TRAPPED - JJK

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Texts with yandere! Jungkook

You prank him (gone wrong?!)

Fics

Onyx Tower (a preview)  

➵ Some might say you lived in an ivory tower, not having to worry about money or food or… any kind of decision, really. You were so lucky you never had to make decisions, they were made for you. Like the decision that you would be married off to your uncle-in-law after your aunt died. But all that changed when you were taken captive by the rival mafia gang, led by the dangerous yet mysterious Jeon Jungkook.

yandere au, mafia au, mature

The Play Date Trilogy (series) 

➵ Jungkook loves to play games with you… Hide and Seek, I Spy, Make Believe, but his favourite game of all is Tag, and once he’s caught you, you find it’s not so easy to escape…

yandere au, graphic murder, dubious consent

Sunkissed 

➵ Jungkook loves waking up to the view of your beautiful face, bathed in sunlight each morning. Based on the song ‘Sunkissed’ by khai dreams. 

So slowly a sunlit dream pulls me out of sleep, feel the morning through the blinds, I get to thinking ‘bout your sunkissed face and a quite place where I could give you all my time

soft yandere au, mention of kidnapping, stockholm syndrome 

Princess Peach 

➵ After Jungkook spends half the day ignoring you, he decides to make it up to you by teaching you how to play a game. But, once you win, what will be your prize? (hint: its jungkook’s undying love and affection!)

soft yandere au, mentions of kidnapping, stockholm syndrome

Hot-Spot Love 

➵ In which Jungkook is a photographer and you accidentally break his favourite camera. Luckily, the only thing he cherishes more than that damn camera happens to be you.

tooth-rotting fluff, angst if you squint, caring n protective boyfriend koo !

Expectation ≠ Reality 

➵ When you first met Jungkook, he was so kind, with wide eyes and a sweet smile, but soon enough he dragged you into a tumultuous marriage where you were barely allowed to draw breath on your own. But, when you meet Taehyung, the cute delivery boy with blond hair and a penchant for flirting, you start to wonder if you’ve found your second chance.

yandere au, dubious consent, manipulation

Sweets 

➵ In which Jungkook steals your lip balm and perfume instead of talking to you, you leave a post-it note with your number on it for the strange thief who only seems to take the most inexplicable items and has a strange sense of responsibility for your wellbeing, and the cute boy in your photography class with the fluffy hair and the oversized sweater keeps getting more and more endearing…

soft yandere! au, fluff, texting

Burnt

➵ in which you burn dinner and jungkook is obnoxiously in love

soft yandere! au, fluff, slight angst

Loving Is Easy

➵ For your first date, Jungkook wants to take you somewhere perfect. Unfortunately for you, he’s decided that for it to be ‘perfect’, it has to be a surprise…

soft yandere, fluff, first kisses

Still With You

➵ It’s simple. You’re a servant, he’s a prince. So when you become pregnant, you know you have to leave in order to protect his reputation. But he doesn’t seem to be able to let you go…

royalty au, obsessive behaviour, soft(ish) yandere

۶ৎ SHADOWS OF OBSESSION [1] —

“You think you can scream at me? Threaten me? You’re nothing, you hear me? A little girl playing hero, and now you’re in over your head. You’re my obsession, my fucking curse. I don’t believe in love, in fairy tales, but you—you’re in my head, clawing at me, and I can’t rip you out. It pisses me off, you know that? You’re too soft, too pure, and I want to break you, want to make you scream just to see if you’ll still look at me with those innocent eyes.”

pairing: criminal dom!jungkook x student sub!femreader

genre: criminal au, dark romance, forbidden attraction, murderer!jungkook, stalker!jungkook, innocent shy!reader, virgin!reader, medical student!reader, violence, stalking and obsession, contrast of worlds, crime, thriller, smut, angst

warnings: 18+, explicit smut, violence and injury, intrusion, mentions of blood loss and physical pain, descriptions of bullet wound, medical procedure, emotional vulnerability, isolation and loneliness, mentions of past trauma, moral conflict, departure and regret, argument, crying and screaming, several mentions of being frightened, non-consensual undertones, solo masturbation, he steals her panties, panty sniffing, cock palming and fisting, he cums on her panties, voyeuristic and obsessive element, possessiveness, oral sex (f. receiving), cunnilingus, rough handling, angry confessions, sensory overload, eating out, clit sucking, tongue fucking, face sitting, face riding, cum swallowing, hair fisting, clothed sex elements, dirty talk, making out, restriction, aftercare absence

wc: 12.3k

a/n: im literally way too excited for this new series !! hope you guys love it <3

series m. list | main masterlist

۶ৎ

The city was a living beast, its veins pulsing through cracked asphalt and flickering neon signs that buzzed like dying insects. The air was heavy, saturated with the acrid stench of diesel, rotting garbage, and the faint, metallic tang of blood that seemed to cling to the shadows. Alleyways gaped like open wounds, their darkness swallowing the weak glow of streetlights. Jungkook stood against a graffiti-scarred wall, the rough concrete biting into his back, grounding him in a world that had never shown him mercy. A cigarette dangled from his lips, its ember a defiant spark in the suffocating night, curling smoke that stung his eyes and coated his throat with ash. At twenty-eight, he was a specter carved from violence, his black leather jacket clinging to his broad, muscular frame like a second skin. Tattoos snaked across his neck, chest, and arms—each inked line a testament to a life of blood, betrayal, and unrelenting vengeance. His dark hair fell messily over his forehead, damp with sweat, framing eyes that gleamed with a cold, predatory intensity, like twin shards of obsidian reflecting a world he despised.

Jungkook’s life had been forged in fire. Orphaned at ten, he’d grown up in the underbelly of the city, a street rat who learned to steal, fight, and survive before he could read. The streets were his mother, cruel and unyielding, teaching him that trust was a noose, love a fairy tale, and mercy a death sentence. He’d seen kindness betrayed, hope crushed, and innocence slaughtered. By sixteen, he’d killed his first man—a rival gang member who’d tried to gut him over a stolen deal. The memory still lingered: the hot spray of blood on his hands, the gurgle of a dying throat, the way his heart had raced not with fear but with power. Now, he was a name whispered in fear, a criminal who moved through the city’s shadows like a wraith, living for himself alone. His heart was a vault, locked tight, its key long since thrown into the abyss. He didn’t believe in redemption, didn’t seek it. All he had was his revenge, a fire that burned hotter with every betrayal, every scar.

Tonight, that fire was a inferno. His latest job—a deal with a rival gang—had gone to hell, a double-cross that left him with a bullet in his arm and a fresh grudge to settle. Blood seeped through his fingers as he pressed his hand against the wound, the fabric of his sleeve slick and warm. The pain was a dull throb, a familiar companion he’d long since made peace with. But the blood loss was making his vision blur, his head swim, and the world tilt like a ship in a storm. He gritted his teeth, his jaw tight, his breath hissing through his nose. “Fucking bastards,” he muttered, his voice a low growl, rough as gravel and laced with venom. “You think you can take me down?”

He flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot, the leather creaking as he shifted. The alley reeked of piss and decay, the kind of place where dreams came to die. He scanned the shadows, his senses razor-sharp despite the haze creeping into his mind. Footsteps echoed in the distance, a dog’s bark cutting through the night like a blade. His enemies were out there, hunting him, their knives hungry for his blood. He could feel it, the weight of their malice pressing against him, a storm gathering on the horizon. “Come on, then,” he whispered, his lips curling into a sneer, his eyes blazing with defiance. “I’m right here.”

But his body betrayed him, his knees buckling slightly, forcing him to lean harder against the wall. The blood was pooling now, dripping onto the pavement, each drop a soft pat that echoed in his ears like a countdown. He needed to move, to find a place to hole up, to stitch himself together before the reaper came knocking. His hand tightened around the knife in his pocket, the cold steel a comfort, a promise. “I’m not dying tonight,” he snarled to the empty air, his voice breaking with a raw, desperate edge. “Not until I’ve buried every last one of you.”

Across the city, in a quieter, tree-lined neighborhood, you were a world apart from Jungkook’s chaos. At twenty-two, you were a medical student, your life a delicate tapestry woven from late-night study sessions, dog-eared textbooks, and the soft hum of your own thoughts. Your small apartment was a sanctuary, its walls painted a gentle cream, adorned with lavender curtains that swayed in the breeze. The air inside carried the faint scent of chamomile tea and vanilla candles, a warmth that wrapped around you like a hug. Your bookshelf sagged under the weight of novels, medical journals, and a few worn poetry collections, their pages marked with your neat, looping handwriting. You were shy, introverted, your voice a soft murmur, rarely rising unless necessity demanded it. Your world was gentle, a fragile bubble untouched by the brutality that defined Jungkook’s existence.

