left a note, took nothing - no phone, no guards. No one's seen her. And here you all sit, acting like nothing's wrong."

"She—she wouldn't—" your father stutters. "No. She wouldn't be so foolish."

Jungkook's laugh cuts through the air like a blade.

"Foolish?" In one fluid motion, he seizes a priceless vase and hurls it against the wall. The crash echoes through the room as shards scatter across marble. "You threatened her, didn't you? Ordered her not to dishonor me?"

"She promised to behave," your father snaps, his composure finally cracking. "That girl—she was never supposed to embarrass us like this!"

"Embarrass you?" Jungkook's voice cuts through the air like ice. "She's missing and that's what concerns you?"

Your father's voice lowers, fear creeping in. "We told her to stay married. That was the deal—"

"That was your daughter," Jungkook hisses, his words dripping with venom. "And now she's gone."

He turns sharply to Luca, whose composure is unnaturally steady, face showing no hint of concern. "You," Jungkook says, advancing with predatory grace.

Luca's smile remains faint, mocking. "She's not a child, Jeon."

"No," Jungkook murmurs, "but you are a fucking liar."

The temperature plummets as Nora presses a trembling hand to her chest. Jungkook's voice grows colder, more lethal with each word. "Where is she?"

Luca's calculated shrug only fuels Jungkook's suspicion. "You think if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you?"

Jungkook closes the distance between them, his face inches from Luca's. The air crackles with tension as he studies the too-perfect composure in his brother-in-law's eyes.

"You didn't even flinch when I said she was gone," he observes, tilting his head slightly. "Did you help her run? Or did you sell her?"

Your father's sharp exhale and sudden pallor speak volumes. Jungkook's smile transforms into something terrible - all teeth, devoid of warmth.

"You have five seconds to tell me where your daughter is," he says with deadly calm. "After that, I stop asking."

────୨ৎ────

The silence hangs sharp and heavy as Jungkook stares Luca down, his jaw flexed and fists clenching rhythmically, barely containing his rage. The tension breaks when his phone buzzes - an unfamiliar number that makes his blood run cold. He answers wordlessly.

Static crackles through the line before a voice emerges, dripping with malicious satisfaction. "She'll look better pregnant," Leo Maranzano drawls.

Jungkook's entire being transforms in that moment - not frozen, but coiled like a predator about to strike, radiating a silence so dense it seems to bend the very air around him.

"Don't bother trying to trace this," Leo continues smoothly. "We both know how futile that would be."

Jungkook's voice emerges like ice wrapped around gunpowder. "You want blood? I’ll drown you in it"

In the weighted silence that follows, Luca shifts imperceptibly while your mother's face drains of color. Leo's soft laughter filters through the line, dripping with malice.

"Always so poetic, Jeon. So... predictable. You think the world will bleed for you, but what happens when the one you love bleeds for someone else?"

"Name your price," Jungkook demands, each word precisely carved. "Money? Territory? I'll destroy everything you've built before you touch her again."

Leo exhales with calculated disappointment. "I want what's impossible, Jeon - my father's life restored, my family's legacy rebuilt." His voice drops to a deadly whisper: "Since I can't have that, I'll have yours instead."

Jungkook's grip tightens around the phone, the plastic creaking under the pressure as Leo's words slither through the line.

"I'll marry your wife," Leo murmurs, soft as ash, "and knock her up with my heir."

The room plunges into deathly silence. Your father staggers back into a chair, all color draining from his face, while Nora's sharp gasp pierces the air. Even Luca, usually composed, pales visibly as his expression turns unreadable.

Jungkook closes his eyes for just half a second. When they open again, something fundamental has changed - he's no longer human, but something older, something ancient.

"If anything happens to her," he says, his voice quiet with reverent wrath, "I'll kill you. And every living Maranzano that crawls out of your grave."

"Big words from a man who just lost his bride," Leo hums mockingly.

Jungkook exhales once, trembling with barely contained rage, before saying softly, "You have sisters, don't you?"

Leo falls silent, his bravado slipping for the first time.

"Cousins. Nieces," Jungkook continues, a cold smile playing at his lips. "Sleep lightly." Without waiting for a response, he ends the call.

The air in the Amare house grows thick with tension as Jungkook turns, his lethal gaze settling on Luca. "Pray your sister is alive," he says, his voice dangerously low as he steps closer. "Because if she's not, I won't send you to prison - I'll kill you with my bare hands."

The silence that follows is deafening. As Jungkook moves to leave, he pauses at the door, looking back at Nora. "You were angry. Fine. But don't you dare say you loved her if this is how easily you turned your back." His words make her flinch.

"She saved me once," he continues, his tone softening with remembered gratitude. "Years ago when I was still bad at snowboarding. She doesn't even remember it was me, but I remember her. She gave me something no one else ever did - mercy."

After a weighted pause, he adds, "Maybe we were always going to end up here. Maybe that's what fate is - not clean, not kind, just inevitable."

With his hand on the door, he delivers one final truth: "You don't have to believe in love. But at least believe in the sister who never stopped believing in you."

And with that, he steps into the rain, ready for war.

────୨ৎ────

The rooftop is a stage of glass and steel, suspended above a city that doesn’t sleep — just watches, waiting. The wind slices sharp against concrete, pulling at coat hems and loaded holsters, as if the night itself senses what’s coming and wants to retreat.

Above the city, beneath a bruised sky veined with lightning, six black cars idle like hounds ready to devour. Their engines hum low, headlights cutting through the dusk like a premonition, restrained only by the men who command them. Jeon mafia assembles — suits pressed, weapons hidden, hearts armored.

Namjoon locks a magazine into place with quiet finality, sleeves rolled to the elbow, throat tight with tension. Beside him, Jin checks the radio frequencies, his gaze flickering once toward the skyline — toward the place they believe she’s being held. Hoseok straps a blade to his thigh, expression hollow, all his usual brightness buried beneath something colder. Jimin adjusts the cuffs of his jacket with the stillness of a killer in prayer, and Taehyung pulls his hair back with shaking fingers, eyes glittering with rage he hasn't yet learned to name.

Yoongi is silent. He always is, before blood.

And at the center of them all stands Jungkook — not their heir, not their prince, not their spoiled bloodline darling — just a man in a black suit that fits like a vow, trembling in places no one dares acknowledge.

His hands tremble with barely contained tension, an unprecedented sight among the Jeon legacy that leaves his men in reverent silence. These same hands that have dealt death with practiced ease, that have wielded both knife and power without hesitation, now betray a deeper truth - their leader is afraid.

Jungkook avoids their watchful eyes, his gaze fixed on the sprawling cityscape where, somewhere in its depths, you're being held captive. His mouth grows dry as his thoughts race louder than the approaching storm, each moment of separation feeling like a blade against his skin.

He remembers your eyes when you told him not to touch you, your voice trembling with the words "don't come near me." The memory of your retreating footsteps haunts him, along with the image of you shrinking away as if his every promise had been hollow.

And perhaps they were - not because he concealed his true nature, but because he foolishly believed that his monstrous side could deserve tenderness. That he could shield you while remaining unchanged. That you could withstand the darkness he carried.

He let his rage speak louder than your fear when he should have protected you. Now he faces the possibility of having to kill again, knowing the bloodshed will forever stain him in your eyes.

But you'll be alive.

He can accept a future where you never touch him again, where your voice falls silent around him, where you flee at his approach. He can survive all of that, but he cannot exist in a world without you.

Namjoon steps forward. "The convoy's ready."

Jungkook nods once, remaining silent as his trembling fingers clasp behind his back, curling into fists while he struggles to steady his breathing.

Taehyung murmurs low to Yoongi, "You ever seen him like this?"

Yoongi doesn't look away from the cars. "He's never had something to lose."

Jungkook lifts his head and adjusts the diamond cufflink on his left wrist — the one you once teased him for wearing like a crown. His voice carries clear authority as he addresses the group.

"I want clean entry. No noise until I give it. We don't spill unless we have to. We don't risk anything unless it's her."

The others nod in a silent, unified pact.

"I want Leo breathing," Jungkook adds, "just long enough to watch me burn everything he ever touched." His voice drops then, stripped of command and practiced arrogance — leaving only bone and soul and desperate love: "Bring her back."

As engines rumble to life, thunder rolls above them like applause for the damned. Jungkook lingers at the edge, his eyes fixed on the city skyline, heart in his throat. He doesn't pray — he doesn't believe in anything that ever refused to protect you. When he finally turns toward the convoy, his face unreadable and hands steady, he whispers into the storm: "This ends tonight." And then he disappears into war.

────୨ৎ────

The air inside the Maranzano estate reeks of rust and ruin, a stark contrast to its former splendor. Marble imported from Verona adorns the walls, while high ceilings showcase frescoes of indifferent gods, and chandeliers heavy with Bohemian crystal hang like frozen memories of old Italian guilt. Now the place stands as a tomb - a forgotten cathedral of betrayal awaiting fresh bloodshed.

Blackened windows cast the interior in shadow, while faulty electricity hums an ominous drone. The distant ocean crashes against the docks, and moonlight filters through a cracked skylight, casting fractured patterns across the dust-covered floor.

When the doors burst open, it's not with theatrical chaos, but with deadly precision - swift and silent as a guillotine's fall. Dark figures glide across the polished floors, their tailored coats rippling like liquid shadow, weapons at the ready. These aren't mere soldiers; they're Jeon men - predators whose very essence speaks of wealth and violence, purpose and unrelenting rage.

Namjoon takes point on the left, moving silent as a curse, while Jin covers the right with cold-eyed vigilance. Jimin and Taehyung follow, their steps ghosting across the carpet as golden chandelier light plays across their expressionless faces. Hoseok secures the stairwell as Yoongi dissolves into shadows, a lethal presence unseen until the moment of strike.

And at the center: Jungkook. He moves with deadly precision, as if the very air parts in fear of his advance. His black suit remains pristine, but his face betrays something beyond rage in his locked jaw and gleaming eyes - something far more dangerous. With bare hands and cold determination, he makes it clear that this night will end in blood.

A bullet pierces the silence like shattering glass, followed quickly by another. Screams echo through the corners as men shout in Italian and English, panic rising in their voices. The Maranzano guards, previously secure in their territory, find themselves unprepared for the wolves that have breached their sanctuary.

Chaos consumes the mansion as smoke bombs transform light into swirling fog. Gunfire reverberates against stone walls while someone desperately calls out Leo's name. But Jungkook remains focused, deaf to everything except his mission.

He moves through the space like death incarnate in his three-piece suit, evading bullets with fluid grace while returning fire with precise elegance. His shots are calculated - one to the neck, another to the thigh - each movement deliberately chosen to disable and disarm.

To punish.

He takes no lives unless they stand between him and you.

Locked behind a wrought iron door in a cold cellar two floors down, you feel the war before you hear it - a distant hum through the floor, screams vibrating through pipes, Leo's orders echoing from above as footsteps pound and lights flicker overhead. The chaos builds to a crescendo before everything suddenly stills, leaving only your thundering heartbeat in the silence.

Then the door slams open - not from the guards, but from him.

Jungkook enters the room with an almost supernatural presence, drawn to you as if by divine magnetism. His black shirt hangs open, blood staining his collar while his eyes blaze with intensity. Though chaos erupts behind him - screams and the heavy thud of falling bodies - his focus remains unwavering.

He only sees you - bound, bruised, with dried blood on your lip and raw wrists. Something within him fractures at the sight, a subtle but terrifying transformation. Kneeling before you in silence, his trembling fingers work to untie each rope with delicate precision, as though handling fragments of your broken trust. In this moment, nothing else in the world exists beyond freeing you from your bonds.

Your voice barely rises above a whisper. "You came…"

But before you can say more, he wraps you in his coat, presses your head to his chest. You smell smoke, sweat, blood, his cologne. His heart is pounding like it’s trying to break through his ribs to reach you faster.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

The door groans open behind him, and Leo Maranzano steps into the cellar. His slow, mocking applause fills the space as he appears in the doorway with his gun raised. Blood spatter has already dried on the sleeve of his suit jacket, his tie hangs askew, and one side of his mouth curls like something sharp beneath silk.

“Touching reunion,” he drawls, stepping into the room like it belongs to him. “You made good time, Jeon. Was hoping you’d take a little longer. The real show’s always better with an audience, right, wifey?”

Jungkook’s body locks into stillness, but the rage in him surges like a tidal wave against its dam. He rises slowly, placing himself between you and Leo with terrifying precision, his voice ice-cold and taut. “Don’t speak to her.”

Leo smiles. “Why not? We’ve gotten so close, your little bride and I. Haven’t we, princess?”

Your fingers twitch where they rest on the floor.

“She’s untouched,” Leo continues, circling now, slow like a vulture. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I didn’t want to ruin the canvas before the artist arrived. Would’ve been such a waste to play with her while you were out in traffic. I wanted you here, Jeon. To watch. To beg.”

Jungkook doesn’t speak. He drops the coat from his shoulders and steps forward into the light. You watch the muscles in his back tense beneath the thin fabric of his dress shirt, now half-untucked and stained with dirt and blood.

“But look at you,” Leo muses, head tilting. “You’re rattled. Afraid. Has she already made a man out of you, Jungkook? Has she already softened the executioner?”

And that — that’s when Jungkook moves. Like lightning refracted through glass, he lunges forward, shoving Leo hard into the concrete wall. The gun clatters to the ground, metal screeching against tile, as fists replace bullets.

Their fight devolves into raw brutality, all calculated strategy abandoned for pure survival instinct. Leo lands a heavy punch to Jungkook's ribs, and Jungkook retaliates with a vicious blow that sends Leo reeling. When Leo draws a hidden knife from his boot and slashes upward, Jungkook barely manages to dodge, but the blade still finds its mark - tearing through his shirt and leaving a bloody gash across his shoulder.

Your heart races as you scramble to your knees, eyes fixed on the gun lying just within reach. Neither man has noticed it yet.

JJungkook slams Leo into the ground with crushing force. Leo twists and drives his thumb deep into Jungkook's wound, causing him to unleash a primal scream of pure fury. Without hesitation, Jungkook's elbow connects with Leo's temple before grabbing his collar.

Gunshot.

The sound of your scream fills the air as Jungkook staggers backward. Leo stands with the smoking gun, a cruel smile playing on his lips as blood trickles from his temple. Fresh crimson blooms across Jungkook's arm and shoulder.

Your body moves on instinct, hands finding the discarded weapon. The weight of it feels foreign yet decisive as you raise it with trembling fingers.

Leo's eyes meet yours from where he stands, his bloodied smile widening. "Now this... this is poetic."

Your entire body shakes with adrenaline, each breath a struggle.

"Don't," Jungkook pleads, his arm outstretched toward you. "Y/N—don't. You don't need to do this."

Seeing Jungkook wounded and bleeding weakens your resolve.

Leo's soft laughter fills the space. "Go on, sweetheart. Pull the trigger. Be a good wife."

Your finger trembles on the trigger as the world spins around you. When you finally pull, the bullet tears through Leo's thigh with a sickening crack. His scream echoes through the room as he drops to one knee, grasping at the wall for support. The gun slips from your shaking hands as you collapse to the floor.

"Fuck—" Jungkook crawls to you immediately, his good arm wrapping protectively around your waist. "Baby—hey, hey, look at me."

Through your tears, you can barely form words. "I didn't mean to—I thought—he—"

Jungkook reaches for the gun and fires a single shot through Leo's heart. Leo collapses instantly - face slack, eyes wide, gone. Jungkook exhales and pulls you into his lap, ignoring both blood and pain.

"You didn't kill him," Jungkook whispers, voice rough. "You didn't kill anyone. It was me. Look at me. It was me."

You press your face into his neck. “You’re bleeding—Jungkook—your shoulder—”

“I’m fine,” he breathes. “I’m fine. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

His breath catches as he cradles your face between his palms, handling you like the most precious thing in this burning world. "Don't ever run from me again," he pleads, his voice raw with emotion. "Don't ever doubt that I would tear everything apart to find you."

Trembling in his embrace, you watch as Jungkook Jeon does something he's never done before - he prays. Not for himself, but that he'll never again have to see such fear in your eyes.

With infinite care, he lifts you against his chest and carries you from the wreckage. His promises fall like whispered prayers: "You're safe now. No one will ever touch you again. You're mine." And despite everything you've witnessed today - the violence, the monster within him - you believe him completely. Because just as you belong to him, he belongs entirely to you.

────୨ৎ────

What depths of loyalty and sacrifice arise when we call something love? In those quiet moments before dawn, as memories of cold rope and smoke still linger, you contemplate how a single moment can transform everything.

The weight of the gun, the tremble in your hands, the look in Jungkook's eyes - it all comes back with haunting clarity. His plea for you not to shoot wasn't born from fear of Leo, but fear for your soul. While Jungkook had long ago accepted his capacity for darkness, you were still untouched by such choices.

He was a man who had made peace with being a monster. But you? You stood at the precipice between innocence and necessity, between who you were and who circumstances demanded you become.

Looking back, you're still uncertain whether pulling that trigger came from survival instinct, overwhelming fear, or fierce love. The line between those emotions blurs in moments of desperation. That night gave you a glimpse into Jungkook's world - the terrible choices and the weight they carry. Though his lifestyle remains brutal and dark, you've gained a slight understanding of what drives him.

────୨ৎ────

The air tonight tastes like peach blossoms and spring dust. The city is humming outside, but here in this little pocket of golden light and linen, the world feels slower, softer — like something on the edge of a fairytale.

Jungkook is asleep on the couch. Or half-asleep, you’re not sure. His head rests back against the cushion, long legs stretched out like he owns the entire room, which in truth — he probably does. One arm draped over his stomach, the other slack at his side, the sleeve of his thin black shirt pushed up, revealing the edge of gauze still wrapping his shoulder. He refused the hospital, of course. Said he’d had worse.

For a week now, he's been with you. Every second. Every breath. He hasn’t returned to the office. His phone only lights up when there’s something urgent, and even then he barely glances at it before silencing the screen. He walks with you in the mornings — silent, careful steps by the river. He reads beside you in the afternoons, chin propped on his hand like he’s memorizing every inch of your face. He touches you constantly. Not with greed, not with hunger, but with quiet worship — a hand at the small of your back, fingers brushing your jaw, a palm spread against your thigh under the sheets like a silent vow.

And in sleep, he clings. Wraps himself around you with the desperation of someone who knows what it means to almost lose something you weren’t ready to live without. You feel it in his breath when he tightens his hold around your waist. You feel it in the way he kisses your shoulders before he even opens his eyes.

The world has settled into a new kind of quiet, no longer haunting but healing. Though nightmares occasionally visit, they're growing fainter with each passing day.

More powerful now are the gentle rhythms of life with him - his steady heartbeat against your back, his voice greeting the morning sun, his forehead resting softly against yours. These moments have become your anchors, drowning out the echoes of darker days.

Tonight marks a transformation. You've shed the weight of vulnerability, no longer feeling like someone in need of rescue. Instead, you feel whole - ready not just to receive, but to give.

You rise slowly, careful not to disturb him, and walk barefoot across the penthouse’s polished floors. The silk robe you wear clings lightly to your body, the black ribbon from days ago now tied loose in your hair like a quiet signal — one he won’t notice until he’s already undone. The perfume on your wrists is faint, but it still carries — white peach, soft and haunting, the scent he once recognized through memory alone.

You pause in the kitchen to pour a glass of water, your hands trembling with anticipation rather than fear. Tonight feels different - you want to show him that the weight of devotion flows both ways, that despite everything, you chose to stay.

Through all the darkness and ghosts that have haunted your chest, you remained. Not just beside him, but with him. And now, perhaps most importantly, for him. Taking a steadying breath, you walk back to the bedroom. Your fingers find the knot of your robe as you prepare to show him what love truly means when given freely.

────୨ৎ────

The bedroom is steeped in quiet gold, shadows curled against the edges of the walls like folded silk. Outside, the city is a blurred constellation, lights scattered beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass. But here — here, time forgets to move. The air hangs soft, perfumed with something sweeter than white peach, something warmer than memory. Something like safety.