Orphaned at fifteen, you’d learned to navigate life alone, your heart scarred but resilient. Your parents’ deaths—a car accident—had left you with a quiet grief, a hollow space you filled with dreams of becoming a doctor. You wanted to heal, to mend the world’s wounds even if you couldn’t mend your own. You were innocent in a way Jungkook could never comprehend, your eyes still bright with hope, your heart still open despite its cracks. You avoided crowds, preferred the company of books to people, and blushed at the slightest attention. Your life was simple, your days a rhythm of classes, study, and the small joys of a warm drink or a sunny afternoon.

Tonight, you were exhausted, your body heavy with the weight of a long day. Your backpack strained against your shoulders, stuffed with notes from a grueling study session at the university library. The autumn air was crisp, biting at your cheeks and carrying the earthy scent of fallen leaves, their brittle edges crunching under your sneakers. Your breath puffed out in soft clouds, visible in the chilly night, and your glasses fogged slightly, forcing you to push them up your nose with a gloved finger. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the motion automatic, your mind already drifting to the promise of your cozy bed and a steaming cup of chamomile tea. The street was quiet, the only sounds the rustle of leaves skittering across the pavement and the distant hum of a car engine. Your heart was light, a rare moment of peace—tomorrow’s exam was one you felt ready for, your hours of preparation a quiet victory.

You hummed softly to yourself, a tune from a song you couldn’t quite place, your steps quickening as you neared your apartment. The streetlights cast long, golden pools on the sidewalk, their glow a gentle contrast to the inky sky above. You fished your keys from your pocket, the metal cold against your fingers, their jingle a familiar comfort. “Almost home,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, a habit born from years of talking to yourself in the quiet. The thought of sinking into your soft blankets, of letting the world fade away, was a warmth that spread through your chest, chasing away the night’s chill.

But the city was a beast, and its shadows hid monsters. Jungkook’s world and yours were about to collide, two orbits crossing in a moment that would shatter the fragile boundaries of your lives. His blood stained the pavement, your keys gleamed in your hand, and the night held its breath, waiting for the spark that would ignite a fire neither of you could control.

The night was a living thing, its breath cold and sharp, weaving through the skeletal branches of the trees lining your quiet street. The air carried the faint tang of impending rain, mingling with the earthy scent of damp leaves crushed underfoot. Your sneakers scraped against the uneven sidewalk, each step a soft echo in the stillness, your backpack a heavy burden slung over one shoulder, its straps digging into your skin. The streetlamp above flickered, casting jagged pools of light that danced across the pavement, and your breath puffed out in delicate clouds, curling like ghostly tendrils in the autumn chill. The jingle of your keys was a sharp, metallic heartbeat in your hands, their weight reassuring as you fumbled to find the right one, your mind already drifting to the promise of chamomile tea and the soft embrace of your bed.

Then, a shadow shifted—a movement so subtle it might’ve been a trick of the light, but it wasn’t. Your pulse stuttered, a sudden, violent lurch that made your chest ache. You froze, keys clutched like a lifeline, your eyes darting to the lamppost across the street. There he stood, a towering figure carved from darkness, his presence a violation of the night’s fragile peace. He was tall, his frame broad and unyielding, muscles taut beneath a black leather jacket that gleamed faintly under the streetlight’s sickly glow. His dark hair was a messy cascade over his forehead, strands clinging to sweat-slicked skin, and tattoos coiled up his neck like serpents, their ink blacker than the shadows pooling at his feet. His right hand gripped his left arm, fingers slick with blood that dripped in slow, deliberate rivulets, staining the pavement in obscene blossoms of crimson. The sight was a visceral punch, the air itself thickening with the coppery scent of it, sharp and metallic, cutting through the night’s damp musk.

You gasped, the sound tearing from your throat before you could cage it, raw and trembling, a betrayal of the fear blooming in your chest. Your heart slammed against your ribs, a frantic bird in a cage, and your legs screamed to run, to flee into the safety of your apartment and bolt the door against this man who looked like he’d been forged in hellfire. His eyes—dark, fathomless, glinting with something feral—locked onto yours, and it was like being pinned by a predator, your breath stolen, your body no longer your own. He was danger incarnate, a storm in human form, and every instinct you had wailed for you to escape. But then then you saw it—the sway in his stance, the way his knees buckled slightly, the pallor of his skin, ghostly pale beneath the streetlight’s glare. Blood oozed from between his fingers, thick and relentless, and the sight twisted something inside you, a pang of compassion that warred with your terror. He wasn’t just dangerous—he was dying.

Your mind was a tempest, thoughts crashing against each other in a frantic dance. Run. Lock the door. Call the police. He’ll kill you. But another voice, softer, insistent, rose above the chaos: He’s bleeding out. You can save him. You’re a doctor—almost. Your hands shook, the keys biting into your palm, your breath shallow and ragged. You took a step forward, then another, each one a rebellion against the fear clawing at your throat. You stopped ten feet away, close enough to see the sweat beading on his brow, the way his chest heaved with labored breaths, but far enough to bolt if he moved. The distance felt like a fragile shield, though you knew it was nothing against a man like him.

“Hey,” you called, your voice a trembling thread, barely cutting through the night’s oppressive silence. “You’re… you’re hurt. Badly. You need help.”

His head snapped up, eyes narrowing, and he scoffed—a low, guttural sound that rumbled like distant thunder, sending a shiver skittering down your spine. “Mind your fucking business, girl,” he snarled, his voice a jagged blade, rough with pain and laced with venom. “Go home and play with your dolls.”

The words stung, a slap to your pride, and your cheeks flushed hot, the heat creeping up your neck despite the cold. You were no child, but his tone made you feel small, insignificant, a mouse daring to squeak at a lion. Normally, rudeness would’ve sent you retreating, your introverted heart shying from conflict, but the blood—God, the blood—kept you rooted. It pooled at his feet, a dark mirror reflecting the streetlight’s glow, and you could smell it now, sharp and sickening, mingling with the faint leather of his jacket and the acrid hint of cigarette smoke clinging to him. He was fading, and you couldn’t walk away. Not from this.

“I’m a medical student,” you said, your voice steadier now, though it quivered at the edges like a leaf in the wind. “You’ve been shot. You’re losing too much blood. You could die if you don’t get help.”

His lips twisted into a sneer, but his eyes flickered—something sharp and fleeting, like a spark in a storm. Amusement, maybe, or disdain. “You think I give a shit about dying, little girl?” he said, his voice dripping with mockery, each word a deliberate cut. “I’ve been dead for years. Walk away before you join me.”

The threat was a fist to your gut, and you flinched, your breath hitching, your fingers tightening around your keys until they hurt. His words were a warning, a promise, and you believed him. He could kill you, snap you like a twig, and no one would ever know. But you saw the tremor in his hand, the way his fingers slipped slightly, blood oozing faster now, and it anchored you. You were trembling, your pulse a deafening roar in your ears, but you couldn’t leave him. Not when you could help. Not when your hands, your knowledge, could stop the life from draining out of him.

“I live right here,” you said, gesturing to your apartment with a jerk of your chin, your voice soft but firm, a quiet defiance you didn’t know you had. “I have supplies. I can stitch you up, stop the bleeding. Please… let me help you.”

He stared at you, his gaze a physical weight, stripping you bare, peeling back every layer until you felt exposed, raw. His eyes were black holes, pulling you in, and for a moment, you thought he’d lunge, grab you, end you right there. Your breath caught, your body tensing, ready to run, but you held his stare, your heart a wild thing in your chest. Then he laughed—a harsh, barking sound that grated against the night, bitter and broken, like he was laughing at the absurdity of you, of this moment.

“You’re fucking insane,” he said, shaking his head, his voice low, almost a growl. “Stupid or suicidal, I can’t decide. Fine, princess. Lead the way. But don’t cry when you regret it.”

The words were a challenge, a dare, and your stomach twisted, fear and resolve tangling into a knot. You nodded, barely, your throat tight, and turned toward your door, your keys shaking in your hand as you unlocked it. His presence loomed behind you, a dark tide ready to swallow you whole, and you wondered if you’d just invited death into your home.

Your hands trembled as you pushed open the door to your apartment, the soft creak of the hinges slicing through the heavy silence. The air inside was warm, infused with the delicate scent of lavender from the candle you’d left burning on the coffee table, its flame flickering like a heartbeat in the dim light. The stranger’s presence behind you was a storm cloud, dark and oppressive, his heavy boots thudding against the hardwood floor, each step reverberating in your chest. You flicked on the light, and the room bloomed into view—your sanctuary of pastel pinks and creams, a stark contrast to the man who stood in its center, his blood dripping onto your cream-colored rug, staining it like ink on a canvas.

He was a towering figure, his broad shoulders filling the space, his black leather jacket gleaming under the soft glow of your fairy lights. His tattoos curled up his neck like vines, dark and intricate, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. His face was sharp—high cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes so dark they seemed to swallow the light. Blood oozed from his left arm, the crimson stark against his pale skin, and his right hand pressed against the wound, his knuckles white with effort. The metallic tang of blood mingled with the lavender, creating a discordant perfume that made your stomach churn.

“Sit,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, pointing to the plush cream couch with its scattering of pink throw pillows. Your heart was a wild thing, hammering against your ribs, and you wondered if he could hear it, if he could sense the fear and resolve warring within you. He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his gaze, but he complied, sinking onto the couch with a low grunt. The cushions sighed under his weight, the fabric creasing beneath his leather-clad frame. Blood smeared onto the armrest, and you winced, your neat-freak tendencies prickling even in this surreal moment.

You hurried to your bedroom, your bare feet padding against the cool floor, the hem of your sweater catching on the doorframe. Your medical kit was tucked under your bed, a sturdy black case filled with the tools of your trade—tweezers, sutures, antiseptic, gauze, all meticulously organized. Your hands shook as you pulled it out, the metal clasps cold against your fingers, the weight of it grounding you as you carried it back to the living room. Every step felt like a plunge into the unknown, your mind screaming that you were insane to bring this man—this bleeding, dangerous stranger—into your home. You, the girl who flinched at raised voices, who preferred the company of books to people, were defying every instinct to help him.

He watched you as you returned, his gaze unrelenting, like a predator tracking its prey. You knelt before him, the rug soft beneath your knees, and set the kit on the coffee table, its glass surface reflecting the candle’s glow. The air was thick with tension, the silence broken only by the faint crackle of the candle wick and the steady drip of his blood. You opened the kit, the scent of antiseptic rising sharp and clean, cutting through the blood and lavender. Your fingers moved with practiced precision, laying out your tools—sterile gauze, a bottle of saline, a pair of gleaming tweezers. Each item gleamed under the light, a stark reminder of the task ahead.

“Why the hell do you have all this?” he asked, his voice low and rough, like gravel dragged across stone. There was a mocking edge to it, but also a flicker of curiosity, as if he couldn’t quite believe you were real. “You some kind of wannabe surgeon, playing doctor in your pretty little apartment?”

You kept your eyes on your tools, your cheeks flushing at his tone. The heat crept up your neck, and you pushed your glasses up your nose, a nervous habit. “I’m a medical student,” you said, your voice soft but steady, though it trembled at the edges. “I need these for practice. To learn.”

He snorted, a harsh sound that made you flinch. “Of course you are. Little miss perfect, saving lives with her pink pillows and her lavender candles. You think you’re gonna fix the world, don’t you?”

Your fingers stilled, the tweezers cold in your grip. His words cut deep, slicing at the fragile hope you carried, the dream of healing a world you’d barely seen. But you didn’t respond, focusing instead on his wound. You gently pried his hand away, his skin warm and rough, the blood slick against your fingers. The bullet had torn through his forearm, leaving a jagged gash that wept crimson, the flesh raw and angry. You swallowed hard, your stomach lurching at the sight, but your training kicked in, a steadying force amidst the chaos.

The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as you worked. You cleaned the wound with saline, the liquid glistening as it washed away the blood, revealing the depth of the damage. The metallic scent was overpowering now, mingling with the faint musk of his sweat and the leather of his jacket. You reached for the tweezers, your hands steady despite the tremor in your chest, and leaned closer, your breath shallow. His arm was corded with muscle, the veins prominent beneath his inked skin, and you could feel the heat radiating from him, a furnace against your cooler touch.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” he said suddenly, his voice softer now, but laced with a darkness that made your skin prickle. “Helping someone like me. You don’t know what I am, what I’ve done. You’re too soft, too… innocent. The world’s gonna eat you alive, and you’re out here patching up monsters.”

You paused, the tweezers hovering over his wound, his words sinking into you like stones. Your throat tightened, and you met his eyes for the first time, your gaze locking with his. His irises were nearly black, flecked with hints of amber, and they burned with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Maybe it will,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, “but I can’t just… walk away. Not when I can help. Not when you’re bleeding like this.”

He laughed, a bitter, jagged sound that echoed in the quiet room, like glass shattering. “You’re gonna regret that, sweetheart. Kindness like yours? It’s a death sentence. You think you’re saving me, but you’re just digging your own grave.”

The words stung, sharp and cold, but you pushed them aside, focusing on the task. You dug the tweezers into his flesh, searching for the bullet fragments, the metal scraping against tissue with a faint, sickening sound. He didn’t flinch, not even a twitch, his face a mask of indifference despite the pain you knew he must feel. His stoicism unnerved you, a reminder of how different he was from you, how hardened by a world you couldn’t imagine. His stare never wavered, his eyes tracking every movement—your trembling fingers, the flush of your cheeks, the way your lips parted as you concentrated. It was as if he was memorizing you, cataloging every detail, and the weight of his gaze made your skin burn, your heart thudding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

The candlelight cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles, the faint scar above his eyebrow, the stubble dusting his jaw. His breath was steady, deep, the rise and fall of his chest hypnotic as you worked. You found a fragment, a small, glinting piece of metal, and pulled it free, the blood welling up anew. You pressed gauze against it, your fingers brushing his skin, and the contact sent a jolt through you, electric and unsettling. His arm was warm, the muscle unyielding, and you pulled back quickly, your cheeks flaming.

“You’re shaking,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “Scared of me, aren’t you? You should be.”

You swallowed, your throat dry, and focused on stitching the wound, the needle glinting as you pulled the thread through his skin. “I’m not… scared,” you lied, your voice barely a whisper. “I just… I want to help.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped, his tone sharp enough to make you jump. “You’re terrified. I can see it in your eyes, the way you’re trembling. You don’t even know me, and you’re letting me bleed all over your perfect little life. Why? What’s wrong with you?”

Your hands froze, the needle poised above his skin. Tears pricked your eyes, but you blinked them back, refusing to let him see. “Nothing’s wrong with me,” you said, your voice cracking. “I just… I believe in helping people. Even people like you.”

“People like me?” He leaned forward, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your cheek. The scent of cigarettes clung to him, sharp and bitter, mingling with the blood and sweat. “You don’t know what ‘people like me’ do, little girl. You don’t know the blood on my hands, the lives I’ve ended. You’re playing with fire, and you’re too damn naive to see it.”

Your heart pounded, his words a blade twisting in your chest, but you didn’t back away. You met his gaze, your eyes wide and glistening. “Maybe I am naive,” you said, your voice trembling but firm. “But I’d rather be naive than cruel. I’d rather help than hurt.”

For a moment, he was silent, his eyes searching yours, as if trying to find the crack in your resolve. Then he leaned back, a smirk tugging at his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re gonna learn, sweetheart. And when you do, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

You finished the stitches, your fingers deft despite the storm in your mind, and wrapped his arm in a bandage, the gauze soft and white against his inked skin. Your hands lingered a moment too long, the heat of him seeping into you, and you pulled back, your heart racing. You stood, your legs unsteady, and grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen, the cool liquid sloshing against the sides. When you returned, you handed it to him, your fingers brushing his as he took it. The contact was rough, deliberate, his calloused skin grazing yours, and you nearly dropped the glass, a gasp escaping your lips.

“You need to rest,” you said, avoiding his eyes, your voice barely audible. “Moving too much will tear the stitches. You’ll bleed again.”

He didn’t respond, just stared at you, his expression unreadable, his fingers curled around the glass. The candle flickered, casting fleeting shadows across his face, and you felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, heavy and inescapable. You mumbled something about getting a blanket, your voice tripping over itself, and fled to your bedroom, your cheeks burning, your heart a wild drumbeat in your chest. The door clicked shut behind you, but it did nothing to block out the memory of his eyes, his voice, the way he’d filled your space with a darkness you couldn’t name.