Jungkook stirs when he feels the dip of the mattress. His lashes flutter, a slow exhale leaving him as his eyes open — still soft from sleep, but sharpening the moment they register your silhouette against the dark. The black robe has slipped from your shoulders. Beneath it, skin glows like candlelight, bare and tender and alive. Your hair spills forward, the ribbon still clinging to it like a secret vow. You climb over him carefully, knees bracketing his hips, fingers ghosting over his ribs like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you press too hard.

He swallows. The muscles of his stomach tighten beneath your palms. “Baby…” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and need, “what are you—?”

But the rest dies on his tongue when you lean down, kiss his collarbone, and whisper, “Let me.”

His breath catches as you shift forward, reaching between your bodies with practiced ease. He’s already hard — has been since the moment your weight settled over him — but he doesn’t move, doesn’t rush. He watches you, chest rising with shallow breaths as your fingers guide him in, slow and deliberate, the stretch making your lips part in a quiet gasp.

Your hands steady on his chest as you sink down. And he groans — not loudly, not desperately — but like something sacred just broke open inside him. His hands twitch at your thighs but he doesn’t grip you. He lets you move at your own pace. And you do.

You ride him slowly. Not with rhythm, not with control — but with reverence. With something closer to prayer. Every motion is intentional, the soft roll of your hips a sacred offering, your walls dragging tight around him as you take him inch by inch. His length fills you deep, stretching you with a sweet ache that makes your breath stutter. Each movement draws him deeper, until your bodies are flush, your thighs trembling where they cradle his hips.

You grind down, slow and full, letting the sensation ripple through your spine. Your back arches as you circle once, twice, dragging your heat over him in a way that makes him groan low in his throat, the sound rumbling against your skin like thunder contained beneath satin.

His hands twitch against your hips but he doesn’t guide you, doesn’t grip — just anchors. Fingers trembling, he lets you set the pace, like he understands that this isn’t about possession. This is about being seen. About surrendering to the truth of you.

You press your palms flat to his chest, right over his heart, and feel it hammering beneath your touch — wild, vulnerable, alive. You rise up, the slow drag of him pulling free until only the tip remains, and then you sink down again, letting him fill you, stretch you, make you gasp. Over and over — each thrust more confident, each grind a little deeper, your breath catching when the head of his cock grazes that soft, aching spot deep inside.

His jaw is slack now, pupils blown wide, lashes damp, lips parted in something close to awe. He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t speak. Just watches — like he’s memorizing the way your body glows in the moonlight, the way your breasts bounce gently with every movement, the way you whimper when you find the angle that makes your thighs quake.

You roll your hips harder now, pleasure building slow and thick at the base of your spine. Every thrust is deliberate — down and forward, dragging his length against that spot again and again, until his fingers finally tighten on your waist, the first crack in his restraint.

“Fuck,” he chokes, voice torn. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You moan in response, your body clenching around him, and he bucks up into you — once, sharply, making you cry out. You bite your lip, nails raking gently down his chest, and then move faster, chasing the heat gathering between your legs.

Your thighs begin to tremble with the effort, your breath coming ragged. You rise and fall, again and again, his cock dragging thick and hot inside you, the wet sound of your bodies meeting echoing through the room. He thrusts up into you now, meeting your pace, the friction growing wetter, messier, more desperate with every collision.

The intimacy of the moment transcends mere physical connection. This is about reclamation - a sacred vow expressed through movement, marking the moment you embrace being cherished, desired, and wholly accepted.

“You’re mine,” you whisper, voice shaking, legs trembling. “You’re only mine.”

His answer is a groan torn from the chest, hands flying to your hips as he meets you thrust for thrust now, the rhythm breaking apart in something raw and wild. “I’ve always been yours.”

The sounds between you are quiet, wet and slow, the room filled with broken whispers and low moans. You lean down, kiss him softly — once, twice, again — and he gasps into your mouth when your walls flutter around him.

His voice is wrecked now. “Fuck, baby, please…”

“Please what?” you murmur, lips brushing his.

“I need you to come. Like this. On top of me. For me.”

You press your forehead to his. “Then say it.”

He groans, head tipping back, breath shaky. “You own me.”

You gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders now as your hips roll deeper, harder — still slow, still tender, but with a purpose now. With power. Your body tightens, pleasure gathering low in your belly like a storm you’ve been holding for years.

And then he says it — broken, wrecked, utterly yours. “Take it all. Fuck, take me.”

With a gasp that shatters into a cry, you break, your entire body pulsing around him, walls clenching tight as the pleasure explodes. He grips your hips hard, slamming up into you once, twice, three times — then spills into you with a deep, broken moan, holding you flush against him as he throbs, shaking beneath the weight of it.

And like stars colliding - inevitable, cosmic - your bodies stay locked together, hearts beating the same wild rhythm. His touch remains anchored to your skin, a silent promise written in the press of fingertips and shared breath.

The moment stretches like honey, sweet and infinite, as neither of you dares to break this delicate thread of connection.

────୨ৎ────

The days that follow feel like silk. The kind of days you once believed belonged only to magazines or other women — women with lives built on choice and safety, not sacrifice. Mornings spill in slow like cream over espresso, and you wake to his breath against your shoulder, his arm heavy around your waist, your legs tangled beneath linen sheets that still smell of white peach and the ghosts of what you whispered the night before.

Jungkook barely lets you leave his orbit. He touches constantly — not possessively, but tender, reverent. A hand at the small of your back when you pass him. Fingers brushing your wrist under the dining table while his phone rings unanswered. His thigh pressed to yours on the sofa, unmoving for hours. He kisses you in the hallway without warning — sometimes just your shoulder in passing, sometimes your mouth like it’s the only thing tethering him to this world.

You catch him watching you like that sometimes — in the mirror, in the kitchen, while you tie the black ribbon into your hair — as though he still doesn’t quite believe you’re real. He never says it aloud, but you feel it in how he pulls you into his chest at night, hands gripping tighter when you try to roll away. He’s afraid the softness might vanish. That you'll vanish.

You learn things too. That his coffee must be scalding hot. That he sometimes murmurs in his sleep — nonsense, fragments of English and Korean and violence you don’t always understand. That he always carries two knives. One he shows. One he doesn’t.

And in return, you let him see more of you. You tell him about the time you lied to your fencing coach just to sneak out to the lakeside. You let him read the old Latin poem you wrote at sixteen, still folded inside your Saint-Margaux notebook. One night — only once — you cry again. He doesn’t ask why. He just pulls you closer and holds you tighter, whispering your name until sleep comes like a tide.

You wonder if this is love. Not the brutal, all-consuming version you were warned about — but the kind built quietly in the echo of war. A soft defiance, a rebellion in kisses.

────୨ৎ────

He’s kissing your temple when the call comes. You’re wrapped around each other on the velvet sofa, barefoot, wine half-finished, a K-drama playing on mute just for the light. He checks the screen and tenses.

"Grandfather," he says quietly, tension filling the single word.

You understand the weight of it immediately, though your fingers still clutch at the hem of his sweatshirt. He leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. "I won't be long. Don't wait up."

────୨ৎ────

The Jeon estate is too quiet when he arrives — grand halls humming with tension rather than servants. The lights are dim, the kind of half-lit stillness that announces something heavy is about to begin. His grandfather waits in the ancestral chamber — all dark wood and high ceilings and paintings that watch. The old man stands in front of the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, no drink in sight.

"Do you understand what you've done?" The words cut through the silence, his grandfather's voice sharp with disapproval. Jungkook stands tall, his coat still on, jaw locked in defiance.

"There is an order to everything," the old man continues, turning to face him. "You shattered that order when you - a Jeon - chased after her. You humbled yourself before her family, lost control, lost face. We are not the ones who get left. Have you forgotten what that means?"

“I went after my wife,” Jungkook says, voice low but steady. “She wears my name now. She is my family — as much as you are.”

His grandfather’s face contorts, torn between fury and something colder. “You killed Leo Maranzano. After the boy you already orphaned.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing.

“And not in darkness. Not quietly. In an open war. Blood. Witnesses. Chaos. We killed two Maranzano men now. And the world — the other families — they saw. They heard.”

“That is not the worst part,” the old man mutters. “The worst is what it means. That our enemies will now dare to look. To test us. The wolves are circling, Jungkook. They think the lions are wounded.”

Jungkook doesn’t answer at first. His hands are still, but his eyes have darkened — storm breaking slowly beneath the surface. “If they come,” he says at last, “let them. They’ll learn.”

The old man watches him for a long, unbearable pause before turning back to the fire. Without waiting for permission, Jungkook leaves, already texting Namjoon as he moves. In the end, the circles of blood and empires of fear mean nothing to him - his only concern is what awaits in the soft quiet of the penthouse, in the arms of the only thing he still believes in.

You.

────୨ৎ────

There’s a kind of hush that settles in just before it begins — the penthouse awash in low light, the city’s skyline blurring like a memory behind glass.

You move through the bedroom like a whispered promise, the black ribbon coiled softly around your fingers. The same ribbon he’s come to associate with you — with defiance, with surrender, with the moment he first truly chose you. Tonight, you wear nothing but silk: a slip the color of moonlight, the scent of white peach clinging to your collarbones like a secret.

He’s on the bed, leaning against the headboard, shirt already gone, dark sweatpants riding low. Jungkook watches you with something primal curled in his gaze — but there’s softness too. Always with you now, always just beneath the surface. Like he’s ready to kneel even while he commands the room. You move toward him with the quiet confidence he's come to crave, gracefully settling onto the mattress.

"What's that for?" he murmurs, his gaze drawn to the ribbon.

You don’t answer. Instead, you climb onto his lap, straddling him slowly, your bare thighs brushing against his skin, the slip of your hips bringing him to attention beneath the cotton. He exhales harshly, head falling back slightly, eyes dragging over every inch of you.

You press the ribbon to his lips. “Let me.”

He doesn’t ask again. You tie the ribbon around his eyes — not tight, just enough to veil the world, to make everything else fade except your voice, your mouth, your scent. When you pull back, he’s breathing differently already — deeper, more aware. His hands clench at his sides.

“What are you doing to me,” he whispers.

You slide down his body, soft kisses at his throat, his collarbone, lower — your breath warming the trail of his tattoos. And when you peel away the last of his clothes and take him into your mouth, the sound he makes is desperate. His hands twist into the sheets. His thighs tremble.

You work him with your mouth, slow and unrelenting — not chasing rhythm, but exploring it. Your tongue drags along the underside with deliberate curiosity, swirling once around the head before taking him deeper again, letting the heat of your mouth embrace him fully. You hollow your cheeks just enough to make him groan, the sound pulled straight from his chest like something unwilling, like something sacred. He tastes like salt and sin and everything you’ve ever been denied.

Above you, his thighs tense under your palms, the muscle twitching in waves as he fights the impulse to move. You glance up through your lashes, only to find his jaw clenched, head thrown back, lips parted in something between prayer and profanity.

His fingers flex against the mattress — not grabbing you, not guiding you, just trembling there, like he’s trying to remember what it means to let go. You can see him unraveling beneath the weight of your touch, the tight control he always wears now splitting at the seams.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice hoarse, “you’re gonna break me.”

And maybe you are — maybe that’s the point. Because this time, he’s the one undone. This time, your mouth is the weapon and your name is the surrender he can’t swallow.

“Let me see you,” he pants. “Ribbon off. I wanna see you.”

You pull back, smirking against his skin. “No.”

That single syllable makes him snap. He tears off the ribbon with a growl, eyes wild and burning as he grabs your waist and pulls you up with one swift movement. “Switch.”

Your wrists are bound in the same ribbon before you can speak, your arms raised above your head as he lays you back into the pillows, eyes devouring every inch of you like he’s starved. Like he’s trying to memorize you. Like you’re his.

“You like playing games, huh?” he mutters against your throat. “But you’re mine now.”

His voice is low, dark, possessive and when he sinks into you, the stretch burns just enough to make your breath catch — slow, unbearably deep, every inch claimed with the kind of reverence that borders on cruelty. Your back arches off the sheets, a helpless curve, your body bowing beneath the weight of him, beneath the pressure of every inch pressing you open, pressing you full.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice already wrecked, forehead tipping against yours as he stays there, unmoving for a heartbeat too long. “So warm. So fucking perfect. Mine.”

He pulls out halfway, slow and dragging, and then pushes back in, even deeper. You moan into his mouth — soft, cracked, desperate. He moves again, then again, each thrust patient, almost lazy, but unbearably thorough. He’s not fucking you to finish — he’s fucking you to memorize you.

You’re gasping already, your tied wrists straining just slightly as your hips rise to meet him, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, caging him closer, like you need him deeper even though he’s already buried to the hilt.

He growls low in his throat, biting gently at your jaw. “Say it,” he demands, his rhythm still slow, still devastating. “Say who you belong to.”

“You—” you choke out, your voice caught between a gasp and a sob. “I’m yours, Jungkook. Yours—”

He groans like it’s a prayer answered in flesh. The control shatters. He snaps his hips harder now — deeper, faster — his chest dragging against yours, his breath burning hot across your throat. The room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin, wet and sharp and desperate.

“That’s right,” he snarls against your ear, his hand sliding between your bodies to find that perfect spot — circling, pressing, just enough to make your thighs tremble around him. “My wife. My fucking everything.”

Your fingers curl tight in their silk bindings. Your spine bows. You feel him everywhere — inside you, around you, claiming you with every thrust, every low growl of your name. You’re unraveling under him, your voice breaking on every moan.

The pleasure builds unbearably — the coil tight and hot and rising, pulled taut until it can’t be held anymore — and when he angles his hips just right, hitting the spot that makes your vision blur white, it explodes.

You cry out as your orgasm hits, hard and shaking, your body convulsing beneath him as his name rips from your throat. He fucks you through it — hard and fast and relentless — chasing his own release as your walls flutter and pulse around him.

And when he comes, it’s with a broken groan, deep and guttural, his body pressing fully into yours as he spills inside you. His hands cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, and he keeps moving just a little, just enough to keep you open, to keep the heat between you alive.

“Mine,” he whispers into your neck. “Mine. Mine.”

When he finally slows, breath ragged and body trembling, he unties your wrists with gentle fingers, kissing each mark left behind. He doesn’t say anything, not right away. Just strokes your cheek, presses a kiss to your collarbone, your shoulder, your mouth — soft now, reverent.

You’re both breathless, sticky, spent. And yet his arms stay wrapped around you, strong and still trembling from how close it all felt to ruin. His voice returns only in a whisper, lips brushing your temple.

"I don't care if the whole world burns. Just don't leave me again," he whispers against your skin.

In response, you pull him closer and stay wrapped in his embrace - a wordless promise that speaks louder than any declaration.

Drabble

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One week ago.

Dawn hasn't broken, but consciousness seeps in like winter frost. Your body knows the rhythm of secrets - when to rise, when to fade, when to become nothing more than a shadow against stone walls.

The pre-dawn air tastes of endings. Each breath crystallizes before you, little monuments of everything you can't keep. Your fingers, sheathed in black silk, trace meaningless patterns on frozen glass - a language of loss you're still learning to speak.

The chapel path recognizes your footsteps. Frost shatters beneath each step like promises, like futures, like the carefully constructed cage of expectations you've lived in since birth. Even your older sister Nora, who shared these halls with you for three years, never discovered this sanctuary where ancient pines hold their breath and weathered stones keep their silence.

Beyond the courtyard, the other girls drift between rose gardens and marble benches, their uniforms pressed to perfection, their laughter measured in careful octaves. But here, in this forgotten corner where mist meets morning, you've found something raw and real - a holiness that has nothing to do with their polished prayers.

Your Saint-Margaux winter uniform clings like a second skin, ivory wool buttoned to the throat like armor against uncertainty. The black ribbon anchoring your curls might as well be a crown of thorns.

"Je ne suis pas prête," you breathe, watching Lake Geneva stretch below like quicksilver. The French makes it sound poetic. Then, softer still, in Italian: "Non sono mai stata pronta per questo."

Your carefully constructed future lies shattered at your feet: The UN internship you earned through sleepless nights. Geneva's diplomatic corridors where you were meant to walk. Rome's ancient streets calling your name. All those perfect grades, those meticulously practiced curtsies, those debate championships – sacrificed to your father's unexplained whims.

London. The word tastes like ash on your tongue. Why there? Why now?

Your mother's note burns against your ribs, her elegant script a funeral dirge: "Be ready by sunset. They're coming."

École Saint-Margaux rises behind you, a cathedral to calculated futures. Here, where tears are forbidden unless quoted in Ancient Greek.

"We don't raise dreamers here," Madame Directrice always says, her smile sharp as cut glass. "We raise queens."

They're forged into living weapons, taught to smile while drawing blood. 

"Queens who smile through gritted teeth," you whisper to the dawn. "Queens who negotiate peace while swallowing war. Queens who marry power because they're not allowed to claim it for themselves."

Your schedule mocks you with its pristine normality:"En garde!" at noon brings your final dance with steel, four o'clock tea with Professor Valbonne - discussing Machiavelli while pretending your world isn't crumbling.

Lavender-lined suitcases wait in your room, packed by your mother's trembling hands. Your sister's muffled sobs echo through the halls like ghostly footsteps. Your brother Luca's silence speaks volumes. And your father... his absence is a wound that both terrifies and relieves you, his iron grip on your future tightening even when he's not here.

Something crackles in your pocket - a dried white peach blossom, edges curled like fingers reaching for yesterday. Its fragrance unlocks a memory: blood on snow, trembling hands, a boy whose name you never learned but whose life you saved many years ago with nothing but quick thinking and forbidden fruit.

The blossom slips from your fingers, caught in the morning breeze. You watch it spiral toward Lake Geneva's steel-gray surface, this final piece of softness you can't afford to keep. Your sister's allergy to white peaches - your most cherished scent and flower - feels like fate's way to mock you once again.

A motorboat violates the lake's surface, its wake splitting the silence like an omen. You trace a cross in the frozen air - half benediction, half curse - and whisper words that taste like goodbye. The chapel bell announces noon with solemn finality. You turn toward the university, spine straight as a blade. Non importa più.

Queens don't look back, and prisoners learn to watch without turning. You've been both.

The salle d'armes wraps you in familiar scents - chalk dust hanging thick in afternoon light, ancient leather padding worn smooth by generations of calculated violence. Trophy cases line the walls, their glass clouded with age, each cup and medal entombed like frozen dreams that never learned to fly.

You move beneath centuries-old beams, your breath a whispered prayer behind cold mesh. The blade in your hand sings with deadly grace, an extension of everything you've been molded to become.

Your opponent dances the steps she's been taught - precise, controlled, a perfect puppet of propriety. But there's wild electricity in your veins today, something that makes your movements liquid lightning. You strike not with the measured grace they demanded, but with elegant fury barely contained.

The lunge comes like destiny - inevitable, beautiful, terrible. Your blade cuts through air like fate itself, writing tomorrow's grief in today's perfect form. Steel kisses steel with a sound like breaking promises.

Her parry comes a heartbeat too late. Your point finds her heart with butterfly gentleness, the touch both caress and condemnation. This is how we end - not with violence, but with devastating grace.

"Touché," falls like judgment in the hollow air.

You retreat with practiced poise, each step a study in contained rebellion. This is Saint-Margaux's secret language - not fencing, but warfare dressed in silk and centuries of refined cruelty. They taught you to fight like falling snow - beautiful, silent, deadly. To strike with a smile, to kill with courtesy.

But beneath your perfect form writhes something untamed - a creature of starlight and stolen chances, something they couldn't breed out or break down. It's the same force that once made you save instead of strike, that makes you wear defiance like perfume and weaponize tenderness.

Victory brings no applause - only silence thick as cemetery snow. The maître d'armes nods once, your wild heart thundering rebellion against your ribs as you lower your blade.

That's when you feel his presence - Professor Valbonne, half-shadow and unspoken truths at the gallery's edge. His stillness speaks volumes in this temple of calculated violence.

He waits until the salle empties, approaching like truth itself- inevitable, terrifying.

"Your blade speaks what your voice cannot," he says softly, studying you with that terrible gentleness that makes your ribs ache. "You fence like someone who has learned to turn cage bars into wings.”

A laugh escapes you, sharp as broken glass. "Wings are just prettier prisons, Professor."

"Perhaps." His eyes hold yours, steady as truth. "But they remember what freedom tastes like."