The first light of dawn crept through the lavender curtains, casting delicate, dappled patterns across the hardwood floor of your apartment. The air was heavy with the lingering scent of antiseptic and blood, a stark reminder of the stranger who had invaded your quiet world. You lay in bed, your body rigid, your breath shallow, as if any sudden movement might summon him back from the shadows. Sleep had eluded you, your heart a relentless drum in your chest, each beat echoing with a confusing blend of fear, adrenaline, and something else—something you couldn’t name, something that made your skin prickle and your cheeks burn. The memory of his touch, rough and fleeting, lingered like a phantom burn on your fingers, and the intensity of his gaze haunted you, those dark eyes that seemed to see through you, into you, unraveling secrets you didn’t even know you kept.

You clutched the edge of your quilt, its soft, worn fabric a poor shield against the storm of your thoughts. The night had been a blur, a reckless act of compassion that now felt like a dangerous gamble. You, the girl who flinched at raised voices, who preferred the company of books to people, had invited a bleeding stranger into your home—a man who looked like he could crush your world with a single glance. Your mind replayed his voice, low and mocking, laced with a bitterness that made your stomach twist. “Kindness gets you killed, little girl.” The words echoed, sharp and cutting, and you wondered if he was right, if your softness was a liability, a ticking bomb waiting to detonate.

Finally, you couldn’t bear the confinement of your bed any longer. You swung your legs over the side, your bare feet meeting self-crocheted rug, its texture a grounding contrast to the chaos in your head. Your oversized sleep shirt, a faded pink thing that hung loosely on your frame, brushed against your thighs as you stood, your glasses fogging slightly from the warmth of your breath. You crept toward the living room, each step deliberate, your heart thudding so loudly you were sure it would betray you if he was still there.

The living room was bathed in the soft, golden glow of morning, the lavender candle on your coffee table now extinguished, its wick blackened and spent. Your eyes darted to the couch, and your breath caught in your throat. It was empty. The stranger was gone, as if he’d never been there at all, a specter conjured by your reckless heart and banished by the dawn. The blanket you’d given him was folded with unsettling precision, its edges aligned as if he’d taken care to leave no trace of his chaos. But the evidence was there, undeniable: the blood-stained rug, its once-cream fibers now marred with dark, rust-colored splotches; the trash can, where used bandages lay crumpled, soaked with the crimson of his wound.

You stood frozen, your bare toes curling against the cold floor, your fingers twisting the hem of your shirt. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant hum of a car outside and the faint ticking of your kitchen clock. You should’ve felt relief—he was gone, you were safe. But instead, a strange ache settled in your chest, heavy and unplaceable. It wasn’t fear, not entirely. It was the ghost of his presence, the way he’d filled your space with his danger, his intensity, leaving you both rattled and inexplicably alive.

“Who are you?” you whispered to the empty room, your voice trembling, barely audible. The question hung in the air, unanswered, and it unleashed a flood of others. Why had he been shot? Was he a criminal, a murderer? The thought sent a shiver down your spine, your skin prickling with goosebumps. You’d been reckless, stupid, letting him in without a second thought. Your compassion, your need to help, had blinded you to the danger. And yet, the memory of his face—sharp jaw, inked skin, eyes that burned with a fire you didn’t understand—made your cheeks flush, your breath hitch. You pressed your palms to your face, willing the heat to fade, but it only grew, a traitor to your logic.

You sank onto the couch, the cushions still warm where he’d sat, and the faint scent of him lingered—cigarette smoke, musk, something darkly masculine that made your pulse quicken. “You’re an idiot,” you muttered to yourself, your voice cracking with self-reproach. “He could’ve killed you. He could’ve…” Your words trailed off, your imagination conjuring images of his hands, rough and tattooed, closing around your throat. But instead of fear, the thought sent a strange warmth pooling in your stomach, and you hated yourself for it.

You stood abruptly, needing to move, to shake off the spell he’d left behind. You paced the small room, your footsteps soft but frantic, your glasses slipping down your nose. The blood on the rug seemed to pulse in the corner of your vision, a silent accusation. You grabbed a sponge from the kitchen, the cold water stinging your hands as you scrubbed at the stain, the metallic scent of blood mixing with the lemony tang of dish soap. Your movements were frantic, your breaths coming in short, shaky gasps. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” you chanted under your breath, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. You didn’t know if you were crying for your recklessness, for the stranger’s pain, or for the way his absence left you feeling so hollow.

When the stain was as faded as it would get, you sat back on your heels, your hands trembling, your chest heaving. The room felt too big, too empty, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, seeking comfort in the pressure. “He’s gone,” you whispered, as if saying it aloud would make it true, would erase the way his eyes had pinned you, the way his voice had curled around you like smoke. “He’s gone, and you’re fine. You’re fine.”

But you weren’t fine. You felt exposed, like he’d peeled back your skin and seen the soft, trembling thing beneath. You stood, your legs unsteady, and moved to the window, pulling back the curtain to peer outside. The street was quiet, the trees swaying gently in the morning breeze, their leaves a riot of amber and crimson. No sign of him, no shadow lurking in the corners. He was a ghost, a nightmare that had slipped away with the night. But the bandages in the trash, the folded blanket, the faint scent of smoke—they were proof he’d been real, proof that you’d touched the edge of something dangerous and lived.

“Why did I do it?” you asked the empty room, your voice breaking, raw with emotion. “Why didn’t I just walk away?” You pressed your forehead to the cool glass, your breath fogging the pane. You’d always been the good girl, the one who helped, who cared, who believed in healing. But now, that belief felt like a crack in your armor, a vulnerability that could’ve cost you everything. And yet, the thought of him bleeding, dying, alone—it twisted something deep inside you, something that whispered you’d do it again, even now.

You turned away from the window, your heart still racing, your body thrumming with a restless energy you didn’t understand. You needed to study, to focus, to reclaim the quiet life you’d built. But as you moved to your desk, your eyes caught on the couch, on the blanket, on the rug. He was gone, but he’d left something behind—a mark, a shadow, a question that burned in your chest. Who was he? And why, despite everything, did you hope you’d see him again?

Jungkook’s world was a jagged edge, a place of blood-soaked deals and betrayal, where trust was a currency he’d long since burned. But you—you were a splinter in his armor, a soft, infuriating intrusion he couldn’t carve out. He tried to drown you in the chaos of his life, to bury your memory beneath the weight of his vengeance. He tracked his enemies through the city’s underbelly, his boots crunching on broken glass in abandoned warehouses, his gun heavy in his hand, the acrid tang of gunpowder lingering in the air. But no matter how many bodies he left in his wake, your face haunted him—your wide, guileless eyes, the hesitant curve of your lips, the way your hands had trembled as you stitched his wound. It was maddening, a fever he couldn’t shake, and it drove him to the edge of his own darkness.

He started watching you, not out of intention but compulsion, like a moth drawn to a flame it knew would burn. The city at night was his domain, its shadows cloaking him as he stood across from your apartment, the cherry of his cigarette glowing like a lone ember in the void. The air was heavy with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and the faint sweetness of jasmine from a nearby garden, a cruel contrast to the storm raging in his chest. He leaned against a rusted lamppost, its cold metal biting into his back, and exhaled a plume of smoke that curled upward, blending with the fog. His leather jacket creaked as he shifted, his tattoos itching under his skin, as if they, too, were restless for you.

Your routine became his scripture. At 7:30 a.m., you’d step out of your apartment, your backpack slung over one shoulder, its straps fraying at the edges. Your hair, often loose, caught the morning light, strands glinting like spun gold as you tucked them behind your ears with a nervous flick of your fingers. You walked with purpose but caution, your sneakers scuffing softly against the sidewalk, your glasses slipping down your nose as you adjusted them with a small, unconscious frown. He memorized the way you paused at the crosswalk, your lips moving slightly as if whispering a mantra to yourself, your breath visible in the crisp autumn air. By 8:00, you were at the university, disappearing into lecture halls where he couldn’t follow, though he imagined you there, hunched over a notebook, your pen scratching furiously, your brow furrowed in concentration.