You turn away, sweat-damp black ribbon clinging to your neck like a collar. White peach and rosewood cling to your skin - soon to be scrubbed away, replaced with the sterile scent of duty and diplomacy.

"You look haunted today," he observes. "Or you’re just not happy to see me.”

"I’m not happy to leave," you answer, truth slipping past your guard like a blade between ribs.

Silence stretches between you like a bridge neither dares to cross. He leans against cold stone, a scholarly revolutionary in this fortress of careful conformity.

"If I could write you a future," he says, "it wouldn’t begin with someone else's last name.”

Something in your chest splinters, words hanging between you two like shattered stars. You both understand everything, there is no need to name things vocally. "I was born to be a transaction."

His jaw tightens, grief etching itself in the corners of his mouth. "You were born to be a revolution."

His arm appears like an offering - this small rebellion, this moment of pretend equality. You take it with the care of handling broken dreams.

The walk to the chapel gates is a funeral march in slow motion. Words would only pollute this last pure thing between you - this shared understanding of cages and wings.

At the threshold, he pauses, eyes fixed on horizons you'll never touch.

"When they write your name in history," he says, "make sure they spell it in lightning."

You look up at the ghost-pale sky, where even clouds know better than to break formation. He'll never read your name the way he hopes.

You slip away like morning frost before the sun, before he can watch another future die.

Raindrops streak down the airplane window like tear tracks you weren't allowed to shed at every carefully orchestrated farewell. The sky bleeds into the same shade of steel that haunted every funeral where your spine had to remain straight as a blade.

First class feels like a gilded cage - all polished chrome and hushed whispers. The flight attendant's eyes slide past you like oil on water, trained to see nothing, hear nothing. Somewhere between Geneva's promises and London's threats, you're suspended in limbo, watching France blur beneath cotton-wool clouds.

A quiet sob catches in your peripheral vision. Nora. Your sister - your perfect and pristine Nora - has mastered the art of beautiful devastation. Even now, she's practicing for her future role: the tragic bride. Her fingers tremble against Chanel-painted lips, but her posture remains museum-worthy. The tears that escape are precisely timed, like crystal drops in a champagne fountain.

"Have you heard-" her voice cracks like fine porcelain, "-what they whisper about him? The youngest Jeon?"

You trace patterns in the condensation on your window. Each swirl feels like writing epitaphs for the futures dying in your chest. The glass fogs with your silence.You don't answer - she's not speaking to you but to whatever god abandoned girls like you to fates like this.

Nora's laugh sounds like shattered crystal. "Last spring - crashed a Maserati through the Louvre's courtyard. Called it 'performance art.' Three million in damages, swept under imported Persian rugs."

"The auction incident," she continues, voice dropping lower, "when he used Van Gogh's 'Starry Night' as an ashtray. 'Too pedestrian,' he said. The curator nearly had a stroke."

"And the women-" her voice catches, "God, the women. Like butterflies in his collection. He pins them down with diamonds, watches them suffocate in luxury, then adds their tears to his champagne."

The papers call him 'l'héritier de marbre' - the heir carved in marble, as though his beauty could excuse his barbarism and his wealth could cleanse the blood from his hands.

The Jeon empire rises like a gilded fortress: Jeon Antiquities & Restoration. They polish history until it gleams, restore broken things until they're worth more than they ever were whole. But beneath every restored masterpiece lies a massacre; behind every preserved beauty, a battlefield. They don't just collect beauty - they weaponize it.

Their public face gleams like polished marble, but beneath? It's all gunmetal and old blood. The Jeons don't just run an empire - they curate violence, frame it in gold, and sell it at invitation-only auctions. They don't just kill enemies - they transform them into art, into debt, into whispered warnings.

And Jungkook Jeon? He's their youngest sin. Trust fund terror with a smile that breaks hearts and necks with equal elegance. The whispers follow him like perfume: genius, they say. Rebel, they whisper. Monster, they mean. Every society photo shows the same warning: beauty sharp enough to draw blood.

"He'll destroy me," Nora whispers, pressing her forehead against the cool window. "Like one of their marble angels - pretty and hollow and broken."

"Isn't that the point?" Luca's voice cuts across the aisle, sharp as a blade between ribs. "Better broken than worthless."

The temperature drops ten degrees. You turn, ice crystallizing in your veins.

"One more word," you breathe, "and I'll show you exactly what Saint-Margaux taught us about making pain look elegant."

"Truth hurts, doesn't it?" He doesn't look up from his Financial Times fortress. "At least crying prettily might raise your market value."

Nora's whole body flinches, a butterfly pinned to silk. Your mother's voice slides through the tension like a poisoned blade. “Fix your face, Nora. Tears age you. The Jeons prefer their art unmarred."

The silence that follows tastes like ash and dying dreams. You grip your armrest until your knuckles match your mother's pearls, trying to anchor yourself to something - anything - that isn't falling apart. But there's nothing solid left to hold.

Jungkook Jeon. The name sits like lead on your tongue. You've never met him, but you know him - the way prey knows predator. A man carved from privilege so ancient it's crystallized into cruelty. Living art with venom in his veins. A marble god with gunpowder for blood. And your sweet sister is being gift-wrapped for this demon in Dior.

Grief fractures through you like safety glass, a web of tiny breaks held precariously together. The pain comes in relentless waves - not just for Nora, but for the shadow of your own future. Her tragedy is merely a preview of what awaits you in the procession of sacrificial daughters, your fate already sealed in your father's ledgers.

Your family fortune bleeds out in frozen accounts and foreclosed dreams. The name still glitters - just enough to barter away daughters like vintage jewelry. Your father's already pricing your future, weighing your worth in potential alliances. He'll find someone hungry enough, cruel enough, rich enough to buy the last of his daughter's freedom.

London materializes beneath you like a tomb of fog and steel. As you watch Nora reapply her Chanel Rouge with surgeon-steady hands, you see her clinging to composure like a lifeline, still believing grace might be armor enough. Something hot and sharp lodges in your throat - she thinks dignity will save her, and you pray she never learns how wrong she is.

Rain hammers against the windshield as your car crawls through the rusted gates of Amare estate. The ancient iron groans like a wounded beast, London's sky weeping harder as though trying to wash away the shame of what you've become. Each raindrop feels like an accusation against the facade you're desperately trying to maintain.

"Home sweet home," Nora whispers beside you, her voice trembling like the droplets sliding down the glass. You say nothing, watching the ghost of your childhood dreams loom before you - a castle turned prison.

The marble steps are cracked now, nature's fingers prying apart what wealth once held together. You trace the familiar path with your eyes, remembering how your smaller self used to dance here, spinning tales of ivory moldings and enchanted corridors. Now the walls tell different stories - of water stains mapping your decline, of paint peeling away like shed skin, of chandeliers that sputter and gasp rather than sparkle.

The door creaks open before you reach it, and there he stands - Father, a shadow cut from faded glory. His suit whispers of too many wears, though his pocket square stands at attention, starched with the last remnants of your pride. The silence between you stretches like a taught wire.

"Twenty-three minutes late," he says, each word falling like ice. "I suppose punctuality wasn't part of that expensive education."

Nora's breath catches beside you, a butterfly trapped in a jar. You feel her fingers brush against yours, seeking anchor, but you both know better than to grasp it.

He steps aside - not an invitation but an order. As you pass, his fingertips graze your shoulder, light as frost but heavy with unspoken threats. Your body remembers before your mind can catch up - memories of shattered crystal, of cold water, of darkness behind locked doors. The bruises have faded but the lessons remain, written in your bones.

Mother's heels click against warped wood, a metronome counting down to something inevitable. The foyer air hangs thick with mildew and Chanel No. 5 - decay dressed in designer perfume. Each breath feels like swallowing stones, the weight of this homecoming settling in your chest like lead.

"Your rooms are prepared," Mother announces to no one in particular, her words floating in the shadows like lost things. "I trust you remember where they are."

Your suitcases land with hollow thuds against marble that's seen better days. Your father's presence fills the space like frost, immediate and biting.

"The Jeons arrive in two days." Each word falls like a death sentence, precise and final. "We'll be ready."

His eyes rake over Nora like winter wind, cataloging every imperfection. "Go upstairs. Fix yourself. You look weak." The last word snaps like a whip, and Nora - sweet, fragile Nora - folds in on herself like origami crushed in a cruel child's fist.

The question that's been poisoning your thoughts since Geneva claws its way past your lips, "Why would the Jeons even want us?"

Your father's smile is all broken glass and tarnished silver. "Because our name still matters." He savors the words like aged wine. "Because even monsters want their sons to marry nobility." He turns away, leaving you to drown in the acid truth of it. You don't push further - this rare moment of actual answers instead of his usual artillery of screams and humiliation feels like a trap you're too tired to spring.

Rain drums against the window panes like a metronome counting down to dawn. The sound almost - but not quite - drowns out Nora's muffled sobs filtering through the wall. Each hitched breath feels like a dagger between your ribs as you trace the sound to her room, finding her curled into herself at the edge of her bed. Her silk robe pools around her like spilled moonlight, mascara-stained tears mapping constellations of despair across her pillow.

"Don't-" she chokes out before you can speak, her fingers twisting in the sheets. "Please, just... pretend you can't hear me falling apart."

The mattress dips beneath your weight as you settle beside her. Some wounds run too deep for words to reach, so you let the silence speak instead.

"God, you don't even see it, do you?" Nora's laugh shatters like crystal against marble. "The way they look at you - at Saint-Margaux, at every gala, every breath you take. Like you're something rare and precious. While I..." Her voice cracks. "I'm just... here. Taking up space. Fighting for scraps of attention."

The words hit like ice water. You want to laugh, but the sound dies in your throat. You've spent years perfecting the art of invisibility, of folding yourself smaller and smaller until you barely cast a shadow.

"Nora, I-" But she cuts through your protest like a blade through silk.

"There was someone," she whispers, each word falling like a confession. "In Switzerland. Behind the old cathedral where the shadows grew long in winter. His hands were gentle - like he thought I might shatter. He looked at me like I was art worth preserving, not just another pretty thing to be sold."

Your heart stops. Dating wasn't just forbidden - it was heresy against the careful cultivation of your worth. You were precious commodities, after all. Pristine dolls waiting to be auctioned to the highest bidder.

"He loved me." Her voice breaks on the past tense. "And I thought... for once, someone chose me first. But then the Jeons...I never thought anyone would ever want to marry me when we have you." She presses her face into the pillow, shoulders shaking. "Who would want the spare when they could have the masterpiece?"

Something fractures in your chest - not a clean break, but a spiderweb of cracks spreading outward. All this time, she'd carved out this tiny paradise of stolen moments, while you... you were an open wound she kept comparing herself to. The realization burns like bitter poison in your throat.

But looking at her now, trembling like a bird with clipped wings, how could you be angry? She'd dared to grasp at happiness in a world that offered only gilded cages. The secrecy stings, yes, but her pain cuts deeper than any betrayal.

Save her, your heart screams. But what power do you have? You're just another pretty puppet with strings of silk and obligation, taught to bend but never break, to endure but never fight.

Words fail, so you reach for her hand instead. Your fingers intertwine - a bridge across the chasm of secrets between you. You can't rewrite her tragedy, but you can stay there with her. At least for today.

Midnight strikes with mechanical precision, each chime reverberating through the drawing room like fate's own countdown. Through leaded glass, you watch them arrive – three obsidian vessels cutting through the rain, their polished surfaces drinking in what little light remains. No emblems mark their passage. No flourish announces their intent. They move with the silent certainty of apex predators.

At your vanity, fingertips ghost over the black ribbon – your chosen weapon for tonight's battle. Beside it, the perfume bottle gleams with poisonous promise. White peach, innocent as first love, deadly as the last. You anoint the silk with calculated precision, watching droplets seep into darkness like secrets into skin. When you weave it through your hair, the scent wraps around you like a lover's promise – or a noose.

Your mother's approval comes in glacial silence. Luca's scorn breaks it like thunder.

“Still playing the grieving virgin?” he sneers, eyes catching on your ribbon, your carefully crafted despair. “Or are we mourning your relevance, sister? The Jeons didn’t come for you.”

You meet his gaze with the weight of winter. “You’re standing in a house that’s falling apart.”

“Which is why we’re selling the prettiest thing we have left.” he hisses, teeth gleaming. “And it’s not you.”

The words dissolve like frost as you descend, each step carrying you closer to the awaiting storm. Your father stands sentry at the door, his spine curved in submission to powers greater than pride. The air shifts – not with cold, but with the kind of sharpness that precedes bloodshed.

They enter like darkness given form. The matriarch first, towering in her sovereignty. Her nineteenth-century choker catches light like a blade – emeralds and onyx, beauty and warning intertwined. She surveys your home as one might examine a failing empire: cataloging weaknesses, calculating worth.

The grandfather follows, silence his scepter. One nod to your father speaks volumes – here, at last, is someone who makes even your tyrant tremble.

Their entourage filters in like smoke – advisors, guards – until finally, he appears.

Jungkook.

He moves like sin made flesh, each step a study in controlled chaos. Power clings to him like shadow to night – from his obsidian gaze to his deliberately disheveled elegance. His suit, artfully askew, mocks propriety while his presence commands it. Dark hair kisses his throat like spilled ink, and raw energy radiates from him like heat from a forge.

His disinterested sweep of the room stutters when it finds you. Something flickers in those depths – recognition, perhaps, or hunger – as your carefully chosen scent reaches him. His posture shifts minutely, like a predator catching prey's scent on the wind. His gaze lingers, heavy as prophecy, and something molten coils in your core.

You don't yield. Nora materializes beside you, trembling like autumn's last leaf. Perfect in her dress, betrayed by the rising flush on her throat, her glassy eyes, her failing breath. Your mother makes introductions like offerings at an altar, your family name wrapped in silk and shame.

The scene unravels with terrible precision. Nora's curtsy falters. The white peach blooms around you like judgment. Her allergy reveals itself in stuttering breaths and panic-wide eyes, her composed facade cracking like ice in spring.

Guilt lashes you even as hope whispers that your plan might work. But the Jeons' reaction isn't pity – it's disdain.

"We were promised perfection," the matriarch pronounces, each word a blade. "Not fragility."

Your father's mask slips, pride warring with fear. "She's merely overwhelmed—"

"She's weak," Luca interjects, venom dripping.

The room descends into chaos – old money snarling at older money, wounded pride clashing against cold contempt. Until…

"She's not the one I want anyway."

Jungkook's voice cuts through the discord like a knife through silk. His eyes, when you meet them, hold neither pretense nor mercy. Just certainty. "I want this one." The words fall like destiny.

The room falls still as breath catches in throats - your mother frozen mid-gesture, Nora swaying like a reed in winter wind, the matriarch's face transforming to cold, unforgiving marble.

"Jeon Jungkook—"

But his gaze remains unbroken, and the white peach at your throat burns like a brand. This wasn't the sacrifice you had intended to make - your carefully laid plans had twisted into something unrecognizable, leading you down a path you never meant to walk.

A silence falls like velvet, heavy with unspoken words that press against the gilt-edged walls until even the shadows hold their breath.

Your father's eyes dance between you and Nora like a master appraiser examining jewels. His gaze is cold arithmetic - measuring worth, calculating losses, tallying gains. To him, you were never daughters; merely assets in his grand portfolio. Two precious stones: one crystal, one porcelain. Now one bears a fatal flaw.

His lips curl into something between a smile and a sneer as he delivers your fate with businesslike efficiency. "If that's the one the Jeons want..." A careless shrug seals your destiny. "Then she's yours."

The words strike like winter frost, crystallizing the air in your lungs. Beside you, Nora's choked sound of despair is quickly muffled by your mother's gloved hand.

Your plan shatters — delicate, doomed, never yours to control. You were meant to be the savior, not the sacrifice. The thought of becoming his choice had never even whispered across your mind.

Memories assault you in violent flashes: your father's leather-bound ledger, your mother's desperate mantra of survival, the wicked glint of Jungkook's rings catching lamplight, white peach perfume clinging to black silk like a death shroud. The sound of breaking - not glass, but your very essence - as your name is bartered away without consent.

You shrink into yourself, a child's instinct to become invisible. But his gaze pins you like a butterfly to velvet. There is no hiding now. You are seen. You are chosen.

The Jeons regard you with clinical interest, recalculating your worth like merchants at auction. The matriarch's lips press into a blade-thin line. The grandfather's slight nod falls like an executioner's axe.

As they file out, you remain rooted, a marble statue carved from pure shock. Nora trembles beside you fragile as frost about to crack, but your arms hang useless. Screams build in your throat - take her instead, take me back, unmake this moment - but they die unspoken, turned to stone by terror.

He approaches with lethal grace, each step a claim of ownership. His presence weighs on you like storm clouds heavy with lightning. You've become his territory now, marked without permission.

His touch, when it comes, is winter-cold against your cheek. Your soul flinches from those precise fingers even as your body remains still. He carries the scent of woodsmoke and exotic spice, foreign and dangerous.

The smile he offers holds neither warmth nor malice - just the satisfied smile of a man who always gets what he wants. "Don't look so scared," he murmurs, voice silk over steel. "We're going to have so much fun."

The doors seal your fate with thunderous finality. You sink to the marble floor, barely conscious of the movement. Around you, the scene arranges itself like a baroque tragedy - Nora's muffled sobs providing the score, your mother's absence speaking volumes, Luca's triumphant smirk completing the composition.

Reality settles over you like a burial shroud: you are no longer daughter or sister or savior. You have become property, his property. And as this truth sinks its teeth into your heart, you wonder if anything of you will remain when he's done.

Time slips by like grains of sand through an hourglass, each moment dissolving into an infinite stretch of silence. The world outside your window fades to watercolor impressions, bleeding at the edges like a painting left in the rain.

You exist in whispers now. Food remains untasted, questions unasked. The house holds its secrets close - rewound clocks marking phantom hours, curtains drawn against persistent daylight. From your perch on the velvet chaise, you watch raindrops trace silver paths down windowpanes, each one carrying away fragments of the freedom you once knew - freedom lost by your own design.

When they come to take your measurements, you don’t move. The Jeons’ tailors arrive with tape and notebooks, their hands cold and precise. They don’t look at your face. They pull the fabric of your nightdress taut against your hip bones, murmur numbers in a language you don’t understand, and note the curves like they’re assessing a statue to be replicated.

Their fingertips brush against your skin as they take measurements - the inside of your arm, the curve of your neck, the gentle slope of your back. One whispers to the other in hushed tones, no doubt commenting on your rigid posture and reluctant demeanor.

Your mother hovers nearby, her voice drifting through the air like wisps of smoke. "Add more stones," she murmurs. "She needs to shine beside him. Something from the Jeons' blue vault - something rare." She pauses, eyes critical. "Yes, longer sleeves. Hide the ribs."

Your father's voice cuts through the room, sharp and businesslike. "If we're going to do this, make it count. Double the diamonds. Let it be known what house she's marrying into."

You stand motionless, a butterfly pinned beneath layers of silk and expectation. Numbness flows through your veins like winter frost - you neither flinch at the bite of pins nor stir at honeyed compliments. In the mirror, a stranger stares back: a creation of ice and diamonds, beautiful and hollow, already half-ghost.

Time blurs in the silence of the house, each day melting into the next. The halls have grown quieter, more hollow, with only the ghostlike passage of untouched food trays marking the hours.

But it's Nora's absence that weighs heaviest on your heart, making each breath more difficult than the last. No footsteps outside your door, no whispered conversations through the wall, not even the faintest sign of her presence in the dark hours.

You find yourself unable to cry, your grief crystallized into something too solid for tears. Instead, a single poisonous question haunts your thoughts: What was the purpose of your sacrifice if she doesn't comprehend what you tried to do for her?

And Nora - sweet, fragile Nora - remains distant, unreachable. She neither visits nor acknowledges your presence, as if the space between you has become an uncrossable void. Perhaps she harbors hatred for what you've done, or maybe the truth is more painful: she was never meant to be saved, and you were never meant to be her savior.

The veil floats like a whisper of tulle and threat, weightless as frost yet heavy with fate. Before the gilt-edged mirror, you sit wrapped in ivory and diamonds, a bride sculpted from winter's essence. The silk remembers your shape, clinging to your ribs while stones adorning your sleeves scatter morning light like scattered secrets.

Behind you, voices blend together - the dressmaker's soft murmurs, rustling house staff, and your mother's instructions cutting through the air like sheathed knives. But your mind wanders elsewhere, to someone unexpected.

Valbonne. His calm, curious voice echoes in your memory, speaking of how your mind was a cathedral and your anger a kind of music. He saw you differently then - the girl who fenced with restrained grace, never allowed to truly run free. His words linger like an unfinished promise: "If I ever read your name in history books..."

You wonder now if he would even recognize you. You look at your reflection, skin glazed in peach and powdered rose. This is not the girl who wrote essays in French about revolutions and smiled over Latin conjugations at dusk. This is not the girl who debated in the courtyard until her voice cracked, or the one who wanted to work for the UN, who wanted to be something.

“Je ne suis plus moi-même,” you whisper to the mirror. I am no longer myself.

The door opens without warning. Through the mirror's reflection, you see her - Nora, her hair pulled back too tightly, her lipstick perfect, looking like grief painted in gold.

"So this is the masterpiece," she says, her voice cutting through the silence. The words hang in the air between you, heavy with accusation.

"You came," you whisper, your breath catching.

She moves into the room with controlled fury. "I had to see it - the moment where you finally became what you always wanted."

Confusion breaks through your numbness. "What are you talking about?"

Her laugh rings out like shattering crystal. "Don't act innocent. YYou didn’t just take my wedding — you took the one time I was finally enough."

"But you said you'd rather die than marry him," you protest, your voice weak. "You were crying about someone else-"

"You think tears meant I didn't want this?" She advances closer, each word precise and sharp. "A man like him - rich, young, beautiful. I could have thrived. Do you know how many girls would kill to be chosen by Jungkook Jeon?"

Your pulse thunders in your throat as she continues, her voice turning to ice. "I would have let the other one go for this. For once, I wasn't second choice. But you-" her eyes narrow, "you couldn't stand it."

"That's not true," you manage, rising on trembling legs. "Tu pleurais. Tu disais que tu voulais disparaître-" ["You were crying. You said you wanted to disappear-"]

"You're so greedy," she cuts you off, ignoring your French plea. "You needed to be both savior and sacrifice, martyr and bride. You couldn't let me have anything without making it about you."

You can only stare, your carefully constructed world unraveling thread by thread.

"I hate you for it," she says simply, then turns and leaves. You want to scream that it wasn’t supposed to be this way — but guilt is louder than truth.

The door closes behind her with the finality of a tomb being sealed. In the silence that follows, you stand motionless before the mirror. The veil trembles in the breeze, but your eyes remain dry. There's no room for tears in a girl made of lace and betrayal - only silence, the lingering scent of peach perfume, and the sound of your heart shattering beneath a cathedral of lies.

The cathedral is carved from light and silence, its vaulted ceilings vanishing into shadow. Golden ribs and silvered arches trace delicate patterns overhead, while chandeliers hang like captured constellations. Candlelight pools along marble, dancing across a sea of couture-clad guests draped in legacy, their hollow eyes and diamond-adorned faces watching with barely concealed hunger.

You stand at the center of their attention, both masterpiece and sacrifice. Your gown, threaded in silver and framed with pearls, shimmers like a dying star. The train follows you like a whispered surrender, while your veil - long enough to mask your doubts but not your trembling - floats ethereally around you. In this moment of pristine ceremony, everything glows with an intensity that burns.

Your body glides down the aisle — but your mind lags behind, somewhere in the crushed space between Nora’s voice and your father’s warning. You don’t remember when the music began. You barely register the clicking heels, the cameras, the smell of roses imported from Florence. Everything is white and violent.

Your father walks beside you with measured grace, his hand firm on your wrist and posture iron-stiff with pride. You sense his movement before the words come — his mouth dipping close to your ear.

"If you dare to ruin this," he hisses through clenched teeth, "I will destroy everything you are."

Your breath catches as he continues, his grip tightening painfully, "One wrong move in Jeon’s mansion and you'll wish you were never born. No one will take you in after you displease Jungkook. You'll be ruined, discarded, a broken doll no one wants to touch."

Wordlessly, you nod, your gaze fixed on the endless expanse of marble before you - a pristine river of white that stretches like fate itself, each step bringing you closer to him, inevitable as gravity pulling stars from the sky.

Jungkook waits at the altar like a marble statue come to life, all sharp edges and cold beauty. His black suit might as well be carved from midnight itself, perfectly fitted to his frame like a second skin. The single pearl at his throat gleams like a tear frozen in time - a beautiful "fuck you" to tradition. His hair falls in a precise line across his nape, ink-black against stone-white, and you hate that you notice. You hate that you care.

You hate how your traitorous mind catalogs every detail - the fresh haircut, the way his jaw clenches slightly, the calculated perfection of his appearance. Each observation feels like a betrayal of yourself, like you're collecting precious stones to add to your own cage.

His eyes don't leave you as you approach, dark and assessing, like he's appraising a rare artifact he's already purchased. Your footsteps echo through the cathedral - not because you're walking slowly, but because each step feels like signing away another piece of yourself.

When your fingers finally meet his, the air shifts like it always does around him. His hand is warm, steady and sure against your trembling one. You try to hide it, this weakness, but his knowing smirk tells you he feels every quiver. Of course he does - the self-satisfied glint in his eyes suggests he anticipated your trembling long before you arrived. Nothing escapes that calculated gaze.

The vows dissolve like sugar on your tongue, crystalline and too-sweet, while the officiant's words blur into a symphony of carefully chosen platitudes. Unity, power, bloodlines, blessings - "eternity" floats past like a butterfly with broken wings, and "legacy" follows, heavy as a curse.

The ring they give you burns cold against your skin - platinum and promises binding you tight. Your "I do" emerges barely above a whisper, like a secret you never meant to tell, the words feeling foreign in your mouth as if borrowed from someone who knew how to want this. But Jungkook's response rings clear as church bells, sure as sunrise, as though he's been rehearsing this moment since birth.

When the ceremony concludes and the crowd rises in a wave of silk and diamonds, he leans in close enough to count your heartbeats. The kiss isn't proper - that would be too kind. Instead, his lips find the corner of your mouth, precise as a knife's edge yet soft as a threat, tasting of possession.

You freeze, a perfect statue in white as the cathedral carries on its ancient dance of sparkling chandeliers and clicking cameras. But deep inside your chest, something ancient and angry begins to stir, like the first crack in winter ice.

The ballroom unfolds, adorned with champagne and ancient bloodlines. Beneath vaulted ceilings, strings swell while crystal and candlelight dance together, every surface glinting with gold, diamond, and carefully crafted deception. At Jungkook's side, you stand like a statue carved from pearl, his arm a ghostly presence at the small of your back while you receive strangers masquerading as friends - your smile and curtsy perfectly measured, your voice carefully contained.

The first dance ends and your gown whispers warnings as the floor fills with aristocracy. Distant royals and international moguls move through the space while women drift by in couture worth fortunes. The air is heavy with imported orchids and centuries of refined violence, threatening to pull you under.

The Jeons move through the room like gods draped in tailored suits, untouchable and unreadable. His mother maintains her regal pose, wine glass pristine and untouched, while his grandfather sits motionless as heated marble, observing all. Around them, guests trade danger and influence with practiced ease, their diamonds and secrets competing for brilliance.

Though Jungkook's fingers remain steady at your waist, his eyes retain their coldness. Behind you, the Jeon security team emerges from the shadows - Namjoon, Jin, Hoseok, Taehyung, Jimin, and Yoongi. Their beautiful suits barely conceal the violence in their bones, each man moving with purposeful intent, awaiting instructions.

The music shifts. Your first dance has ended. The floor is filling again with distant royals and corrupt diplomats, soft laughter smeared across every corner. Toasts rise like smoke. Cameras flash. Every mouth says “congratulations” while every gaze says “how long until she breaks?”

The numbness, ritual, and pretending almost bring relief, until everything shifts. You sense their presence before you see them - in the subtle falter of musicians, the way Jungkook's posture stiffens, and how Namjoon and Jin move closer without touching, just hovering near.

When you look toward the entrance, they materialize: The Maranzano Syndicate. Their appearance is immaculate - perfect suits, gleaming shoes, and smiles that stretch too wide. Though you know nothing about them specifically, you recognize their nature - the kind of silence that's been trained to kill.

Leading them is a man your age, his presence commanding attention. Handsome and controlled, he moves across the floor with deliberate grace, champagne in one hand and clear intent in the other. As he approaches, you feel the temperature drop and every Jeon ally tense. When he stops before you, his smile carries weight.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he says, tone velvet-smooth. “It would be rude to leave without congratulating the bride.”

Jungkook’s hand twitches at your waist.

The man takes your hand — slowly, theatrically — and raises it to his lips. His mouth doesn’t touch. But it hovers just enough. Long enough. The entire room stills.

"Leo Maranzano," he murmurs. "Piacere."

The glass shatters from Jungkook's grip as he lunges forward, seizing Leo by the shoulder. His face transforms from marble to murderous fury. "Disappear," he growls.

Leo's smile widens with deliberate provocation. "You're not the only one who appreciates women's beauty, Jeon."

Violence erupts in an instant - too swift for the guests to follow, but precisely what these trained men anticipated. Tables crash and champagne sprays as chaos unfolds. Jin materializes to shield you while Namjoon steps protectively forward. Through the mayhem, you glimpse Taehyung dispatching an attacker, Yoongi's blade appearing and vanishing like lightning, and Hoseok moving with lethal grace.

At the center of it all stands Jungkook - sleeves torn, chain gleaming against his throat, transformed into something dangerous and wild. He doesn't command; he simply acts, throwing bodies aside with ruthless efficiency.

You remain frozen, deaf to Namjoon's urgent words. Your eyes fix on Jungkook - your husband - as he hurls another man to the ground. The wedding ring seems to tighten around your finger, a burning reminder of your vows.

Jungkook whirls toward you, blood staining his collar, eyes fierce. "Why the fuck are you still here?! GO!"

But your legs won't move. Namjoon curses and drags you backward as another violent crash reverberates through the floor.

And then silence descends as a single gunshot echoes through the room. At the center stands Jeon Grandfather, holding a pistol with an ivory-inlaid grip. His expression carries not anger, but disappointment as he raises the weapon, wielding it like a priest might hold a cross during sermon.

His voice slices through the tension. "Back in my day, men didn't dishonor women and children with their cowardice. They handled their vengeance where it belonged - in the dark, out of sight."

The assembled crowd remains motionless as Leo steps forward with deliberate confidence. "I came to honor the bride," he states simply. When Jungkook moves to retaliate, Jin restrains him with a firm hand and whispered warning.

Turning to you with a gaze both gentle and menacing, Leo continues, "The Jeon family killed my father. They will answer for that, but not tonight. My grandfather learned patience, as will I." His smile transforms into something sharp and dangerous as he adds, "Try to enjoy the wedding night, Mrs. Jeon."

Jungkook lunges forward, his face contorted with murderous rage. "Keep my wife's name out of your dirty mouth before I fucking kill you," he snarls, muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike. Namjoon's arm shoots out to block his path while Hoseok grabs his shoulder from behind.

"Not here," Namjoon hisses through clenched teeth. "Think of the consequences."

Jungkook's eyes burn with barely contained violence, but he stills under their restraining grip, every muscle in his body taut with suppressed fury. Leo's satisfied laugh echoes through the room as he and his men retreat, the heavy doors closing behind them with finality.

In the tense silence that follows, a single voice dares to ask, "Shall we continue?"

The music returns, violins gliding back into waltz-time as champagne flows freely. The guests — trained creatures of legacy and fear — seamlessly resume their practiced dance of pretense, their laughter echoing through the hall as if violence had never touched these marble floors.

Jungkook, temple still stained with blood, vanishes down a darkened hallway while waiters weave through the crowd with fresh glasses. Under the glittering chandeliers, toasts rise and fall like waves against the shore, each clink of crystal a studied performance of normalcy.

You stand frozen, diamonds cold against your trembling collarbones, and face the terrifying reality of what you've married into — and wonder how long it will take to learn the art of survival in this glittering, dangerous world.

The ride is long and silent. One black car glides through the night like a hearse, and behind it — two more, identical in their gleaming precision. Their engines hum low like beasts beneath chains, headlights slicing through London fog as if daring the dark to follow. The city blurs past in streaks of silver and neon, but inside the car, everything is still.

You sit beside Jungkook, trembling quietly in a cage of lace and diamonds. Your gown spills over the leather like a spilled secret, crushed and wrinkled at the knees. You keep your hands folded like a prayer that will never be answered.

Across the seat, he is all silence and shadow.His jaw is clenched. His breathing even. But his mind is somewhere else — you can feel it, like storm clouds gathering in the distance. One leg draped loosely, his ringed fingers tapping once against the edge of the window. There is blood at his collar, dried now, half-hidden beneath the pearl.

No one speaks. Outside, security guards on motorcycles flank both sides. A third car follows behind, lights off, ready. One of the men in the front seat glances back, but neither of you look up.

The Jeon penthouse rises above the city, all glass and power, its windows gleaming with cold wealth. You don’t even remember how you got out of the car — just the blur of doors opening, voices murmuring orders, arms lifting packages and flowers and boxes of gifts wrapped in gold paper and blood-colored ribbon. They carry everything inside.

The penthouse is breathtaking in its silence — a towering open space where the walls don’t hold memories, only expensive taste. Marble floors echo under your shoes. The scent of white roses hangs in the air like a threat disguised as beauty. Chandeliers glimmer above you with a cruelty sharper than candlelight. Even the air here feels conditioned to perfection — expensive, perfumed, untouched.

Jungkook strides ahead silently, his jacket unbuttoned and fists clenched tight. His people dissolve into the shadows with practiced efficiency, bowing once before they disappear. The heavy doors seal shut with a decisive click, leaving you utterly alone.

You remain frozen where they abandoned you, rooted to the pristine living room floor like some tragic modern art installation. Your wedding gown - this beautiful, suffocating thing - pools around your feet like spilled moonlight. The veil still clings to your hair, a gossamer reminder of promises made under crystal chandeliers. Each breath is a battle against the corset's cruel embrace, while your legs have long since surrendered to numbness.

The silence stretches between you like a taught wire, ready to snap. He's there, a dark silhouette against darker shadows, methodically undoing his cuffs with elegant, calculated movements. Without a word, without even the courtesy of a glance, he vanishes into the bedroom.

When exhaustion finally drives you to follow, the bedroom rises before you like a gilded cage - all emerald walls and gleaming gold, with a bed that could swallow kingdoms whole. The sharp edges of wealth cut through any notion of comfort. You're a sparrow in a falcon's nest.

And there he is - sprawled across silk sheets like sin incarnate, jacket discarded but otherwise fully dressed, radiating the casual danger of a predator at rest. His silence fills the room like smoke.

"Why are you still dressed?" The words fall like ice between you.

You stand paralyzed, breath caught in your throat as your fingers nervously twist in the yards of white fabric. His eyes rake over you methodically, dissecting every tremor and fear until his expression settles into something more cutting than cruelty - pure disappointment.

His words shatter your composure, unleashing a tide of fury that drowns your fear. "I never wanted this," you whisper, voice trembling with raw emotion.

"What?" His expression darkens dangerously.

The truth pours out, bitter and sharp. "This marriage, you, this entire twisted world - I only did it to save her."

He rises like a storm gathering force, each movement a study in controlled violence. City lights paint him in shadows as he stalks closer. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Words become weapons: "You were never wanted. Not by her, not by me. You were a death sentence, and I stepped in because she was dying at the thought of you."

Something dangerous flickers in his eyes - not shock, but a terrible fascination. His smile unfurls like a blade. "Interesting."

He advances slowly, and you instinctively back away, feeling every bit the cornered prey he sees you as.

"Did you think we'd sleep in separate beds on our wedding night?" he murmurs, fingers moving to his buttons. One by one, they come undone like falling stars.

You can't look away as skin appears - beautiful and brutal, carved from marble and midnight. He undresses like someone who's never known shame.

Then he's behind you, his presence radiating heat and shadow as his breath ghosts across your neck. His fingers find the buttons of your dress, methodically undoing them one by one while panic floods your veins, causing you to tremble uncontrollably.

He pauses, lips brushing your ear: "Anyone would want this night with me. But you're shaking like prey about to be devoured."

The warmth vanishes. His voice turns to steel. "I don't need this."

He collects his jacket like gathering shadows. At the threshold, without turning: "If you change your mind, I'll be in the other room."

Then he's gone, leaving you alone with your fear and your fury and your wedding dress coming undone.

You lie in the dark, cocooned in too much silence and too little peace. The sheets whisper over your bare skin as you shift — lace against skin, skin against memory. You hadn't meant to take the dress off so soon, but the corset had left bruises across your ribs, and your legs gave out the moment he left. Now you wear only your underwear and the quiet pulse of your thoughts, lying in the center of a bed too large, in a home too vast, after a night too violent to forget.

Sleep eludes you as memories of the night replay endlessly in your mind. The echo of gunfire lingers, accompanied by Maranzano's haunting presence - his smile forever imprinted in your thoughts, the way he regarded you like a silk-draped warning. Yet what truly unsettles you is the image of Jungkook - bloodied fists, disheveled collar, claiming you as his before a room of demons.

In a strange twist of fate, you realize he became your sole defender, choosing you for reasons still shrouded in mystery. This revelation propels you from the bed.

You wrap yourself in a robe of pure seduction - flowing silk that caresses your skin, its shortened hem and plunging neckline suggesting intentions you hadn't consciously formed. Or perhaps you had.

Moving silently through the penthouse, you find yourself before the open double doors at the hall's end. The room beyond bathes in amber light, where Jungkook reclines on an enormous bed, his bare chest catching gold like sculpture. A MacBook rests in his lap, screen light playing across his jaw, while his legs - long, parted, powerful - stretch across the duvet, clad only in black boxer briefs.

His eyes meet yours and he freezes, the air between you transforming into something tangible. You witness the exact moment desire overtakes thought in his gaze as it traces the curves beneath your silk-draped form.

Setting aside his laptop, he leans back with calculated grace, the embodiment of sin made flesh. "Knew you'd come to your senses," he drawls as he tilts his chin and widens his legs slightly, a silent command. "Go ahead."

Instead, you voice your turmoil. "The wedding... the Maranzanos... I can't sleep."

His jaw flexes, a slight tell. "I don't know what I'm more afraid of," you confess softly. "Them... or you."

Something in your words spurs him forward, his predatory grace on full display as he rises, his arousal evident against the thin fabric of his boxers. You try to steady your breathing as he approaches with measured steps.

"I will never let those filthy fuckers touch something that's mine," he declares, voice cold and sharp. "And you are mine."

Your slight nod draws his scrutiny. "Still afraid?"

"I believe you're powerful..." you hesitate, "but power itself can be terrifying."

His smile turns razor-sharp as he closes the distance between you, until his breath mingles with yours. "You think I'm a monster."

"I know you are."

His laughter - deep, rich, dangerous - slides down your spine like poisoned silk.

“Everyone’s a monster,” he murmurs. “You just happened to be lucky enough to marry the most dangerous of them all.”

His hands find your thighs. His thumbs drag slowly upward — grazing, pressing, testing. Your robe parts beneath his touch. You feel heat spread like fire through your veins, breath catching as his fingers brush over your hips, then the curve of your waist, the dip between your breasts. Your body trembles, not from fear anymore but from something deeper, more primal.

"Let me pull back the curtain," he whispers against your neck, "and show you what I might give you."

At your subtle nod, he guides you to the bed with the careful precision of someone handling their most precious weapon.

You’re guided gently into his lap — your thighs folding around him, your knees pressed to the mattress, your robe already falling from your shoulders. His hands don’t rush. They devour.

You begin to move — hesitant at first, your hips swaying forward with tentative rhythm, the silk of your underwear dragging against the heat straining beneath his boxers. It’s an unbearable kind of friction, featherlight but charged, as if every breath you take draws fire from the contact.