Evenings found you at the library, your silhouette framed by the warm glow of a desk lamp. He’d linger outside, hidden in the alley across the street, the damp brick wall cold against his shoulder, the faint hum of traffic a distant pulse. Through the window, he’d watch you, your head bent over a textbook, your fingers tracing lines of text, your glasses reflecting the light like twin moons. Sometimes, you’d bite your lip, a habit that made his jaw clench, his fingers twitching around his cigarette. Other times, you’d stretch, your arms lifting, your sweater riding up to reveal a sliver of soft skin at your waist. It was a glimpse of vulnerability, a reminder of how fragile you were, and it made his blood burn with a mix of protectiveness and possession. He hated it—hated you for being so delicate, so unaware of the wolves circling your world.

Fridays were his favorite. You’d stop at the campus café, the bell above the door chiming as you entered, the air inside thick with the aroma of roasted coffee and warm pastries. You always ordered the same thing—a chamomile tea and a strawberry pastry, the kind with glossy pink icing that left crumbs on your lips. He’d watch from the street, his breath fogging in the cold, as you sat by the window, your fingers wrapped around the steaming mug, your eyes soft with contentment. Once, you licked a smear of icing from your thumb, your tongue darting out, and Jungkook’s grip on his cigarette tightened, the paper crumpling, the ash falling like snow. He wanted to storm in, to wipe that sweetness from your lips himself, to taste it on his tongue. The thought was a blade, sharp and dangerous, and he forced it away, grinding his teeth until his jaw ached.

“Why the fuck can’t I stop?” he muttered to himself, his voice a low growl lost in the night. He flicked his cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot, the spark dying with a hiss. “You’re nothing. Just a girl. Just a fucking distraction.”

But you weren’t. You were a fire in his veins, a poison he drank willingly. He learned everything about you. Your favorite books—dog-eared romance novels and dense medical texts, stacked haphazardly on your shelf. Your scent—floral lotion, sweet and clean, clinging to your clothes, your pillows, your life. Your habits—how you hummed softly when you cooked, your voice barely audible, a melody he strained to hear from outside your window. He knew you were alone, no family to anchor you, your parents gone, your world held together by sheer will and quiet dreams. It made him angry, how exposed you were, how easily the world could crush you. He could crush you. The thought was a dark thrill, a temptation he fought every time he saw you.

He watched from alleys, from rooftops, from the edges of your life, his presence a ghost you felt but couldn’t see. You’d pause sometimes, your steps faltering, your eyes scanning the darkness as if sensing the weight of his stare. Your brow would crease, your lips parting slightly, and he’d hold his breath, melting into the shadows, his heart pounding—not from fear, but from the electric pull of you. “Look at me,” he’d whisper, the words swallowed by the wind, his voice rough with longing and loathing. “See me, damn it.”

One night, he learned about your student loans, the debt that kept you awake, your sighs audible through your open window as you pored over bills. He saw the way your shoulders slumped, the way you rubbed your eyes, your glasses fogging with unshed tears. It was a vulnerability he couldn’t ignore, a crack in your armor that called to the part of him he’d buried long ago. Without thinking, he acted. He left an envelope on your doorstep, stuffed with cash, your name scrawled in his sharp, slanted handwriting. The bills were crisp, smelling faintly of ink and his cigarettes, a fortune from his blood money. He told himself it was a transaction, a debt repaid for the night you’d saved him. But when he saw you find it, your eyes widening, your fingers trembling as you counted the bills, he felt something twist in his chest—a sick pride, a hunger to see that look again.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he hissed, his voice low, venomous, as he watched you from across the street, the envelope clutched to your chest. “You’re gonna ruin me, and I’ll ruin you right back.”

He kept doing it, leaving stacks of cash when you weren’t home, each one a silent claim, a tether tying you to him. He’d watch you use it, paying your rent, your loans, your eyes bright with relief but shadowed with confusion. “Who are you?” you’d whisper to yourself, your voice soft, trembling, as you sat at your kitchen table, the envelope in your hands. He heard it through your window, the sound slicing through him, making his fists clench. “I’m your fucking shadow, princess,” he wanted to say, his voice a phantom in his throat. “And you’re mine.”

His obsession was a living thing, a beast with claws and teeth, growing with every glimpse of you. He memorized the way your cheeks pinked when you were flustered, the way your fingers tucked your hair behind your ears, the way your laugh—rare and soft—felt like a gift he didn’t deserve. Your existence was a paradox, a peace he craved and a fire he couldn’t control. It infuriated him, how you made him weak, how you made him want things he’d sworn never to want. “I don’t need you,” he snarled, his voice echoing in the empty alley, his cigarette burning down to his fingers. “I don’t need anyone.”

But he did. He needed you, and it was a truth he couldn’t outrun, no matter how fast he ran through the city’s shadows, no matter how many cigarettes he smoked, no matter how much blood he spilled. You were his weakness, his obsession, and he was a man drowning in it, watching you from the dark, his heart a battlefield, his soul a war he couldn’t win.

The night air clung to Jungkook like a second skin, heavy with the scent of rain and the acrid tang of his cigarette, its ember a lone beacon in the suffocating dark. His obsession with you had spiraled into something monstrous, a beast that gnawed at his insides, demanding more than just stolen glances from the shadows. He couldn’t stay away, not from you, not from the soft, feminine haven of your apartment that was so starkly at odds with the jagged edges of his world. Tonight, the pull was stronger, a magnetic force that drove him to your doorstep, his lockpicking tools silent as he breached your sanctuary once more.

The door clicked shut behind him, and he stood in your living room, his boots leaving faint smudges on your cream-colored rug. The space was a sensory assault—lavender and vanilla from a flickering candle on your coffee table, the faint sweetness of chamomile tea lingering in the air, the soft hum of a distant refrigerator. Your apartment was a cocoon, all pastel pinks and lilacs, with throw pillows embroidered with delicate flowers and a knitted blanket draped over the arm of your couch. It was you, distilled into every detail—the curve of a ceramic mug on your counter, the dog-eared romance novel on your shelf, the faint shimmer of your floral lotion in the air. It infuriated him, this softness, this fragility that could be crushed in an instant. He could crush it. He wanted to. And yet, he was here, drawn to it.

He moved through your space with predatory grace, his fingers trailing over your belongings, each touch a claim, a violation. The couch creaked as he sank onto it, the cushions yielding under his weight, still warm from where you’d sat earlier. He lit another cigarette, the sharp snap of his lighter echoing in the quiet, the smoke curling upward in lazy spirals, tainting the air with its bitter edge. He exhaled, the haze settling around him like a shroud, his dark eyes scanning the room, memorizing every inch. Your life was laid bare here—your dreams, your fears, your innocence—and he consumed it, ravenous.

His gaze fell on the laundry basket in the corner, half-hidden by a sheer curtain. His pulse quickened, a dark thrill coiling in his gut. He crossed the room, his boots silent on the hardwood, and lifted the lid. There, nestled among your soft sweaters and cotton tees, was a pair of panties—pink, delicate, with a faint lace trim that made his jaw clench. He lifted them, the fabric impossibly soft against his calloused fingers, and brought them to his face. Your scent hit him like a drug—warm, sweet, with a hint of your jasmine lotion and something uniquely you, something that made his blood roar. His cock twitched, straining against his jeans, and he groaned, low and guttural, the sound swallowed by the silence.

He returned to the couch, the panties clutched in one hand, his cigarette forgotten in the ashtray, its ember fading to ash. He sank back, his thighs spreading, his body taut with need. The room seemed to close in, the lavender air now thick with his own musk, the faint creak of the couch a rhythm to his racing pulse. He unzipped his jeans with a slow, deliberate motion, the sound obscene in the quiet. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the tip already glistening with precum, veins pulsing with the heat of his desire. He wrapped your panties around his length, the silk a stark contrast to his roughness, and hissed at the sensation—soft, cool, like a lover’s touch he’d never known.

His hand moved, slow at first, the lace catching on his calluses, sending shivers up his spine. He imagined you, your wide eyes, your trembling lips, the way you’d gasp if you saw him like this, defiling your innocence. The thought made him harder, his grip tightening, the panties sliding over his shaft with a friction that was both torment and ecstasy. His hips bucked, the couch creaking louder, the sound mingling with his ragged breaths. Your scent filled his lungs, jasmine and warmth, and he pressed the fabric to his nose again, inhaling deeply, his tongue darting out to taste the faintest trace of you. It was enough to unravel him.