Jungkook exhales harshly — the sound low, broken — his head tipping back slightly as your hips grind again, slower this time, deeper. His hands stay resting at your thighs for a moment, as though he’s restraining himself, letting you move, letting you lead. But his muscles twitch under your touch, like a storm waiting to shatter the sky.

You find your rhythm. Back and forth, your hips brushing his with increasing urgency, and the softest moan slips from your lips, unbidden — a sound that startles even you.

His reaction is immediate as his mouth trails to your neck, pressing a kiss just below your jaw — hot, open, unhurried — then drifts lower, brushing over the hollow of your throat, your collarbone, teeth grazing so lightly it sends shivers down your spine. He’s not in a rush. He explores you like he’s reading a language he already knows but wants to savor syllable by syllable.

Your breath catches as his lips skim the edge of your bra, teasing the skin above the lace. He doesn't ask. He doesn’t need to. His hands slide up your ribcage, palms wide and reverent, finding the soft swell of your breasts and cupping them through the fabric — thumbs stroking lazily over the thin material, coaxing gasps from your throat like he’s plucking at the strings of some hidden instrument.

Every moan you release feeds the hunger in his eyes. And he’s watching you — every twitch of your hips, every parting of your lips, every flutter of your lashes. It consumes him.

You can feel his arousal beneath you, hot and solid, straining harder with every roll of your body. His hands move again — one gripping your waist with bruising intent, guiding your movements, while the other trails along the curve of your lower back, holding you flush against him.

The rhythm intensifies — friction now slick, pulsing, unbearable. Your thighs tremble. His jaw clenches. Every breath is shared now, your open mouths hovering close, not kissing but just existing in that charged space where desire lives and burns.

You can feel the tension building, hovering at that delicious edge. When he moans - low, guttural, nearly a growl - something inside you shatters. As you arch forward, his hands tighten their grip possessively. You feel yourself unraveling — not with shame, but with the devastating knowledge that no one has ever made you feel like this before.

You’re close — so close — when his hands suddenly shift.

With a strength that feels effortless, Jungkook lifts you in his arms as though you weigh nothing at all, his grip steady beneath your thighs. The motion steals your breath. The loss of rhythm makes your body cry out silently, aching and wanting.

He lays you down onto the bed like he’s placing something sacred — your hair fanning over silk, your skin burning against the cool sheets. The robe hangs loosely at your elbows, forgotten now, as your chest rises and falls with a rhythm that has nothing to do with breath and everything to do with him.

He kneels beside you, his gaze slow and molten, taking in every curve, every tremble, every shiver that escapes you now without resistance.

His hand skims down your stomach — fingers dragging with maddening slowness. The silk of your skin, the shallow dip at your navel, the heat blooming beneath every inch of his touch — he traces it all, not as a man in a hurry, but as one who means to memorize you.

His fingers find the center of your heat, where friction once burned and now aches for more. A gasp escapes your lips as he pauses, his other hand reaching for the clasp of your bra. Before you realize it, your palm presses against his chest, stopping him.

Not yet. Whether from fear, pride, or the need to maintain some control, you can't let go completely. The tension between you crystallizes into something quieter than rejection as he studies you, his expression unreadable.

He leans in, lips brushing your jaw as he speaks in a voice both molten and low. "This act of patience," he murmurs, "is exclusive. For you."

His words sink into your skin more than they reach your ears, and then he moves lower. He doesn’t remove the bra — doesn’t try again — but he does not ignore you. His mouth descends over the lace, hot breath seeping through the delicate fabric. His tongue flicks, teasing just above the cup. Then lower. The edge of your breast. The underside. He kisses there, open-mouthed, savoring the way your body arches, how your thighs tense around nothing.

His hands slide down across your waist, steadying you before moving lower with deliberate intent. You feel him shift, his shoulders slipping between your knees, parting them with a reverence that only makes the air leave your lungs faster.

He presses slow, searing kisses along the inside of your thigh. His fingers draw your underwear aside with maddening control, brushing lightly against sensitive skin before his mouth descends.

The first drag of his tongue is like nothing you were prepared for — slow, wet, deliberate. Your back lifts from the bed as your hand shoots out, gripping the sheets like they might anchor you to the earth.

He moves with the precision of someone who has studied power — who knows exactly how to wield it and when to be cruel with pleasure. His tongue circles slowly, testing you, tasting. Then deeper — firmer. His mouth closes over you, lips parting to suck gently, then harder, then teasing again, and again.

You cry out, a sharp, desperate sound you’ve never heard from your own throat before.

Your hand finds his hair. Your fingers tighten in the dark strands as his rhythm deepens, his moans vibrating against you, low and hungry. Your thighs tremble as your breath breaks apart.Your body begins to spiral faster, helplessly — his tongue working in endless rhythm, his grip steady on your hips as you start to fall apart in his mouth.

You cum like something tearing open inside you — high and hot and trembling — your gasp catching, then breaking, then disappearing entirely as your body arches up into his mouth like it belongs nowhere else.

He maintains his steady devotion, drawing out every wave of pleasure until you lay completely still, breathless and undone beneath him.

When he finally rises, his mouth glistening and eyes dark with pride, he presses one final kiss to the inside of your thigh before meeting your gaze with a satisfied smirk. His voice comes rough with shadow.

"Now that," he purred against your trembling thigh, voice dripping like honey and sin, "was just the beginning of what I can give you."

You wake tangled in silk and shattered moonlight, sin still sticky-sweet on your tongue. Your robe whispers secrets against feverish skin, one sleeve sliding down like a lover's touch, sheets still singing hymns of his warmth. There's an ache threading through your muscles like golden honey, each pulse a reminder of hands that knew too well where to press, where to bruise, where to worship.

The air is thick with him still - spice and shadow and something darker, something that tastes of stolen prayers and midnight confessions. You stare up at a ceiling that gleams like polished bones, willing yourself to forget.

But memory is a cruel mistress. She paints his hands in watercolor bruises across your mind. His mouth - oh god, his mouth - the way he consumed you like you were his last meal, like you were salvation itself. And you? You broke apart like stained glass beneath a light, scattered and sacred and his.

You must have lost your mind.

You press trembling fingers against closed eyes, shame and want warring in your chest like caged birds. It should repulse you - this descent into darkness, this willing fall from grace. Some part of you remembers innocence, remembers when touch meant tenderness instead of torrential need.

But there's a monster living in your ribcage now, purring at the memory of worship wrapped in violence. It remembers the weight of him, the raw intensity of his focus, the way he made devotion feel like damnation.

Have you always been this hollow, waiting to be filled with fire?

The bedroom holds no answers. Just cold marble and colder air, roses drowning in some foreign scent that wasn't there before. Everything's too sharp, too sterile, too vast.

He's gone. Of course he is. Demons never linger for too long. The penthouse feels different now, hollow and cold in his wake. Stepping into the hallway, you're greeted like fine china - precious, pristine, breakable. The world wants its doll back, wants to forget how she shattered in the dark.

There's a ritual waiting by the window: breakfast laid out like an altar. Poached eggs under crystal domes catch morning light like tears. A blood orange bleeds perfectly on white china. Fresh brioche exhales steam into the silence. The Jeon family crest watches from your napkin, judging.

You don't dare touch any of it.A maid ghosts through the room, her "madam" falling too quickly, too properly, gaze skittering away like scattered pearls. Another servant arranges your armor for the day: silk blouse with a collar high enough to hide secrets, modest skirt, pearls to match your cage.

Steam curls from behind the bathroom door, a siren song of hot water and false comfort.Your feet refuse to move. This attention scrapes against your skin like sandpaper wrapped in silk. It's not luxury - it's surveillance dressed in gold leaf.

Watched. Always watched.

Every gesture is a report in waiting. Every bite you don't take will be noted. Every wrinkle in your robe tells stories to ears you'll never see. The mirrors - god, the mirrors - they're everywhere, reflecting your uncertainty in infinite angles until you're drowning in your own discomfort.His presence lingers like smoke, invisible but choking. The walls have eyes, and they all belong to him.

You perch at the table like a bird about to flee, clutching silk around yourself like armor.The perfect breakfast dies slowly in the sunlight.Your appetite fled with the night.

It starts like this: a whisper of rebellion, soft as moth wings against silk. Your fingers find the white peach perfume, its crystal bottle cool and dangerous in your palm. One spritz — delicate, precise — finds your wrist. Another graces its twin. The hollow of your throat accepts the third like a blessing. The scent blooms in the air, all summer-sweet defiance, honeyed memories that curl through empty halls like forgotten prayers. And no one — no one — dares stop you because of some allergies.

These marble halls may cage you in gold and expectations, but they can't dictate the way you smell anymore, can't police the way your bare feet whisper secrets against cold floors. Your robe trails behind you like a queen's cape, leaving echoes of fruit and rebellion in your wake. Deep in your belongings, the black ribbon waits. It remembers you, this small scrap of darkness. It remembers the shape of your defiance.

The silk slides home against your hair and it for a moment it feels like armor. He materializes like a dark fairytale - no warning, no preamble. Just the whispered code at the door and footsteps that paint promises across marble floors. When he enters, the room holds its breath. Storm-cloud presence, predator grace. His skin still gleams from whatever violence he's been courting - white shirt, rain-slick hair and a towel draped carelessly around his neck. Cedar and sweat and danger roll off him in waves.

Your ribbon-bound hair and peach-sweet defiance catch his attention like matches to gasoline. His grin splits the atmosphere. "Miss me, Pesca Mia?"

The Italian drips like honey-coated thorns - My Peach - far too gentle for a man whose smirk could cut glass. You answer with silence, with measured steps past him, with carefully crafted distance.And of course he follows, tigers don't let prey walk away.

"Playing ghost bride still?" His voice chases you down the hall. "We share a home, Peach. Looking at me won't turn you to stone."

But then the air thickens, and his shadow swallows yours whole. His hand finds your wrist - a brand of heat that stops your heart.

He materializes before you, all aristocrat skin and lethal grace. Too close. Not close enough. Your eyes refuse to trace the dangerous landscape of his chest.

"Why?" Confusion bleeds into his voice, softening its edges. "You're my wife, yet you treat me like a stranger."

You meet his gaze at last. Your voice comes arctic cold. "You are."

Two words, quiet as falling snow yet sharp as winter wind. Something flickers in his expression - pain, maybe, before pride swallows it whole. His laugh comes out all broken glass.

"You think I'm desperate for your attention?" Arrogance wraps around his words like armor. "Girls would kill to wear your crown, peach. Don't think you're irreplaceable."

Your silence lingers, though his statemnt stings. He exhales - one sharp breath that carries worlds of frustration. And he urns away like you're not worth the oxygen.

"I won't beg you to claim what's already yours," he mutters, defeat dressed as disdain. "You don't want me? Fine."

His exit is soundless, but it echoes in your bones. The door slams like punctuation. But the halls still whisper of peaches and regret.

IIt's 2:17 a.m. and the universe holds its breath.

Your heartbeat counts time with the expensive clock on the wall, both of you locked in this infinite moment of waiting. Silk sheets coil around you like living things as you sit there, spine straight as a blade, every nerve ending electric with that delicious cocktail of rage and loneliness. The lamp bathes everything in honey-gold light, making shadows dance across the pristine emptiness beside you - a canvas waiting for a body that isn't there.

He hasn't returned. You tried maintaining your cold façade, denying how the empty space beside you slowly hollowed out your chest, how the silence grew unbearable. You called it strategy, convinced yourself it was necessary breathing room. But now? Now you're done waiting. Your fingers find your phone with lethal grace.

Namjoon picks up on the second ring, his voice heavy with sleep yet carrying an edge of anticipation, as if he'd been expecting this call.

"Is he with you?" The words slip out like ice daggers.

The pause speaks volumes. "...No. He's at The Roselace."

Your lashes lower once, slow and dangerous. "A club?"

"Yes." The word hangs there, heavy with implications that flicker like warning lights in the dark. But you stopped needing warnings the moment you tasted rebellion on your tongue. Your voice doesn't just turn to steel. No, it crystallizes into something far more dangerous: diamond-sharp certainty wrapped in velvet menace. "Bring the car around. I want to go."

Another heartbeat of silence, shorter this time. "I'll be outside in five."

Night bleeds neon across rain-slick streets, your revenge wrapped in a dress that fits like a promise. The city's a living thing tonight, all electric pulse and wet concrete confession. And you? You're winter made flesh in the backseat, ankles crossed like loaded guns, while Namjoon pilots the car through streets that taste of destiny. He knows better than to speak - you can't small talk with gathering storms.

Jin materializes at the club entrance like a harbinger, umbrella in hand, face carved from marble. His words fall soft as burial dirt: "Back lounge. Always."

You ghost past him without acknowledgment. Some moments don't need words.

The Roselace wraps around you like sin in silk stockings - all crushed velvet shadows and dripping crystal light. Bass thrums through your bones while bodies write poetry against each other on the dance floor, everything drenched in rose-gold desperation and champagne dreams.

Then the VIP lounge opens its maw and your world tilts sideways. There. Him.

Jeon Jungkook. Sprawled like fallen royalty across black leather, shirt undone like an invitation to sin, silver chain catching light like stolen stars. A glass of scotch hangs from his fingers.

But it's the women that make your blood crystallize. They're draped across him like living jewelry, all velvet curves and sheer promises. Their hands map territories you were claiming last night, lips writing stories against skin that was against yours yesterday. One whispers something that pulls a smirk from him like poison from a wound.

His eyes find yours across the chaos.

And smiles like the devil has just been entertained.

Your body moves without conscious thought - a bullet made of silk and fury. The click of your heels against marble sounds like a countdown to chaos. Your fingers find soft flesh, yanking the nearest woman away from him with the kind of graceless violence reserved for scorned goddesses.

Her shriek pierces the air like shattered crystal. She stumbles backwards, a doll thrown from its perch.

"You selfish, arrogant, fucking idiot-"

His laughter cuts through your rage like a knife through velvet.

"You're so fucking sexy like this," he purrs, voice dripping with dark honey, watching your anger like it's the most exquisite show he's ever seen.

"I swear to God, if I ever see…" The words die in your throat. Because his mouth claims yours like he's signing a contract in sin.

He kisses you like he's trying to steal your soul - all open mouth and wicked smile. One hand cradles your face like you're made of precious things, while the other brands your lower back, pulling you into his lap like you're the missing piece he's been waiting for.

Time stops breathing.The bass still pounds through the walls but the world goes quiet. The women dissolve like smoke. Staff melt into shadows. Even the velvet walls seem to lean away. There's nothing left but the dangerous heat between your teeth and his. He breaks away just enough to trace your bottom lip with his tongue.

"Don't look at me like that in public," he whispers, eyes like molten gold. "I'll forget every rule I've ever learned."

Your palm finds his cheek - not gentle, not cruel but Jungkook only grins wider.

The city blurs past like smeared watercolors as Namjoon guides the car through rain-slicked streets. Jin's profile cuts a careful silhouette against neon-lit windows. The air between you all feels like the moment before lightning strikes.

You're a study in barely contained fury next to Jungkook - all crossed arms and white knuckles, electricity crackling beneath your skin. He's sprawled in his seat like a fallen angel, that split lip you gave him worn like a badge of honor, watching you with the kind of smile that makes devils nervous.

"Still giving me the silent treatment after that kiss?" His voice drips honey-sweet venom.

"Touch another woman," you breathe, each word dipped in ice and promises, “and I will bury your body in the same marble your family worships.”

Up front, Jin's cough shatters the tension. Namjoon's eyes catch yours in the mirror - a flash of pure amusement you choose to ignore.

And Jungkook? He laughs like you've just told him the most delicious secret, leaning in until his breath ghosts across your ear, voice pure sin, "Baby, your jealousy looks better on me than designer suits."

You don't give him the satisfaction of a response. But your traitor pulse skips like a scratched record, and the devil's smile says he knows exactly what he does to you.

A knock that sounds like the universe holding its breath. Like fate writing the first line of a tragedy.

You're poised at the edge of the grand sitting room like a statue carved from anxiety and expensive silk. Your blouse is buttoned to your throat - armor, really. Chandeliers drip gold light like honey. White roses perfume the air with your false hope of Nora coming to visit you too with your family. And then the door opens the past comes crawling in like poison through your veins.

Your mother glides in first - her hairspray a helmet, her lipstick a warning sign in crimson. Then Luca, wearing wealth like a borrowed skin, pressing family obligation against your cheek in a kiss that tastes of nothing. And finally - because the universe has a cruel sense of dramatic timing - your father.

He moves through space like a black hole, warping reality around him. The kind of presence that makes rooms smaller, air thinner, daughters invisible. His suit whispers of faded glory but his eyes? They gleam with collector's greed.

Your flinch is barely perceptible, but Jungkook - beautiful and dangerous - catches the subtle movement like a treasured secret. He's sprawled in his armchair like it's a throne, all devastating grace and calculated nonchalance. Whiskey glass dancing between elegant fingers, watching, waiting. The temperature drops ten degrees when his gaze sharpens.

"Where's Nora?" Your voice plays at lightness. Fails.

Your mother's hand waves away concern like smoke. "Unwell."

Luca's jaw twitches. He won't meet your eyes. Your father has no such restraint.

"Well?" The word drips disdain. "This is all... quaint. But when are you buying me a proper mansion?"

His words splatter against the pristine air like acid on silk.

You straighten your spine. "The Jeons have already given enough."

Jungkook's laugh of disbelief is velvet-wrapped steel.

"Enough?" Your father's scoff could curdle cream. "I gave Jeons my precious daughter. Raised you right. Paid for her schooling. Trained her to speak six damn languages. And they give what? A glorified cottage and few millions on bank account. This is not serious."

Jungkook shifts - barely a movement, but it rewrites gravity. You speak first.

"Don't embarrass us." You aim for ice. Your voice cracks like spring thaw.

Your father whirls. "Since when did you grow fangs, little girl?"

His hand rises - a familiar choreography of pain, promising bruises that would match your designer earrings. But the blow never lands.

Jungkook's fingers wrapped around your father's wrist with quiet, absolute authority - a prophecy written in bone and blood.

“My grandfather raised me with manners,” Jungkook muses, voice soft, “taught me to never strike someone older.” He leans close. "Don't make me disappoint him."

The silence has teeth. Your father's face performs an ugly dance between rage and humiliation. He retreats, inch by inch. Jungkook releases him like dropping something contaminated.

Then, quiet as a blade between ribs: "And don't ever think of hitting my wife."

The room stills. Your mother's face turns to marble while Luca shifts uneasily on his feet.

They retreat like storm clouds dispersing - your father leading with violence still coiled in his shoulders, your mother trailing behind him like winter fog. At the threshold, Luca pauses to mumble an apology before disappearing, leaving only traces of expensive cologne.

When the doors finally close, silence blankets the room like fresh snow. You exhale years of fear.

Jungkook stands beside you, offering neither touch nor words - just his presence, steady as gravity, protective as shelter. In this space where fear once lived, something gentler takes root.

Warmth.

Maybe love isn't some grand revelation inscribed in starlight. Maybe it's quieter than that - like finding shelter during a storm you didn't know was coming.

There was something about that moment in the sitting room. The way his hand caught your father's wrist mid-strike, precise as a knife's edge, gentle as snowfall. Not a word spoken, just the weight of his presence beside you, heavy as gravity and twice as constant.

Protection wrapped in silence. Devotion dressed in designer suits.

And how it caught in your throat - this unfamiliar feeling of being shielded rather than shaped, protected rather than possessed. Like watching a bruise bloom backwards, violence turning to velvet beneath your skin.

You've spent so long being a prize to be won, an asset to be traded. But here, in the aftermath of that infinite moment, you taste something different on your tongue. Something that whispers of possibility, of paperback endings you never dared to want.

Because maybe love isn't about grand gestures or flowery declarations. Maybe it's in the way he caught your flinch like a secret worth keeping. The way he stood guard over your fear without trying to own it. The thought haunts you like perfume, sweet and lingering, as you drift through marble halls in bare feet. Past crystal that catches light like promises, through silence that feels, for once, like peace.

Tonight, you could let the walls down brick by brick. Maybe tonight, you could let the curtain open just a little wider. Not in surrender, but in hope of something softer. Something that tastes less like warfare and more like coming home.

The clock says 11:42 p.m. when you finally allow yourself to move. Your robe slips to the floor like dusk shedding its skin, and you reach for the lingerie that still carries its tag, something delicate and barely-there — lace the color of antique ivory, with ribbon straps that whisper against your shoulders like secrets.

You spray white peach across your collarbone, behind your knees, over your wrists. The scent hovers in the air like the memory of hands you don’t flinch from. You find the black ribbon — a little wrinkled now, a little tired — and tie it loosely in your hair. A small crown. A little defiance. A reminder that this softness is yours to give.

Then — because courage needs ritual — you pour yourself half a glass of wine. You sip it standing by the window, your reflection doubled against the city: bare legs, trembling fingers, a girl sculpted from want and silk and something beginning to resemble hope.

What if I’m allowed to be held gently? the thought hums behind your ribs. What if I’m not just a transaction in pearls?

Tonight, you want more than to be protected like property - you want to be wanted like a woman. You want to feel that warmth again and maybe dare to discover more of it. Setting down your glass with shallow breath, your heart presses against your ribs like a caged bird seeking freedom. Then, with quiet certainty, you call his name. “Jungkook.”

Not a shout, nor a whisper - just your voice carrying through the stillness. And somewhere in the penthouse, you sense the shift in the air, hear the soft footsteps approaching. You wait, your heartbeat marking time in the silence.

  ───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

When the door finally creaks open, the light from the hallway carves his silhouette in gold.

Jungkook enters shirtless, barefoot, and breathing like he ran. The low waistband of his black boxers hugs his hips like sin sewn into fabric. His dark hair is tousled, damp at the ends. His chest gleams faintly from the shower or the gym — you can’t tell — but the muscles move tight beneath his skin as he scans the room, jaw clenched.

"Did something—" His words trail off as he takes in the sight before him.

Laid out across the pale sheets like a prayer wrapped in lace and quiet invitation. The ivory lingerie clings to you like mist, your legs tucked slightly to the side, bare shoulder framed by long hair and black ribbon. One hand holds the edge of the sheet. The other rests over your stomach — steady only in appearance.

You don't speak, simply holding his gaze and letting him take in the sight before him. His breath catches in his throat as he stands motionless, a moment of pure reverence washing over his features. Something raw and unguarded crosses his face, as if witnessing something he'd only dreamed of. You offer a gentle, uncertain smile and reach for him with tentative fingers.

“Jungkook.” A whisper. A gift. Like a flame lit in the darkness.

His expression shifts, tension and panic melting away in a single breath. What replaces it is hunger - not the violent kind that devours, but the kind that worships.

“Fuck,” he breathes, crossing the room like gravity commanded it. “Do you even know what you look like right now?”

You open your mouth to answer, but the words catch as he drops to the edge of the bed, body sinking against yours in one fluid, dangerous motion.

His skin is hot — all over, everywhere. His thigh presses to yours, bare and hard. His hands hover at your waist like he’s afraid to touch too much. But his eyes... his eyes consume.

“Say it again,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

You swallow. You’re trembling now, but it’s not from fear. “I wanted you here.”

That breaks the last thread of his restraint. His mouth finds yours in a kiss that starts tenderly - cautious at first, his hand cupping your cheek with careful reverence. But when you respond, matching his intensity, the gentleness gives way to something deeper, more urgent.

Your arms wind around his shoulders, your body pressing to his instinctively, lips parting under the low groan that leaves him like the last tether snapped.

That’s when he loses himself. His body crushes into yours, warmth and weight and scent — white peach still fresh on your throat, and he moans against your mouth like it’s the first time he’s ever been given something soft.

Is this what it means to be wanted? you think, dizzy under the weight of him.

His hand slides down to your hip, then your thigh, pulling you closer, and you feel it — his arousal, hard and unmistakable, pressing between your legs through the thin barrier of his boxers.

You gasp softly into his mouth. He pulls back, just enough to whisper — breath ragged, lips brushing yours. “You have no idea what you do to me, Peach.”

He leans down and begins trailing kisses down your throat, hot breath dragging over your skin, and then his fingers move to the front clasp of your bra — slow, teasing — as if asking silently. You nod once, breath catching in your throat as the fabric falls away. He pauses, eyes darkening with desire as he takes in the sight of you. With a low, reverent sound, his mouth finds your breast - tongue teasing your nipple with exquisite tenderness until you arch up against him, fingers threading through his hair.

"Jungkook," you breathe, voice trembling.

"Yeah?" he murmurs against your skin. "Want more, baby?"

He switches to the other side, tongue dragging in a spiral before sucking — hard. The sound that leaves your throat isn’t gentle. He groans in approval then he’s back at your lips again, devouring you now, and his hand slides between your legs, palm pressing against the damp lace.

“Shit. You’re already this wet?”

Your hips buck as his fingers slip past the fabric, dip down, find you with terrifying precision. He circles once, testing. “Let me hear you,” he whispers against your mouth. He sinks one finger in and you cry out softly — not from pain, but from the sudden fullness.

“So tight,” he breathes, “fuck—” and adds another. He curls them both — slow, precise, devastating — and your body trembles like silk beneath a storm.

You gasp, head tipping back into the pillows, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers stroke deeper, searching and finding the ache you never let yourself name. His mouth is at your neck again, tongue warm, breath hotter. He doesn’t rush and doesn’t demand. He explores you like he’s learned you — like every moan, every arch of your back, is a sacred response he’s waited lifetimes to unlock.

The pressure builds, low and thick, like a fire rolling beneath your skin. His palm grinds against the base of you with every push, every curl, and it lights you up from the inside — slow-burning, tender, terrifying.

“That’s it,” he whispers, lips dragging against your throat. “Let go. Just feel me.”

And so you surrender to it completely, allowing yourself this precious first taste of freedom. You let go of the shame, the cold hands of your past, the bruises you were told to hide and the hunger you were told to deny. You let go of every time you were touched only to be controlled, looked at only to be priced. Because this is different - his mouth leaving trails of reverence across your skin, his voice a mixture of raw need and gentle wonder.

This is the silk of your thighs shaking against the sharp cut of his rings, and the way he slows his fingers just when your breath catches — just to listen to the sound of you breaking open.

And in the chaos of it, a thought blooms. You feel good. The revelation hits like lightning in slow motion. God, you feel so good. You didn’t know it could feel like this. Like warmth without danger. Like pleasure without debt. Like being touched and not owned, kissed and not erased.

His lips find yours again, and this time it’s deeper — slow and thick and intoxicating. He kisses you like a man no longer teasing, but claiming. You moan into his mouth, your fingers tangled in his hair, nails grazing his neck. He groans low, a vibration that pulses down his chest, straight through to the way his fingers curl again, firmer this time.

“You feel this?” he breathes against your lips, his voice barely coherent. “How your body’s taking me so fucking sweet? You were made for this.”

You whimper — a sound of surrender, of disbelief, of joy. You’re trembling now, the pleasure cresting fast, and he knows it. He sees it. He watches you fall apart under him like he’s watching art come to life.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he murmurs, nose brushing your cheek. “Let me see you fall, baby. Let me feel you break.”

And when he whispers “Come for me, Peach,” the world splits open. Your thighs tense. Your breath stutters. And the moan that spills from your lips is broken and holy, like a prayer finally answered. Your body pulses around his fingers, over and over, as he coaxes every wave from you, patient and wicked and tender.

He doesn’t stop until you collapse back into the pillows, breathless, limbs heavy, the world spinning in white peach and warmth. You blink up at the ceiling, then at him, marveling at how the space between you finally feels like sanctuary instead of battlefield. Though familiar with pain, this experience is different. For the first time, pleasure flows through you without guilt or fear, and you find yourself yearning for more, unashamed of your desire.

You’re still trembling in the aftermath, breaths shallow, lips parted, your whole body drawn tight like silk thread loosened from its spool.

Jungkook kisses your throat — soft, slow — and you feel his breath against your skin, warm with awe, not just desire. His hand strokes gently along your thigh, then stills. For a moment, he just watches you.

You nod, breath trembling, body already molded to his heat. He shifts lower, moving from your mouth to the space between your legs, his skin brushing yours in a trail of quiet possession. The soft rustle of fabric draws your gaze downward — his boxers sliding off his hips with effortless ease, revealing him fully.

Your breath catches, but you don’t look away. The sight of him — aroused, bare, utterly unashamed — steals the rhythm from your lungs. There’s fear, yes, curled low in your belly like something primal and unspoken, but it’s laced with something stronger, deeper: anticipation that feels like hunger, and the dizzying ache of knowing there’s no going back.

He sees the shift in your eyes — the tension, the heat, the way your thighs press together unconsciously — and his gaze grows darker, steadier. There’s no smirk now, no cocky remark, just quiet reverence carved into every line of his face as he settles over you, breath warming the skin below your ear.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he says, voice rough but patient. “I’ll never take what you won’t give.”

You swallow, fingers curled around the sheets. “I want it,” you whisper. “I want you.”

And God, the look in his eyes — something wounded, something honored — like he’s trying not to fall apart just from hearing you say that. He kisses you again, slower this time. His hand cups your cheek. You feel him guide himself to your entrance, his length brushing against the soft slickness between your thighs. He presses forward, just the tip, and you gasp — a sound that’s more surprise than pain.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

You inhale, long and slow, and when he begins to push in deeper, you feel the stretch — unfamiliar, thick, slow. Your body adjusts to him inch by inch, heat curling deep in your belly as he moves inside you, every second filled with breathless restraint.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, “you’re so fucking tight—so warm—it’s driving me insane.”

You whimper as he settles fully inside you, his hips finally flush against yours. He doesn’t move at first — just stays there, forehead against yours, eyes half-closed.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers. “So fucking perfect, Peach.”

You shift your hips slightly, and the sensation ripples through you like wildfire. “Move,” you breathe. “Please.”

His first thrust is slow, careful. He draws out almost entirely, then presses back in — deep, deliberate, letting you feel every inch. The rhythm is slow at first, aching and tender. Every time he sinks into you, you moan softly, your fingers clutching his shoulders, legs trembling as they wrap tighter around his waist.

“That’s it,” he groans. “Take me, baby. Let me in deeper.”

“You feel so good,” you whisper, dazed. “It’s… it’s so much—”

“You can take it,” he breathes against your mouth. “You were made for me.”

His rhythm builds. Not frantic, not rough — just sure. Deep. Intentional. You feel every part of him, each thrust grinding you deeper into the mattress. His name spills from your lips like confession. His hands grip your hips tighter as you start to move with him, arching, circling, giving as much as you take.

“You’re perfect like this,” he whispers, panting against your shoulder. “So fucking wet, so tight—fuck. You were made to take me.”

You moan louder — the sound shameless, raw, a full-body ache turned into voice. The pleasure builds so fast it almost frightens you. Your walls pulse around him, fluttering each time he hits that spot inside you that makes the world collapse.

He thrusts deeper now, hips snapping with desperate rhythm, sweat-slick skin slapping against yours. The room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin, of breath and moans and curses bitten between kisses.

You can feel the edge. You’re tumbling toward it, helpless to stop.

He starts to move faster — still careful, but no longer holding back. Your moans rise to meet his as he thrusts deeper, fuller, the wet sound of him filling you over and over echoing through the room, joined by skin meeting skin and both your voices breaking into the air like shattered stars.

“You’re mine,” he growls, each thrust harder, rougher now, “say it—say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, legs tightening, eyes rolling back. “Only yours.”

Your climax builds like a storm held too long behind trembling sky — not sudden, but rising, demanding, layered with sensation you can barely hold.

Every thrust winds you tighter, every kiss unravels something old in your chest, every whispered word — you’re mine, you feel so fucking good, you were made for this — leaves you burning, open, filled. Your nails dig into his back as your moans dissolve into his mouth, thighs trembling around his waist. And then — it hits. Hard, deep, unstoppable.

Your body arches into him as if trying to fuse, your cry breaking against his lips like something holy, too raw to be pretty, too intense to be silent. The wave doesn’t crest — it shatters, again and again, your walls pulsing around him as pleasure rushes over you in waves so sharp it almost hurts. You barely register the curse he chokes into your neck, the way his rhythm breaks.

His hands grip your hips — tight, desperate — and he buries himself to the hilt one last time, hips jerking as he spills inside you with a guttural groan that shakes you to the bone. The sound he makes is not triumphant — it’s wrecked, torn from his throat like he was holding it back too long. His forehead drops to yours, breath trembling, body shivering as he rides the aftershocks with you still wrapped tight around him.

When he finally pulls out, you whimper from the loss. He kisses your lips to soothe you, then your shoulder, then your hip. Then he lies beside you, pulling you to his chest, both of you still catching your breath. You wrap your arms around him. Your leg stays hitched over his waist, like your body doesn’t know how to stop holding him.

His hand rubs lazy circles into your back. “You okay?” he whispers.

You nod against his skin. And for the first time in your life — in this warm, slow silence — you feel safe. And maybe, just maybe…

…a little bit loved.

Stillness hits different in the morning-after glow. And then there's the heat between your hips, like your body's keeping secrets from last night.

The black ribbon is tangled in the linen near your waist half-unraveled, like a confession. The air's thick with white peach and memory, and you're breathing it all in like it might disappear if you don't.

Love. The word sits in your chest like a bird that forgot how to be afraid. Is this it? This quiet after the storm, where nothing hurts and everything's warm and your body remembers kindness instead of fear? Where peace isn't just a pretty lie people tell in daylight?

His voice reaches you first - all sleep-rough and commanding, drifting through the penthouse like smoke. He's on the phone somewhere in the kitchen, words too far to catch but tone saying everything.

The silk of your robe whispers against your skin as you tie it. Your feet carry you toward his voice like you're caught in the undertow of last night's tenderness. Maybe you just want to see him. Maybe you just need to know this isn't another beautiful dream your mind made up. Maybe it's because for once, someone held you like you wouldn't shatter. You turn the corner.

And you stop.

You find yourself frozen in the archway, dawn's first light painting you in half-shadows. He hasn't noticed you yet.

There he stands - a study in contradictions. Bare chest catching morning light, sweatpants riding low, silver chain kissing his throat like a whispered threat. His shower-damp hair curls at the nape of his neck, soft in a way that makes your heart ache. The untouched water glass in his hand trembles slightly.

But his voice - winter steel now, nothing like the honey-warm murmurs from last night. All sharp angles and cold professionalism. You clutch your robe tighter, silk whispering against your skin like a warning. The transformation happens in heartbeats - his tone flattening, sharpening, becoming something familiar in its danger. Like watching a knife being unsheathed.

"No." The word falls like ice. "Don't bring him in." Silence stretches, taut as piano wire. "Leave him where he is. I'll handle it myself."

Glass meets marble with a gentle accusation. "I said leave him. Yoongi—this one's mine."

He turns, and time stops breathing. There you stand, a portrait in morning light - bare feet on cold floors, white silk clinging to last night's memories, hair still tangled with black ribbon. Peach perfume hangs between you like a broken promise.

The call ends abruptly, leaving silence to crystallize between you like. His phone finds its place on the counter with deliberate casualness. He shrugs, voice light as smoke. "What?"

Words fail you. Your eyes speak volumes. "It sounded like you were giving an order," you whisper, throat desert-dry. "To kill someone."

The pause that follows feels ancient. His response comes without hesitation even thought you see slight regret in his eyes. "I was."

Words echo through the kitchen like a shot that didn’t need a bullet. Your breath hitches before you realize it’s even left you, chest tightening under the satin tie of your robe. The morning light has turned unforgiving now — too clear, too sharp, too holy for a confession like that to survive without tearing something apart.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift. Just watches you with that maddening, polished calm — the kind that doesn’t come from confidence but from certainty. The certainty of someone who has never had to regret his actions because power paved over everything that came after them. Jungkook stands there in black sweatpants and bare skin, the picture of a man too rich to be touched by consequence, too young to be so terrifyingly composed.

And you realize it — fully, bone-deep — that last night, you kissed a man who was capable of this. You let him touch your body with hands that break other men open. You slept in the arms of someone who casually decides whether another heart should keep beating.

You let him inside you. And he’s let death inside himself.

“I…” Your voice breaks like glass against tile.

He tilts his head slightly, unreadable. “Are you surprised?”

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He takes a step closer, but it’s not enough to reach you. Just enough to feel the weight of his presence settling into your skin like smoke.

“I never lied,” he says, quieter now. “You called me a monster. I never disagreed.”

You want to scream. You want to shake him, claw your way out of this invisible trap you’ve stumbled into, this house with velvet floors and bleeding walls, this man who kissed you like worship and murders without flinching.

“I know,” you whisper, and it’s all you can manage. “It’s just—”

The sentence never lands. It crumbles halfway through, pulled down by the gravity of your throat tightening. Your face crumples, lashes wet before you even know what you’re crying over — the shattered illusion or the horror of having ever believed in it. Tears spill silently down your cheeks as your trembling fingers fail to wipe them away.

“I was so stupid,” you whisper, and your knees almost give. “I am just so fucking stupid.”

He takes another step forward. His voice is softer now, unsure. “Y/N—”

“Don’t come near me!” It tears out of you like thunder, shrill and broken and sharp. He halts, hands open at his sides, stunned — and something flickers in his eyes then. Not guilt. Not remorse. Just something… hurt.

“You knew what I was,” he says, his voice rising now too, cracking like heat through glass. “Don’t look at me like I’ve changed. I didn’t pretend to be anyone else.”

You can’t stop the shaking. You want to run and tear and scream and break all the mirrors that ever told you this was safety. “I know. I just—I didn’t know it would feel like this,” you cry, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. “I didn’t know I’d be the kind of girl who could fall for someone who kills people like it’s breakfast.”

He flinches. “You think this is easy for me?”

Your laugh is bitter, strangled. “Easy? It’s not normal to kill, Jungkook. It’s rotted. I guess I thought—God, I guess I was just confused. Maybe I mistook this all for love because I never saw love before? And maybe I am just broken—maybe I let you touch me and hold me and fuck me because I don’t know what else love could feel like.”

Silence slams into the room again. He stands there, chest rising, jaw tight.

"Could I ever be with someone like you?" you whisper, wiping under your eyes. "A man who deals in death? No. What you offer... this isn't love. This is just velvet and guns. And God help me, I got lost in how good they felt."

You turn then, robe twisting around your legs, footsteps already thudding back toward the bedroom before he can speak. “Y/N, don’t—”

“Don’t follow me!” you scream from the hallway, a sob catching on your throat. “I can’t even breathe around you anymore.”

For a moment, you hear nothing. Just the hum of the fridge. The distant city beyond the window. The silence that only comes after something inside you snaps. Then his voice, low and bitter behind you, cutting through the air like frost on glass.

“This is life,” he says, not loud, but deep enough to sink. “You’re either prey or predator. You think marrying a monster’s hard? Believe me, you wouldn’t want to be married to a coward.” You hear the door close seconds later.

He’s gone.

The bedroom is filled with lingering traces of your shared intimacy. Of everything that happened between midnight and morning — the black ribbon fallen half beneath the bed, the white peach still clinging to the hem of your robe, the echo of hands and lips and breath where silence now smothers it all.

You stand there for a while, motionless in the center of the room, one hand pressed to your lips like that might keep the sobs down. But they claw their way up anyway — low, gut-wrenching sounds that don’t belong to any version of yourself you’ve ever let survive.

Your fingers tremble as you reach for the edge of the dresser. It’s instinctive, almost mechanical — the way you slide the drawer open, the way your hand curls around the strap of your old black backpack, the one you brought with you the day you arrived. It still smells faintly of Switzerland, of pressed notebooks and old perfume and snow.

Your body moves with the strange grace of someone else's strings - mechanical poetry written in desperate motion. Each movement is sharp, decisive, divorced from thought. Clothes tumble into the backpack like falling stars, necessities gathered by muscle memory while your mind screams white noise. Underwear. Blouse. Jeans. The basics of a life you're trying to rebuild, tossed together like a prayer. Your hands work faster than your heartbeat, racing against the clock of his inevitable return. You have to go - have to run - before his gravity pulls you back into orbit, before the dangerous warmth of him seeps back into your bones and turns your resolve to stardust.

With trembling fingers, you slip your ring off and place it on the marble counter of his bathroom beside his cologne. The note you write by hand comes out unsteady, the paper remaining crumpled as your shaking hands set down the pen.