“Fuck,” he growled, his voice a low snarl, thick with need. “You’re in my head, little girl. You’re fucking everywhere.” The words were a confession, a curse, spat into the empty room as if you could hear him. His hand moved faster, the panties slick now with his precum, the silk catching on his piercings, tugging in a way that made him groan. His other hand gripped the couch, nails digging into the fabric, leaving crescent marks in the soft pink upholstery. He pictured you on your knees, your soft mouth around him, your innocence shattered by his touch. The image was too much, too vivid—your flushed cheeks, your whimpers, the way you’d look up at him, trusting, trembling.

His climax built like a storm, a pressure that made his vision blur. His hips jerked, his cock throbbing, and he bit his lip hard enough to taste blood, stifling the moan that threatened to spill out. “You’re mine,” he rasped, the words a vow, a threat, as he came, hot and thick, his cum spilling into the panties, soaking the delicate fabric. The release was violent, his body shuddering, his breath hitching in sharp, uneven gasps. He sat there, panting, his cock still twitching, the panties now a ruined testament to his obsession, stained with his desire, his shame.

He leaned back, his head tipping against the couch, the aftershocks of his orgasm mingling with a wave of self-loathing. The room was silent again, save for the faint drip of a faucet in your kitchen, the distant hum of the city beyond your walls. He stared at the ceiling, your ceiling, with its faint cracks and soft white paint, and felt the weight of what he’d done. He wasn’t a good man. He didn’t do soft, didn’t do kind. But you—you were a fire in his blood, a light in his darkness, and he hated you for it. Hated how your softness made him weak, how your existence threatened to unravel the cold, ruthless shell he’d built.

He tucked himself back into his jeans, the panties shoved into his pocket, a trophy he couldn’t leave behind. He stood, his legs unsteady, and lit another cigarette, the flame casting sharp shadows across his face. He took a drag, the smoke burning his throat, and exhaled, the haze curling around him like a lover’s embrace. He moved to your bedroom door, pausing to look at your bed—unmade, the lavender sheets tangled, a faint indent where you’d slept. He imagined you there, your body soft and vulnerable, your nightie riding up your thighs, and his fists clenched, his nails biting into his palms.

“You’re too fucking delicate,” he muttered, his voice low, laced with anger and something softer, something he refused to name. “This world’ll break you. I could break you.” The words were a warning, to you, to himself. He turned away, his boots heavy on the floor, and slipped out of your apartment, leaving behind the cigarette butt on your coffee table, its ash a silent claim, a promise of his return.

The night swallowed him, but your scent lingered on his skin, in his pocket, in his mind. He was a monster, and you were his prey, but the hunt was far from over.

The air in your apartment was thick, suffocating, as if the walls themselves were closing in, trapping you in a cage of your own making. The faint scent of lavender from your candle mingled with the acrid tang of cigarette smoke, a lingering ghost of the intruder who’d invaded your sanctuary. Your heart hammered against your ribcage, a frantic bird desperate to escape, as you stood in the center of your living room, tears streaming down your cheeks, hot and relentless. The evidence was everywhere—cigarette butts on your coffee table, their charred ends like tiny accusations; a single pink rose on your counter, its petals too perfect, too deliberate; the faint indentation on your bed, smelling of musk and danger. Someone was watching you, knowing you, unraveling the fragile threads of your life. The money—envelopes of cash that had saved you from drowning in debt—had kept you silent, complicit, but tonight, the weight of it all crushed you.

You clenched your fists, your nails biting into your palms, the sharp sting grounding you as your voice tore from your throat, raw and trembling. “Who are you?” you screamed into the empty air, your words echoing off the pastel walls. “What do you want from me? Just leave me alone! Stop this—stop tormenting me!” Your voice cracked, a sob choking you as you sank to your knees, your glasses fogging with tears. The room spun, the soft glow of your fairy lights blurring into a kaleidoscope of fear and despair. You were a fool, a coward, for not calling the police, for letting the money tether you to this nightmare. Your hands shook as you clutched your hair, pulling at the roots, the pain a desperate anchor to reality.

The silence that followed was deafening, a void that swallowed your cries. Then, a creak—the soft groan of a floorboard in your bedroom. Your breath hitched, your body freezing as a shadow moved, deliberate and unhurried, emerging from the darkness like a predator stepping into the light. Jungkook stood there, his presence a storm, filling the room with an electric menace that made the air crackle. His black leather jacket was open, revealing the taut lines of his chest beneath a fitted shirt, his tattoos curling up his neck like dark promises. His dark hair was mussed, falling into his eyes, which burned with an intensity that pinned you in place, stripping you bare. A cigarette dangled from his lips, the ember glowing red, casting fleeting shadows across his sharp jaw. He didn’t belong here, in your soft, feminine world of lavender and lace, yet he stood as if he owned it, as if you were the intruder.

You gasped, recognition slamming into you like a freight train. The man you’d saved—the one whose blood had stained your rug, whose piercing gaze had haunted your dreams—was here, in your home, like a specter made flesh. Your heart stuttered, your tears drying on your cheeks as you scrambled to your feet, your legs wobbly beneath you. “You,” you whispered, your voice a fragile thread, barely audible over the pounding in your ears. “It was you. All this time… it was you.”

Jungkook didn’t move, his eyes locked on yours, dark and unreadable, like twin voids that could swallow you whole. He took a slow drag of his cigarette, the smoke curling from his lips in a lazy spiral, the scent sharp and invasive, tainting the air you breathed. “You shouldn’t have helped me that night,” he said, his voice low, a gravelly growl that vibrated through the room, sending a shiver down your spine. “You should’ve run, little girl. Should’ve locked your door and prayed I’d bleed out on the street.”

His words were a blade, slicing through your resolve, and you stumbled back, your hip brushing against the edge of your couch. Fear and anger warred within you, your hands trembling as you pointed a shaky finger at him. “I’m calling the police,” you said, your voice quivering but gaining strength, fueled by the betrayal burning in your chest. “You’ve been in my home, touching my things, leaving your… your filth everywhere! Why? Why are you doing this? I saved you! I saved your life, and this is how you repay me?”

His eyes flashed, a dangerous glint that made your stomach lurch. In two strides, he crossed the room, his boots heavy on the hardwood, the sound reverberating like a death knell. He loomed over you, his broad frame blocking the light, casting you in shadow. Before you could react, he grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head as he slammed you against the wall, the impact jarring, the plaster cold against your back. His body was a furnace, radiating heat and danger, his scent overwhelming—cigarettes, leather, and something darker, primal. His grip was iron, bruising, his calloused fingers digging into your skin, and you whimpered, your glasses slipping down your nose.

“Don’t you dare,” he snarled, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your lips, tinged with nicotine and rage. “You think you can scream at me? Threaten me? You’re nothing, you hear me? A little girl playing hero, and now you’re in over your head. You’re my obsession, my fucking curse. I don’t believe in love, in fairy tales, but you—you’re in my head, clawing at me, and I can’t rip you out. It pisses me off, you know that? You’re too soft, too pure, and I want to break you, want to make you scream just to see if you’ll still look at me with those innocent eyes.”

His words were a storm, each one a lash against your heart, and you trembled, tears spilling anew, hot and stinging as they carved paths down your cheeks. His eyes followed them, a flicker of something—hunger, fascination—crossing his face, and it terrified you, thrilled you, in ways you couldn’t understand. “I shouldn’t have saved you,” you choked out, your voice breaking, raw with anger and regret. “I should’ve let you die out there, let the street take you. You’re a monster, and I was stupid—stupid to think I could help someone like you!”

His grip tightened, his fingers crushing your wrists, and he leaned closer, his nose brushing your cheek, his lips so close you could feel their heat. “Say that again,” he roared, his voice a thunderclap, shaking you to your core. “Say it, you little brat! Tell me you regret it, tell me you hate me! Go on, scream it, because I’ll burn it into your soul, make you feel every fucking second of my anger!” His eyes were wild, blazing with a fury that wasn’t just at you but at himself, at the world, at the obsession that had chained him to you.

You sobbed, your body shaking, but you couldn’t look away, couldn’t break free from the intensity of his gaze. His face was a mask of rage, but beneath it, there was something else—pain, raw and jagged, like a wound that wouldn’t heal. Your lips parted, but no words came, only a whimper, a sound of defeat and defiance. The air between you crackled, charged with a tension that was both electric and suffocating, the space shrinking until there was nothing but him—his heat, his scent, his fury.