If I ever meant anything to you, please don’t come after me. Let me go in peace. Let me have whatever life I can build without this. Don’t ruin it.

Your signature lingers at the bottom of the note, an inked farewell that feels heavy with finality. Placing it gently on his pillow, you turn away from the life you're leaving behind, knowing there's no turning back now.

The elevator descent feels like falling, each floor counting backwards as seconds slip by like shards of glass against your spine. When you reach the street, a grey and uncaring sky looms overhead as you step into a taxi, hood drawn up and voice carefully controlled while giving the driver your destination.

In the silence that follows, only the steady hum of tires and the blur of an indifferent city keep you company. Your phone's screen blazes too bright as you retrieve it with trembling hands. You try your sister first - one ring, two rings, then voicemail. You end the call before leaving a message.

When you dial Luca next, the four rings that pass before he answers feel heavy with unspoken weight.

"Luca," you whisper, voice trembling, "I left him. I need to come home."

There's a heavy silence before his voice comes through, flat and serious in a way that makes your stomach drop.

"You can't come home, Y/N. If Father finds out you walked out, he'll kill you."

His words carry no drama or shock - just the bleak certainty of someone intimately familiar with their father's nature.

"But where can I go?" Your voice breaks.

He exhales slowly before responding, "I'll send you an address. I have an apartment no one knows about. You can stay there while we figure things out."

"An apartment? I don't understand, when did you even…"

"Don't ask questions," he cuts in, his tone growing darker. "Just get off the street. Now."

The line goes dead and a message appears moments later - coordinates falling into your phone like a stone into still water. You read the address twice, memorizing it before turning to the driver.

He nods at your new instructions, changing course as the indifferent city slides past your window.

And then—time fractures like glass beneath winter's first frost. The world lurches sideways, reality splintering at its seams. The door bursts open with a thunderous crash, shattering the silence. Dark figures emerge as rough hands grab you, pressing a chemical-soaked cloth against your face.

You fight with every ounce of strength, your body thrashing against the iron grip of your captors. But the chemical-laden cloth works quickly, and consciousness begins to slip away like all the maybes you’’ll never get to live. The world around you blurs and distorts, reality folding in on itself until finally, mercifully, everything fades to black.

.

.

final part is here

jake huffed out a sigh, leaning back against the edge of his side of the tub and sinking a little bit beneath the water, legs opening to go on either side of your waist where you sat opposite to him.

he gave you an annoyed look.

"why the hell are you sitting all the way there? why aren't you on my lap?" he grumbled.

you let out a small hum as you lifted your arms up from the water. stray, wet red petals sticking to your skin as you stretched them above your head, arching your back and puffing out your chest a little as you let out a small moan.

"but i'm so comfortable on this side~" you said in a teasing tone, acting innocent despite the cheeky smile you made no effort of hiding on your face

jake's eyes immediately went up to your arms before immediately falling back to your chest. your nipples were so, so close to being revealed, but the darn bubbles still kept you barely hidden from his hungry eyes.

your smirk widened. your boyfriend was just so obvious sometimes.

you brought your hands down slowly to caress your neck and shoulders before floating over your chest.

"besides, i think you like the view from rightttt over there, hmm~?" you chuckle, dragging the petals down your skin and over the swell of your chest, bringing them over your nipples and giving your right breast a little squeeze, lifting them over the bubbles so that he could get a better look.

jake's eyes darkened and his breathing and heart rate stuttered, eyes narrowing and darkening as he let out a little growl.

"the fuck are you doing?" he snarls, feeling his member twitching beneath the water, the telltale signs of him getting hard.

"hmm?" you feign, sitting up straighter and tilting your head at him. "i'm just relaxing jakey. are you not right now? is the water too hot for you?"

jake's eye twitched. "don't act like you don't know what you're doing." he said accusingly. "your sitting there all wet, covered in the roses i bought you for our date today, and you think my mind isn't screaming at me right now?"

you slowly traced his calf under the water next to you, running your fingers up and down his leg.

"and just what is your mind screaming at you exactly?" you tease, licking your lips, his gaze falling on the shine of your lips.

the ends of jake's mouth tugged down into a scowl, the top half of his body moving up to grab you.

"why don't you get over here so i can show yo-"

he's suddenly cut off as you bring your right leg up, placing it on his chest and stopping him from leaning towards you, your smile widening as you felt him freeze. you leaned back on the tub's other edge and gently applied pressure on his chest with your feet, making him lean back.

"hasty aren't we?" you tsk, watching the restraint in his eyes waver. he let you push him back, his eyebrows furrowing even more. you ran your foot down his chest, feeling it heaving, warm breaths falling over your foot as you dragged it down and down, stopping right over his member that you knew would be hard.

jake gave you a look that screamed 'watch it', before you're gently pressing down on him. you gave a sly smirk at the groan that escaped him and watched the water slosh around from the movement of his hips bucking up, watching him lean forward and hang his head, breathing in and out faster now.

he staggered in another shaky inhale as he looked at you through his hair that fell over his eyes.

"you think you're funny?" he hissed, yet made no move to move you, his hand coming down to massage your foot resting on his dick. "'think it's my turn to laugh now baby."

you tilted your head, feeling yourself become wetter between your own legs despite the water surrounding you. you sat up and grabbed a petal floating between you two. without breaking eye contact, you lifted it and gave it a slow, soft kiss. jake's eyes followed the movement, grip tightening on your foot.

your other hand lifted and brushed away the petals over your chest, now giving your boyfriend a full view of your wet breasts, bringing down the petal you kissed to caress over one of your nipples, feeling it harden and perk up at the softness of the flower.

you heaved out a sigh, bringing it back up and then flicking it at his face. you tried not to laugh at the stunned look on jake's face.

"that funny enough for you?"

you let out a yelp as your suddenly dragged forward by your foot, falling chest to chest against jake, the soapy water sloshing back and forward and spilling a little over the edge of the bathtub.

jake slams his lips over you before you could tease him any further, one arm going behind your head to grip your hair and the other winding low around your waist, moving you to forcefully grind down on his hard member.

you gasp against his lips and jake growls, diving back into you with his tongue, licking your lips and tongue furiously and just as furiously bucking his hips up into you, feeling your thick wetness seeping out and coating him. you whimper at the feeling, arms winding around his neck as you kissed him back harder, letting him take the lead.

he pulled your hair to tug your face away from him, tilting it upwards so that he could look down at you with a flushed, angry look.

"not laughing anymore huh? cat got your tongue?" he snarled. his eyes fell from your blushing cheeks down to your neck and chest where a few petals remained stuck on your skin. he's tilting your head back even more and opened his mouth to bite you right where the roses where, tongue coming out in between bites and kisses to lick at them as he began placing hickies on your warm skin.

he grinded you down harsher, growling at every little shaky mewl and whine that fell from your lips.

"god you look so fucking good." he groaned. "so wet and pretty, covered in roses. just for me, yeah baby? gonna let me cover you in marks the same colors as the roses, won't you?"

you let out another high pitched moan as you felt jake's sucking increase, feeling him playing with the petals over every patch of skin he sucked hickies over.

his dark eyes are hazy with lust, tracking every shift of your body through half-lidded gaze. watching as rose petals cling to your damp skin before he claims each spot with his teeth.

his voice is wrecked as he speaks.

"fuck. riding me like this while I mark you up? so pretty covered in wet roses baby... ughh..."

his hands grip your hips tighter when you grind down particularly hard, a groan tearing from his throat as water sloshes over the edge. the bathwater does nothing to hide how badly he wants you, not with his cock twitching under that perfect heat between your thighs.

he leans forward to catch a petal stuck to your collarbone between his teeth before sucking another bruise right over it.

"gonna make sure... every petal leaves a mark." he nips at your pulse point. "my fucking artwork."

jake pulls back just enough for you both to watch one single red petal drift between where your bodies are nearly joined, only for him snap his hips up sudden and rough, sending it swirling away in the ripples before sealing his mouth over yours in filthy claim.

the bathroom is thick with steam, the scent of roses and vanilla scented bubbles clinging to the damp air. jake leans back against the sloped tub, water sloshing gently as your thighs bracket his hips, fingers tracing idle patterns over your slick skin where rose petals stick like temporary tattoos. his eyes are black with want, tracking how each slow grind of your hips makes more petals float around in soapy ripples.

his voice is almost a ruined rasp. "look at you… fucking showing off now." his palm splays possessively over your stomach when you arch into another roll of your hips. "pretty girl putting on a whole damn performance-"

the words cut off in a hissed curse as you grind down again on him, bubbles frothing between where your bodies are joined. one of his fingers trace a petal near your perked nipple before he's slowly leaning down and licking it before encasing the bud with his lips, using his tongue to drag it towards your nipple so that he could clamp his lips around it and sucking hard, causing you to let out another drawled whimper as you grind down in jerks.

jake's heart skips a beat as he feels your body respond, of your whimper vibrating against his lips still sealed around your nipple. the bathwater sloshes wildly as you jerk against him, sending petals swirling in chaotic circles around your tangled forms. his mouth is still working at your skin, voice muffled and rough as he chokes out, "fuck, that's it- squirm on me. justtt like that…"

his free hand slips between you, but not before snagging a stray floating petal, thumb finding your clit with ruthless precision and using the petal to press over your pearl while his teeth scrape over the pebbled peak he'd just been sucking. the dual sensation has you gasping and eyelids fluttering, hips stuttering in ragged little circles as pleasure coils tight in your gut.

you took in a deep breath and scoffed, leaning forward to be chest to chest and wrestling your arms around his neck, causing him to pause his rubbing on your clit as he gives you a suspicious look.

"careful now," you whispered leaning into his ear, right hand lifted to slowly twirl his hair with your fingers. "we wouldn't want you to be alone in this tub now do we?"

jake's jaw tightened and he clicked his tongue in annoyance. "try leaving this tub and see where that gets you. i fucking dare you." he said in a low tone, clear warning laced in his tone.

you let out a little giggle, giving another slow rock over his member that had him clenching his fists. leaning over to hold your face above your boyfriend's, lips skimming his in a near kiss.

"oho~ is that a challenge?~" you purred, tugging on his hair with the hand that was twirling the strand.

nostrils flaring, the boy's dark eyes flashed with a dangerous mix of arousal and irritation at your teasing. that little tug on his hair sent a shockwave straight to jake's cock, making him twitch beneath you in the water. his jaw clenched tighter, instincts bristling at being taunted.

"you think this is funny, testing me?" he rumbled through gritted teeth.

letting out a him and pretending to think with a tilt off your head, you looked down at him with a sly smile. "well, just a teeny tiny bit." you leaned back down to litter his face with kisses, shivering a little as the movements caused you to grind over his fingers that were still frozen over my nub.

one second you were peppering his face with kisses, the next you were being yanked forward. jake's lips crashed against yours in a searing, possessive kiss that stole your breath, teeth nipping at your bottom lip hard enough to sting before his tongue invaded. the water sloshed violently as he hauled you fully onto his lap, one hand gripping the back of your neck like a vice while the other slid down to squeeze your ass roughly.

he broke the kiss to growl heavily on your lips

"teasing me? bad fucking idea."

then without warning, he flipped you around so fast bubbles flew everywhere. now it was your back pressed against jake's chest as the steamy air hit exposed skin for half a second before his mouth latched onto that sensitive spot where shoulder meets neck and sucked bruise after bruise into existence over where rose petals stuck there earlier.

he kissed up your neck and bit your ear lobe, opening his eyes to spot another stray petal floating in the water and grabbed it in a flash with his left hand with ease, bringing it back down to your clit where his thumb began rubbing the rose petal in slow, maddening circles, just enough pressure to make your thighs tremble but never enough to truly push you over. his other hand splays possessively across your hipbone, fingers digging in just shy of painful when you gasped and tried to grind down for more friction, one hand of yours gripping his thigh and the other ineffective holding the wrist off the hand that was running the petal on you.

he tutting mockingly into your ear. "aww, what's wrong? thought you could tease me all night and now this is all it takes?" his free hand drags up your ribcage to flick an exposed perked nipple.

the petal finally shreds from the relentless friction against your clit, leaving a smear of pink pigment on flushed skin. jasper doesn't miss a beat, replacing it immediately with two fingers pressed together tight, resuming that same torturous pace while his cock throbs neglected beneath the water.

a broken moan escapes you, confidence suddenly diminishing as you jerk on his lap, grinding yourself down more on his now fully erect heard on.

jake felt your sudden shift, the way your teasing bravado crumbled into desperate, shuddering need against him. a dark, satisfied smirk curled his lips as he watched the back of your neck flush pink with every drag of his fingers over that oversensitive bundle of nerves.

"look at you… whining for me now." jake said, voice dripping with condescension and lust. "where'd all that sass go?" he bit down on the slope of your shoulder. not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you jerk.

his two-fingered torture continued mercilessly; circles so light they were almost a taunt until finally he pressed down, firm and unrelenting while simultaneously grinding his hips up in one rough thrust beneath the water, letting you feel exactly how painfully hard he was. the friction alone had him gritting teeth.

the petal remnants floated around the two of you like pink confetti as steam rose off your bodies. jake's breathing ragged behind you while you squirmed pathetically between tortured pleasure he controlled entirely.

you turned around in his lap and leaned forward, draping your heaving wet chest against his and breathing hard, stuffing your face into his neck and beginning to pepper slow kisses into his neck, not pausing in your squirming but grinding down harder onto his fingers and wrapping wet hands around his neck.

you dragged your plump lips up his neck and kissed his ears that you knew were sensitive, nipping at his right ear lobe.

"sass is still there handsome." you breathed into his ear, threading and twirling your fingers through his hair and giving it a sharp tug, warmth blooming through your body from him hissing sharply and feeling his fingers twitch beneath your legs, loosing their rhythm. "bet you wanna fuck it righttt outta me, dontcha~"

jake's breath hitched violently the second your teeth grazed his earlobe, that one spot that always wrecked him. his fingers stuttered against you, rhythm breaking completely as a sharp hiss escaped through clenched teeth. the tug on his hair sent electric jolts down his spine, making every muscle in his body lock up for half a heartbeat.

"fuck-" his hips jerked upward involuntarily, chasing friction where he badly he needed it.

the smugness radiating off you was maddening. he loved it, loved how bold and bratty you got when teasing him. but right now? it was fucking lethal. his eyes burned into the side of your face as steam curled between you two; water sloshing wildly with each restless shift of either of their bodies.

you giggled, actually giggled at him.

jake's pupils dilate.

you brought a hand down to grasp the one teasing your clit, lifting it into the exposed air between you two, kissing his fingers one by one, nuzzling into the digits.

"my man really was such a gentleman today." you whispered lovingly, a genuine smile replacing my smug one this time. "took such good care of me, didn't you jakey?~"

jake's chest tightened at the sudden shift in your tone. the teasing edge melting into something softer, sweeter. the way you kissed each of his fingers so tenderly made something warm and possessive unfurl in his gut.

his thumb brushed your lower lip, watching with quiet intensity as water droplets slid down your cheeks from damp hair. the rose petals were wilting around you both. pink blooms sinking sadly into cloudy bathwater.

he cleared his throat, gulping.

"yeah… i-i did."

you hummed, taking his thumb tracing your lips into your mouth, licking it before giving it a harsh suck.

a trail of saliva connected between his thumb and your lips as you took it out of your mouth, looking at him from beneath lashes.

"hmm... thinking of giving him a reward. buttt i still wanna tease him a little. maybe i should leave him alone in this bathtub so he couldd take care of himself. does seeing me in wet petals do the trick for you jakey? is that all it takes?~"

jake's breath stuttered, his entire body going rigid as he watched the obscene string of saliva stretch between your lips and his thumb. his dark eyes tracked the glistening connection. hypnotized by it until you broke it with your words and that sinful little smirk.

for a second, jake just stared.

then something in him snapped.

the hand that you had been kissing and sucking went to grip your neck, a surprised gasp escaping your lips as you felt his fingers tighten, thumb pressing into your pulse point.

he pulled you forward, looming over your face as you stared up at him wide eyed.

a raw, dark look fell over his features, and you gulped this time in nervousness.

jake flexed his fingers around your throat, and he felt it bob up and down from unsurety. his grip tightened just slightly. not enough to hurt, but enough that you felt the promise of control in his hold. his gaze dropped to your throat, watching the frantic flutter of your pulse beneath his fingertips like a predator mesmerized by prey.

no words. just heat. just possession.

the water lapped quietly around you both as jake slowly but deliberately leaned down until his lips hovered a hair's breadth from yours, breath mingling with yours in thick tension.

the air between you crackled. every second stretched thinner and thinner with anticipation.

he looked over you, eyes half lidded now. there was a few seconds of silence before his lips moved.

a simple, hushed, "okay" was all you heard, and before you could process or question anything, his other free hand gripped your waist before he's suddenly slamming you down on his dick.

the sudden, brutal thrust knocked the air from your lungs. jake's cock sinking into you in one punishing motion.

water sloshed violently over the tub's edge as his grip on your waist turned bruising, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks while he held you flush against him.

jake didn't speak.

he just moved.

hips jerking up sharply beneath you with zero finesse, pure control taking over. the wet slap of skin on skin echoed off tile walls as steam curled around both of your bodies. jaw clenched tight, eyes screwed shut like he was fighting not to lose it completely right then and there.

every ragged breath escaped through gritted teeth. the pleasure almost too much after teasing each other for so damn long.

his control was hanging by a thread. each upward snap of your boyfriend's hips drove you deeper into winding pleasure, waves crashing against the tub's porcelain sides with every rough thrust. his free hand, the one not still circling your throat, gripped your waist, veins popping along his forearm from restraint.

he wasn't gentle. this wasn't sweet or slow. it was claiming. every ragged breath that punched out of him sounded like a growl. every time he bottomed out inside you, it sent ripples through both your bodies and splashed more rose petals onto wet tile floors.

the bath had long since lost its relaxing atmosphere. now it just felt feverish and electric between panting breaths.

jake's breath came in short, controlled grunted gasps, each one hot against your damp skin as he continued to pound into you with relentless intensity as he chased the friction.

his thumb stroked your throat, not squeezing anymore, just a possessive touch while his other hand slid down to grip your ass hard, helping each brutal thrust upward. every time he bucked his hips up like this? it sent a shockwave through both of you. the wet slap echoing louder than before.

you gasped at the intense pounding, both hands clattering to grip the one squeezing your neck. "j-jake!" you moaned, whining as he squeezed slightly. "nghhh... w-wait!"

but he still didn't say anything.

jake ignored your pleas. not out of cruelty, but because his mind was drowning him. the way you gasped his name like that? the desperate whine in your voice? the wet roses he oh so charmingly brought for you clinging onto your skin reminding him of the hickies he loved leaving on your skin? all that only fueled the fire.

his grip on your throat tightened a fraction while his other hand clamped down harder on your ass, forcing you to take every single punishing thrust with no reprieve. water sloshed onto the floor in messy waves. half of the bubbles long since dissipated from all movement.

he was lost. lost in the heat of skin and water and sweat. lost chasing that high only your body could give him.

no words came from the boy… just guttural sounds tearing from his chest with each snap of hips upward.

the rhythm of hulk of his body beneath you became erratic. thrusts turning sloppier, more desperate as the coil in jake's stomach tightened to a breaking point. the grip on your throat loosened entirely now, hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head instead, fingers tangling in wet hair.

he brings his face even closer, and you think you're about to kiss but then he stops just a shy breath away from connecting your lips. he just tilts his head towards you until your forehead connects, noses touching but still not fucking kissing you.

"you gonna tease me again?" he asks in a low and deep, serious tone, making you feel the vibrations as you lose your mind, clutching desperately at his chest.

you tried to keep eye contact, but the feeling of your orgasm creeping up and the way he was fucking into your body knocked all air out of you. "w-what- hnnngghhh ughhhhh!!" you get cut off by a harsh and deep pound that bounced you hard on his lap, grinding onto him more as your pussy clench harder around him.

jake's lips curled into something feral, a smirk that wasn't quite a smile, more of a predator baring teeth. the second you clenched around him like that, his entire body shivered.

he felt it. felt the way your walls fluttered, the telltale tension coiling in your belly that you were close. and jake? he was going to make damn sure you fell first.

without breaking eye contact or foreheads, he shifted just slightly, adjusting the angle so his next thrust hit even deeper, right where it would wreck you most, making you cry out. at the same time, his free hand slid between your bodies and pressed two fingers hard against your clit again. not teasing this time, but ruthless. rubbing tight circles with perfect pressure while still pounding into you from below.

the water trembled violently with each movement and jake let out a deep sigh that ended with a growl.