His eyes dropped to your lips, and for a heartbeat, time stopped. Then, with a growl that was half-curse, half-prayer, he crashed his mouth against yours, the kiss brutal, consuming, a collision of anger and need. His lips were hard, demanding, his tongue forcing its way past your defenses, claiming you with a ferocity that stole your breath. You gasped, your hands pushing against his chest, but he was immovable, a mountain of muscle and rage, his body pressing against yours, pinning you to the wall. The taste of him was intoxicating—nicotine, salt, and something darker, like the edge of a blade. His teeth grazed your lip, a sharp sting that made you cry out, and he swallowed the sound, his kiss deepening, devouring.

Your body betrayed you, a heat blooming in your core, your skin tingling where his hands roamed, sliding down your arms, gripping your hips with a possessiveness that made your knees weak. You were a virgin, untouched, and the sensation was overwhelming, a tidal wave of want and fear crashing over you. His hands were rough, calloused, a stark contrast to your softness, and every touch felt like a brand, marking you as his. You hated him, feared him, but your body arched into him, craving the storm he unleashed.

He pulled back, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with a hunger that made your heart stutter. His cigarette had fallen, smoldering on the floor, forgotten in the chaos of his need. “You’re mine,” he rasped, his voice hoarse, trembling with an emotion he couldn’t name. “You don’t get to run, don’t get to hide. I’ll tear this fucking world apart before I let you go.”

You were shaking, your lips swollen, your glasses askew, your body alive with a fire you didn’t understand. The wall was cold against your back, his body a furnace against your front, and the world narrowed to the space between you, a battlefield of anger, fear, and something unspoken, something that could destroy you both.

The air between you was a live wire, crackling with a tension that burned hotter than the fear in your veins. Jungkook’s lips lingered on yours from the kiss that had shattered your defenses, his taste—bitter smoke, raw hunger—still coating your tongue. Your body trembled, pinned against the wall by the sheer weight of his presence, his broad shoulders blocking out the world, his inked arms caging you like a predator savoring its prey. Your heart thundered, a wild, erratic drumbeat, and your breath came in shallow gasps, each one laced with the scent of him—cigarettes, musk, and something darker, like the promise of ruin. You were a virgin, untouched by hands or lips, and the intensity of his touch was a tidal wave, drowning you in sensations you didn’t know how to name.

He pulled back, his chest heaving, his dark eyes molten with a storm of desire and conflict. His jaw was tight, the veins in his neck pulsing under his tattooed skin, and his hands, still gripping your hips, were bruisingly firm, as if he were anchoring himself to you. Slowly, deliberately, he sank to his knees before you, his leather jacket creaking, the sound sharp in the stifling silence of your apartment. The sight of him—Jungkook, the cold, ruthless criminal, kneeling for you—was a paradox that made your head spin. His hands slid up your thighs, rough calluses scraping against your soft skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Your skirt bunched under his fingers, the fabric catching on his rings, and you gasped, your hands flying to the wall for support, nails digging into the plaster.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped, his voice a low, guttural plea, raw with an edge of desperation you’d never heard from him. His breath was hot against your inner thigh, his lips hovering so close you could feel the ghost of them on your skin. “Say it, and I’ll walk away. I’ll leave you alone.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. Your throat was tight, your mind a whirlwind of fear, want, and something deeper, something that terrified you. His eyes locked onto yours, searching, demanding, and in them, you saw a flicker of vulnerability—a crack in the armor of the man who lived for himself alone. Your silence was your surrender, and he saw it, his gaze darkening, his hands tightening on your hips until you whimpered, the sound high and trembling.

He didn’t wait for more. With a low growl, he shoved your skirt higher, the fabric pooling at your waist, exposing the delicate lace of your panties—white, innocent, a stark contrast to the darkness of his intent. His fingers hooked into the waistband, and with a sharp tug, he tore them apart, the sound of ripping fabric echoing like a gunshot in your ears. You gasped, your body jerking, but his hands held you firm, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your hips, grounding you even as your world tilted.

His mouth was on you in an instant, hot and unrelenting, his lips closing over your clit with a hunger that stole your breath. The first touch was a shock, a bolt of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, and you cried out, your voice breaking into a high, keening moan that filled the room. His tongue flicked against you, slow at first, then faster, a rhythm that was both precise and feral, like a man starving for something he’d never tasted. The wet heat of his mouth was overwhelming, his lips sucking gently, then harder, drawing out sensations you didn’t know your body could feel. Your thighs trembled, threatening to give out, but his hands slid to your ass, gripping you tightly, holding you open for him, his fingers digging into your flesh with a possessiveness that made your head spin.

“Fuck,” he groaned against you, the vibration of his voice sending a fresh wave of pleasure crashing through you. His breath was hot, ragged, fanning across your sensitive skin, and you felt the scrape of his stubble against your inner thighs, a delicious burn that grounded you in the moment. “You taste so fucking good. So sweet. Like you were made for me.”

His words were a blade, slicing through your defenses, and you moaned, your head falling back against the wall, your glasses slipping down your nose. Your hands found his hair, thick and soft, and you clutched at it, desperate for an anchor as he devoured you. His tongue circled your clit, teasing, tormenting, before plunging lower, lapping at your entrance, tasting the slickness that had gathered there. You were embarrassingly wet, the sounds of his mouth against you—wet, obscene—filling the room, mingling with your gasps and whimpers. Your cheeks burned with shame and need, but you couldn’t stop, couldn’t pull away, not when his mouth felt like salvation.

“Jungkook,” you whimpered, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer, a plea, a curse. Your voice was raw, trembling, and it seemed to ignite something in him. He growled, low and primal, his lips sealing over your clit again, sucking hard, his tongue flicking in a relentless rhythm that made your vision blur. His hands kneaded your ass, pulling you closer, deeper, as if he wanted to consume you entirely.

“Look at you,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening with your arousal, his eyes wild and dark. “Falling apart for me. You’re mine, you hear me? No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to taste you.”

His possessiveness sent a thrill through you, dangerous and intoxicating, and you nodded, unable to form words, your breath hitching as his fingers slid to your entrance. He pushed one inside, slow and deliberate, his digit thick and rough against your untouched walls. You gasped, your pussy clenching around him, and he cursed under his breath, his forehead resting against your thigh for a moment, as if he were trying to steady himself.

“So tight,” he murmured, his voice thick with lust. “Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me, aren’t you? Little virgin, so perfect, so untouched. I’m gonna break you, and you’re gonna love it.”

He added a second finger, stretching you, the slight burn mingling with pleasure so intense it made you dizzy. His lips returned to your clit, sucking in time with the thrust of his fingers, curling them inside you, hitting a spot that made your legs shake and your moans turn to sobs. Your body was a live wire, every nerve singing, every touch amplified. The room smelled of sex and cigarettes, of your arousal and his dominance, and it was heady, overwhelming, pulling you under.

“Jungkook, please,” you cried, your voice breaking, your hips bucking against his mouth, chasing the release that was building, coiling tighter and tighter in your core. “I can’t—I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he growled, his voice a command, his lips vibrating against you. “Let me feel it. Let me taste it. Come on my tongue, baby.”

His words were your undoing. The coil snapped, and you shattered, your climax crashing over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing, your moans turning to screams. Your hands yanked at his hair, your thighs clamping around his head, but he didn’t stop, his tongue and fingers working you through it, drawing out every shudder, every pulse, until you were a trembling, gasping mess. Your glasses fogged, your vision spotting, and you slumped against the wall, your legs barely holding you up.

He didn’t let you fall. His hands gripped your hips, steadying you, his mouth still on you, softer now, kissing your swollen, sensitive flesh with a reverence that made your heart ache. He pulled back, his lips and chin slick, his eyes burning as they met yours. He stood, towering over you, and kissed you again, deep and possessive, letting you taste yourself on his tongue—sweet, tangy, intimate. You moaned into his mouth, your hands clutching his shirt, the fabric rough under your fingers, anchoring you to the man who’d unraveled you.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against your lips, his voice raw, almost broken. “Don’t forget that.”

You slumped against him, your body spent, your mind a haze of pleasure and confusion. Your hands fisted in his shirt, clinging to the fabric of a man who was both your savior and your stalker, a murderer who’d knelt for you, who’d made you feel alive for the first time. The weight of it—of him—was too much, and as your eyes fluttered shut, you surrendered to the darkness, your body safe in his arms, your heart caught in his storm.