"i said..." a harder thrust "you gonna tease me again? my baby gonna give me what i want next time? or am i gonna have to punish her?"

his voice was pure gravel. low, dangerous, and vibrating with the weight of his dominance. each word punctuated by another brutal thrust that made your vision blur at the edges.

the threat in his tone wasn't empty. he could see it. the way your body trembled on the edge, how every nerve ending sparked from overstimulation. but he wanted words. wanted you to admit you'd tease him again… or beg for forgiveness.

either way? you were gonna get it.

his fingers on your clit pressed harder, enough that it burned in a good-bad way. and when he spoke again? it came out as a dark purr right against your lips.

"answer me y/n."

you shivered at the power that rolled over him, deciding that caving in right now seemed better then denying either of yours' release any longer.

you choked, lips trembling to get the words out. "gonna.... mmhmm... g-gonna be good. n-no more... huhhh... fu-uchkkk teasing- j-jake. please... im s-so close!"

the second those desperate, pleading words left your lips, jake's entire expression shifted. something primal and satisfied flashing in his dark eyes. that was all the confirmation he needed.

he rewarded you immediately.

the hand on your clit switched from punishing to perfect. fingers moving in slick, quick circles that matched the brutal pace of his hips. every thrust now aimed directly at that sweet spot inside you. every snap of his pelvis calculated to push you closer and closer to the edge.

a rough groan tore from jake's chest as he felt how tightly you clenched around him. your body betraying just how close it really was. steam still curled off both sweaty bodies, the water long gone lukewarm but neither cared.

jake felt the exact moment you shattered, your body tensing like a bowstring before snap, a broken cry tore from your lips as your orgasm ripped through you, waves crashing over every nerve. jake didn't slow down. not even for a second. he rode it out with you, hips still pistoning upward to milk every last shudder and twitch from your overstimulated body. but he wasn't far behind. the way you clenched around him in those aftershocks and the desperate little whimpers spilling from swollen lips sent him hurtling closer toward his own release with zero mercy.

his thrusts grew jagged, less controlled and then suddenly, he was flipping the both of you over, the front of your chest crashing into the edge of the tub with your hands gripping the edge and head dangling over, breasts pressed to the cool porcelain as jake grasped your hips from behind, lifting them up and looming over you, continuing his pounding to chase his release.

jake's breathing was ragged, his muscles coiled tight as a spring with the effort of holding back, just long enough to savor the way your body yielded beneath him. water dripped from his bangs onto your shoulder blades as he leaned over you, one hand braced on the tub's edge while the other gripped your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints.

the sound of skin hitting wet skin echoed off tiles, alongside jake's guttural groans right by your ear every time hips collided.

his release hit him like a lightning bolt, white-hot and electric. a strangled groan ripped from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt, hips stuttering wildly just as his orgasm tore through him, finishing and dumping everything he had inside you.

for a few heartbeats, he just shuddered above you, every muscle locked tight as pleasure wracked his body.

he didn't pull out. not yet. instead, jake slumped forward, forehead pressing between your shoulder blades and panted against your damp skin like a man who'd just run miles without stopping.

the silence that followed was thick… only broken by heavy breathing and occasional drips echoing in steamy bathroom air.

he stayed like that for a long moment. forehead resting against your back, both yours breathing slowly evening out as the aftershocks of pleasure subsided. the water had gone completely still now, just quiet.

eventually, jake pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder blade. then another to the curve of your spine. just affection in the form of light touches while catching his breath. the steam had long since dissipated leaving just warm humid air between both bodies, but your boyfriend made zero move pull away yet.

you felt him begin to slowly press kisses on your neck and shoulder blades, before he's finally pulling out.

the australian exhaled a slow, content sigh as he finally eased out of you, careful to avoid any sudden movements that might startle or overwhelm. his lips trailed one last kiss up the slope of your neck before straightening slightly.

the water was getting cold.

he reached over to turn on the faucet again, adjusting the temperature back to warm so fresh water could fill in where it had been displaced from all movement earlier. bubbles started reforming on surface, and rose-scented steam curling upward once more.

jake trailed his hands down your body till the landed on your hips, and gently turned you around, his hands warm and careful as they guided your body to face him. his dark eyes, still slightly hazy with lingering pleasure, scanned your face, taking in every detail. the flush on your cheeks till the damp strands of hair stuck to forehead.

you both looked at each other for a few seconds in silence, before he lowers his eyes down to your slow heaving chest, watching it rise up and down, eyes locking onto the bubbles and what's left of the rose petals clinging to your skin like a lifeline.

without a word, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. and then he's burying himself slowly into you again.

the kiss started gentle, almost sweet. but jake couldn't resist deepening it. his lips moved against yours with quiet hunger, the taste of water and shared breath mixing between you. one hand cradled the back of your head while the other slid down to press against your lower back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between.

you broke the kiss with a groan, feeling your walls weakly flutter and grip him, still wonderfully sensitive. "easy boy." you scolded him like you would a dog, flicking his forehead.

jake scrunched his nose at the forehead flick but ignored your scolding.

instead of easing up like a sane person would, he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, lips brushing over damp skin as he inhaled deeply. the rose scent clung to both of you now; sweet and floral mixed with sweat.

then he's lifted your right leg slightly, hooking it over hip so he could kiss down your jawline then lower.

lips traced a slow, worshipful path down your collarbone, each kiss lingering just a second longer than the last. his teeth grazed lightly over your shoulder

a full-body tremor ran through you at the sensation that had jake smirking against your skin. smug bastard. he knew exactly what he was doing. knew how sensitive you were post-orgasm.

his hands slid around to grip either side of waist as continued mapping kisses lower down then dipping toward chest with no hurry whatsoever.

he took his time. kissing every inch of exposed skin like he was memorizing it. when he reached the curve of your chest, his lips hovered just above one peaked nipple, breath warm against damp skin.

then finally he closed the distance. a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your nipple first, then a teasing lick. not quite sucking yet. just tasting an savoring how sensitive you were after everything that had happened.

his hands squeezed gently at your hips all while doing this, keeping you anchored close as steam curled lazily around both bodies once more.

you sighed in bliss, eyes closing and tilting your head to lean comfortably on the tub and running my hands through his hair, letting him do what he wanted.

jake melted into your touch. the way your fingers threaded through his damp hair sending little shivers down his spine. it felt nice, like something out of a daydream.

his lips finally sealed over one nipple, sucking gently at first, testing the sensitivity before gradually increasing pressure with each pull.

the warm water lapped around you both once more.

one of jake's hands slid up to cradle your neglected right breast, thumb brushing in slow circles while his mouth worked on the left one. the other hand remained on your hip, thumb absently stroking skin there in quiet rhythm. he switched to your other nipple after a few moments, treating it with the same devoted attention. kisses, licks, and soft sucks. every now and then he'd nip lightly with his teeth just to hear the little gasp it pulled from you.

at some point, jake leaned back slightly. only enough so he could press a proper kiss right on your lips again, softer this time. a slow brush of mouths that tasted like shared breath and love.

"next time..." he starts, leaning his whole body weight on top of you, grinning slowly as you scrunched your face at the feeling of himself nudging himself deeper inside, "just sit on my lap when i tell you to."

"sigh... yes sir...."

maybe next time you can beg jake to see him covered in wet petals too.

author's note: BAHAHAHA i'm actually so embarrassed right now GOODBYE- it's not that good it's my first time writing smut but i've really been wanting to write this one soooo yeah. idk how other writers write smut so well. hopefully this was good enough T_T

reblog, like and comment if you liked this!

-twocups

but then he’d see you in the hallways, the bright smile that would line your lips as you waved in his direction, radiating an aura of purity that left him enamored in ways that he had never felt before.

he’d remember the way you’d met, a simple run-in backstage at an award show. you took the last pack of shrimp chips unknowing that jungwon wanted them, and upon meeting his disappointed gaze, you handed him the bag without hesitation, like you were glad to do so.

he’d recall the way he felt, the surprise but also the gratitude. it was no more than a simple gesture, but it left him stirred, feelings beginning to brew that had never been spoken of before then.

he’d remember how you would cross paths all the time at the HYBE building, groups bumping into each other often, and how you would always greet him with that tragically beautiful smile of yours. how the two of you would end up meeting up together whenever you had free time, a strong friendship blossoming out of a simple act of service.

he’d think about it all the time, the first time you opened up to each other. when connection evolved into trust, and light conversation turned into intimate talks, sharing things with others that others would never hear.

his members would tease him whenever they could, joking that he always “ditched” the guys after practice to go hang out with you. he’d roll his eyes, but he’d never deny it– how could he?

he’d always remember the moment he felt it for the first time, the moment he felt that shift that told him that friendship was starting to slip away from him, and that casual was starting to evolve into something much less than. he’d remember how he ignored it, brushing it off, and then how it came back to him full force.

he would think of the risks– how much this could cost him, all the things he’d worked so hard for, going to shit at the hands of the devil cupid.

he’d think of it all, his brain pulling him in too many directions at once. but his heart had known the truth. 

there, there was no doubt, no second-guessing, no fear, just love– nothing but love.

yang jungwon was hopelessly in love with you, no matter how many times his head told him to stay safe away from love. going by the book was exhausting, and the line between you and him had become one he was willing to cross. 

© nephynes 2026

all works are pieces of original fiction, do not repost, translate, or adapt without explicit permission.

The silence that rings between you two makes you regret saying anything to your friend until you hear his desk chair creak like he sat up too fast. “What?”

You feel your ears burn, and you’re so glad Jeonghan isn’t here in person to see you say this, but it’s been rolling in your mind so long you need to let it all out. “Why does no one like me?” You ask and roll your eyes when Jeonghan speaks up.

“Well, I like you.” He’s basically contractually obligated to say that; he’s your friend, and you roll your eyes again even if his words warm you up inside.

“No, I mean-“ you groan from your lack of words and flip onto your back, staring at the ceiling with a furrowed brow and a heavy pout on your lips. “Like, I know the dating scene right now is disgusting. No one actually wants to date. Everyone wants to just hook up and hide from genuine feelings, but what happened to love? Am I ugly? I know my personality is great, but what happened to love!” Once you’ve started, you can’t seem to stop, so you ramble on without a single thought. “What happened to men standing outside the girl’s window with a boombox above their head? Confessing their love to one another. What happened to serenading a girl by lip syncing to a song across the bleachers in front of the football game!”

Okay, maybe you’ve been watching too many romantic movies lately, but that’s beside the point.

Your knees pull up, and your feet slide up your bed as you sigh. Your heart beats, and your eyes blink back the blurriness slowly blocking your vision. The loneliness washes over you bitterly, leaving you cold, and your voice softens into a whisper as you come full circle.

“Why doesn’t anyone want me?”

There’s a brief moment of silence that makes you almost check your phone to see if Jeonghan is still there before he speaks up through the receiver. “I’m coming over.” He says it so simply that you’re sitting up and shaking your head as if you could actually see you.

“No, don’t-“ you don’t need some pity hug, but Jeonghan cuts you off before you can continue.

“I’m coming over.”

Jeonghan lives about twenty minutes away from your dorm, but he gets there in ten minutes, surprising you. You hadn’t bothered to change from your pyjama shorts and oversized t-shirt, figuring you could convince Jeonghan everything was okay and he could go home, but all your thoughts get thrown out the window the moment you answer your door.

Jeonghan stands there, out of breath like he ran the whole way here, with a clump of leaves mixed with flowers in his hand. He’s got the roots and dirt dangling at the end, and you’re too stunned to speak because even though his hair seems a mess and his cheeks are a little flushed, he’s still handsome as ever.

“Hannie-“ you don’t know if you should laugh or cry as he makes a noise, shoving the clump of flowers in your direction.

“I love you.” He says, and his eyes anchor onto yours as your mouth drops open in shock. “I don’t own a boombox, and I’m not doing some flash mob unless you really want one, but I love you. Not just as friends, or something else. I love you.” He straightens up as he continues to speak, taking a step closer to you, and his body warms up yours as you are forced to look up at him in awe. “I loved you since the moment I met you, and I believe I will even after this. But you needed to know, and I wasn’t going to say it over the phone. I love you, and I want you.”

“What?” Your voice sounded muffled, like it was underwater, as you blinked up at your friend. You didn’t know what to say; too many thoughts were running through your mind, and you gasped as Jeonghan grabbed your waist, pulling you against him.

“I’m in love with you.”

Your eyes searched his for a moment, and your eyebrows furrowed more as you placed a hand on his chest. “Hannie, this isn’t funny.” You started, and Jeonghan quickly shook his head.

“I’m not playing with you-“

“Then why-“ the clump of flowers you’re convinced Jeonghan pulled from the campus lawn on his run here gets tossed over his shoulder just as he shuts the door behind him. His arm is still wrapped around your back, keeping you to him, and you’re very aware of how low his hand rests on the curve of your lower back.

“I was waiting for you to catch up. You want to date someone? Date me. You want someone to love you? I’m right here, Angel; you can do no better. I love you.”

His words wash over you a minute after he says them, and like the stupid rom-com films you watched on days you needed a pick-me-up, your world stills. Your eyes search for the smirk he usually displays when he’s playing around, but you are only met with dark brown eyes that simmer with earnestness.

He means it. He actually means it.

The same moment your world stills, it also fast-forwards so quickly, you aren’t entirely sure who moves first. Him or you? You may never know because one moment you’re giving a quick inhale, and the next your lips are crashing into his.

You feel Jeonghan wrap his arms around you, pulling you close while your hands twist into his hair to deepen the kiss. Both of you moan in unison, your feet stumbling backwards as your mind reels with all the new information you have gathered. A trail of clothes being taken off leads you to your bed, and your gasps and moans are met with low groans from Jeonghan, who can’t keep his hands off you.

You’d be lying if you said you never thought about this moment exactly. You’d been friends with Jeonghan for years, but you never really thought it’d be anything more than that. He was funny, charming, and smart. He was your person, the one person who had always been there, and it made you feel silly to not have noticed it before. Or maybe you just didn’t think he would feel the same, but now that the line has been crossed, there is no turning back now.

“I love you.” Your words come out as a gasp when Jeonghan pushes you back onto the bed, not wasting a second to crawl on top of you. You meet his eyes with your heart racing, and it skips a beat when he flashes you a grin as he ducks his head down to nudge your nose gently with his own, giving you a sweet kiss.

“Are you going to make me do a flash mob?”

Your laughter bubbles from your lips loudly when you process what he says, and your body immediately relaxes as your hand smacks his shoulder with a scoff. “Oh, shut up.” You laughed, and Jeonghan smirked, kissing your cheeks and lips before trailing his kisses down your throat.

“I’m just saying, I can talk to Hoshi if you need some grand gesture. He can come up with some choreo, I’m sure, and I’ll happily claim my love for you to a crowd of strangers if you need it.” He hums, amused, and his lithe fingers push your t-shirt higher. He’s pleased to find out you’re not wearing a bra, and your stomach flexes as your breasts get exposed to his hungry gaze.

“I’d rather you do something else right now,” you mumbled, and your cheeks flushed as Hannie gave you a hooded look. He’s down to just his boxers, his clothes littered throughout your dorm, and your legs squeeze his waist as he settles himself right between your soft thighs. From this position, you can feel his hard cock press against your panty-covered pussy, and your eyelashes flutter from how warm and thick he feels against you.

“Yeah?” His breath fans over one of your breasts, reeling you back from your own thoughts, and Jeonghan makes sure you’re looking at him when his warm tongue laps over your nipple, sucking it into his mouth.

Fuck.

Your back arches, and your legs fall open more as he sucks on your nipple, flicking his tongue with a hum as a new wave of arousal soaks your panties. You feel his fingers hook into the thin material, his tongue licking a path to your other breast as he tugs your panties down your legs, and then all you’re left in is your oversized t-shirt that is pushed just under your chin.

“Gorgeous,” Jeonghan murmurs and his warm hands push your knees up, exposing you intimately as he kneels back onto his knees before you. “So pretty for me.” he sucks in a dreamy sigh, like this is something he’s thought about constantly. His gaze burns down your body slowly, making the room rise in temperature, and when his eyes land on your drooling cunt, you almost have the urge to hide from his hungry stare.

“Jeonghan, please.” You don’t get the chance to move an inch before his palms are sliding down the back of your knees and over your inner thighs. His fingers part your puffy folds as another wave of your slick pools because of him, making your pretty pussy glisten as you watch his tongue roll over his lips in need.

“And you thought you were unlovable?” He scoffs, and your cheeks darken as he shakes his head at you. “Guess I’ll just have to show you otherwise.”

You watch with bated breath as he leans down, his lips curving up into a smirk as he keeps your knees up. The first kiss he places is on your inner thigh, his nose brushing along your sensitive skin as he gives your other thigh the same kiss right after. And then he flattens his tongue, licking his way up your thigh, and to your pretty cunt, groaning as your sweet slick coats his taste buds for the first time.

He swirls his tongue over your puffy clit, taking the nub between his lips, and your eyes roll back when he sucks lewdly, making your pussy weep in pleasure.

You had always known he had a silver tongue, but when he laps at your pretty pussy messily, you’re at a loss for words. Your fingers thread into his hair, bringing him closer, and his arms keep you from closing your legs, forcing you to take everything he gives as he becomes more pussydrunk by the second. “Knew you’d taste sweet, Angel.” He murmurs, and his thumbs spread your slick folds apart to give his tongue more room to explore.

He swirls his wet muscle around your entrance, teasing your gummy walls, and making you whine as his nose rubs against your clit with each obscene lick he gives. You can feel the warmth pooling in your stomach, and every noise you make only has Jeonghan slurping louder, filling the room with the noises of your moans and his tongue stuffing your cunt deliciously over and over again.

His mouth feels too good, he feels too good, and your tongue feels glued to the roof of your mouth, rendering you speechless. He reduces you into a puddle of noises that whimper from the back of your throat as your heels dig into his back, and Jeonghan moves when you do.

He follows every roll of your hips, keeping his mouth latched onto your addictive cunt as his hands reach up to cup your breasts, rubbing up your body, and keeping your legs over his shoulders while he brings your orgasm closer to the edge.

“H-Hannie!” Your gasps are increasing, and one of his hands grabs yours, intertwining your fingers with his as he messily shakes his head between your soft thighs, lapping at your cunt hungrily. “Oh! M’gonna cum! M’gonna cum, Hannie!”

Jeonghan groans, and with one hand holding yours, his other hand pushes your knee open wider. He holds you in place, flicking his tongue over your clit faster, and forces your orgasm to crash over you not even seconds later.

You squeal his name, your hips bucking upwards along his face as your eyes squeeze shut in ecstasy. Your orgasm washes over you in waves, leaving you trembling, and Jeonghan moaning with you. He fucks you through it, lapping and slurping your slick like a man starved, prolonging your high with just his tongue before you’re pulling on his hair to get him to back off.

And when he does, his face from the nose down is covered in your arousal, and his smirk is smug as you try to catch your breath.

You watch with heavy eyes as he licks his lips triumphantly, and it’s then that you notice his thumb rubbing comforting half-circles on your inner ankle as your eyes blink up at him. “You get it now, Angel?” He hums, and you shiver as he trails his hand up your leg, gathering the wetness of your orgasm and spreading it over your puffy folds with a gleam in his eyes. “Or do you need me to keep showing you?”

Your heart flutters and your thighs twitch as he rubs sloppy hearts into your clit, slowly building you back up with each swirl of his fingertips.

Your eyes flicker from his forearms flexing between your sticky thighs and down to the prominent bulge in his boxers. He’s still hard, and there is a noticeable wet patch blooming that makes your mouth water. Your lips curve up in a teasing grin, and you tilt your hips up, enticing Jeonghan as you murmur, “I think I need more convincing - can you show me more?”

대박 - you made it to the end!

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