Your body was a fragile weight in Jungkook’s arms, your breath soft and even, a delicate rhythm against the chaos of his own heartbeat. He carried you through the dim glow of your apartment, each step a battle against the urge to stay, to claim you as his own. Your head rested against his chest, your hair spilling over his arm like silk, catching the faint moonlight that slipped through the lavender curtains. The scent of you—strawberries, chamomile, and something uniquely yours—clung to him, a drug that made his blood hum and his resolve fracture. Your warmth seeped into his skin, a stark contrast to the cold steel of his world, and it terrified him how much he craved it.

He reached your bedroom, the space a shrine to your softness: a pastel quilt draped over the bed, a small vase of daisies on the nightstand, their petals curling in the quiet dark. The air was heavy with the lingering fragrance of your floral lotion, a scent that had haunted him since the night he’d first invaded your space. He laid you down with a gentleness he didn’t know he possessed, your body sinking into the mattress, the baby blue nightie riding up slightly to reveal the smooth curve of your thigh. Your lips parted in sleep, a faint flush still staining your cheeks, and Jungkook’s chest tightened, a visceral ache that felt like a blade twisting between his ribs.

He knelt beside the bed, his rough hands hovering over you, afraid to touch, afraid to taint. Your face was serene, your lashes casting delicate shadows across your skin, and he wondered how someone so alive, so full of light, could exist in a world as cruel as his. You were a wildflower blooming in a wasteland, and he was the storm that would tear you from the earth. His fingers twitched, yearning to trace the curve of your cheek, to feel the warmth of your skin one last time, but he held back, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

“You don’t belong with me,” he whispered, his voice a low, ragged thing, barely audible in the stillness. The words were a confession, a wound torn open. “You’re too fucking pure, too good. I’ll break you, petal. I’ll crush you, and you’ll hate me for it.”

His eyes burned, a foreign sting he refused to acknowledge. He wasn’t soft. He wasn’t weak. But you—you made him feel things he’d buried long ago, things he’d sworn never to let surface. The memory of your cries, your body trembling under his touch, flashed through his mind, and he gripped the edge of the bed, his knuckles white. He wanted to keep you, to lock you away in a cage of his own making, where no one else could touch you, where you’d be his alone. The thought was a poison, sweet and deadly, and it made his blood roar with a possessiveness that scared him.

He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over your face, and pressed his His lips brushed your forehead, a fleeting kiss, soft as a prayer, heavy as a vow. Your skin was warm, impossibly soft, and he lingered, memorizing the feel of you, knowing it was the last time. The weight of his decision settled in his chest like a stone, cold and unyielding. He stood, his shadow falling over you, a dark specter in your gentle world.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice breaking, a fracture in his iron walls. “I can’t do this to you. I won’t. You deserve someone who’ll hold you like you’re glass, not shatter you like I will.”

He backed away, each step a tear in his soul, the distance between you growing with every heartbeat. The room seemed to close in, the walls whispering his failure, his cowardice. He paused at the door, turning back one last time. You were still asleep, oblivious to the war raging inside him, your chest rising and falling, a quiet promise of life he could never share. The sight of you—so small, so trusting—clawed at him, a silent accusation.

“I won’t come back,” he swore, the words a blade he drove into his own heart. “I’ll stay away, even if it fucking kills me.”

He slipped into the night, the door clicking shut behind him, a finality that echoed in his bones. The city swallowed him, its neon veins pulsing with the same restless energy that churned in his veins. He lit a cigarette, the flame flaring briefly before dying in the dark, the smoke curling around him like a lover’s caress. It tasted bitter, like regret, like you. He walked into the shadows, the ember glowing faintly, a lone beacon in the abyss. His enemies waited, his revenge a siren call he could no longer ignore. But you—you were the ghost he’d carry, the obsession he couldn’t shake, and as the night closed around him, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be free.

jungkook's version

pairing: jungkook x fem!reader x taehyung

word count: 3.7k

co-written with @crybabychim!

read her taehyung's version

warnings: heavy non con themes, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, mentions of physical violence.

Sore. 

The only word you can use to describe how you feel right now. An intense feeling of grogginess takes over as you wake up, head pounding and a painful soreness sits in between your legs. 

You wish you could say it was only a nightmare. A sick and twisted dream you’ve just endured. However, you physically and mentally can’t say that. Your swollen eyes start to well up with salty tears as you look around the unfamiliar dimly lit room and bed you lay in, remembering the sick events that took place almost a day prior. 

You’re cold. A thin gray sheet covering your trembling body, the feeling grosser than ever when you feel something damp in your underwear, threatening to seep down your thighs. 

You begin to sob when you realize what it is. You can’t forget the way he handled you like you were some type of object, just a toy for him to use. You hated that you also came multiple times,  you couldn’t help how your body was reacting to him.

The bed is empty, you’re left by yourself to be eaten alive by your thoughts. You fear for when he returns from wherever he currently is, scared he may try to do something to you again but even rougher than the first time.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the bedroom door creaking open. You immediately shut your eyes before you can see the figure standing in the doorway. Your face is tear stained, but you still attempt to make it seem like you are still asleep.

You hold your breath when the sound of footsteps get closer to the bed, even scarier when they stop. The next thing you know a hand is smoothing out your hair, their fingers running from your hairline down to your jaw. Their hand moves to wipe your visible tears and a wave of chills hits you at the feeling.

You slowly open your eyes, trying to register the face of the person in front of you.

It's not the same guy from before.

This one has long hair, big black pupils, and a very detailed tattoo sleeve. 

“Good, you’re awake.” The unfamiliar man speaks up after a minute of pure silence since he’s walked in. 

You are speechless, not wanting or knowing what to say. Does he already know what happened? Is he in on this too?

You remain silent, the most you can do is tear up once again as you’re scared of what is yet to come.

“Get up, you need a shower,” is all that leaves his mouth before he begins to pull the sheet from your frail body. His authoritative words make you flinch a bit, but you don’t have the energy to fight back.

He encourages you to get up with a sign of his hand and you execute yourself with difficulty, the bones in your body cracking, making you wince in pain. You can’t ignore the messy state that you are in, shivering as the temperature of the room feels very cold. This situation embarrasses you very much. 

He notices your struggle to lift yourself from the bed, leading him to take matters into his own hands and lift you from the mattress. You are surprised at how he isn’t dragging you around like a pet, but his grip on you is assertive. 

You feel your face heating up at the fact that your chest is pressed up against his firm one. You immediately pass your arms around his neck as one of his arms wraps around your back, the tattooed one under your butt, your legs still dangling in the air.

He walks only a few steps out of the bedroom and down the hall before opening the new door with his hand that was previously over your back. You enter a rather small bathroom like he’s told you before in the bedroom. 

He puts you down and you manage to find your balance, even though you still struggle a bit. He makes his way to the shower and turns on the faucet. He makes his way back to you as the water heats up, yet he doesn’t leave. 

“W-what are you doing?” You stumble over words when his hands find their way to the hem of your shirt, threatening to expose your naked body. He stops and stares at you blankly.

“You’re shaking like a leaf, you obviously can’t stand on your two feet let alone take care of yourself.” He states firmly. You’re not some little girl who can’t do anything on your own, you’re a grown woman.

“No, I got it.” You speak without a second thought. 

He arcs an eyebrow up, as if not believing you. “And what will happen if you trip over and knock your head into the counter? Have you seen yourself?” 

You swallow. You dare to look at yourself in the mirror above the sink, and you aren’t looking good at all. He has a point, but you still don’t want to undress yourself in front of a stranger.

“I’m just here to make sure you don’t hurt yourself. I won’t do anything.” 

You don’t answer for a few seconds, debating in your head. It wouldn’t be smart to trust him, but it’s not like you have a choice, and anyway, right now you prefer him over the other guy… 

You start to pull your shirt over your head with a burning face, avoiding his gaze at all cost. You feel extremely humiliated as you slip out of your panties.

He doesn’t show any signs of lust, actually having a calm and composed expression. You shouldn’t get fooled, though, because he is good at hiding his true emotions. 

You cover your naked breasts with your arms, keeping your legs closed so he can’t get a good look at your private parts. “I can wash myself. Can you, please, leave?”

“Whatever. I’ll get you some clothes,” he replies, rolling his eyes. He looks at you one last time before saying, “My name’s Jungkook, by the way.” 

And with that, he actually leaves. He closes the door behind him, which relieves you a little bit. He at least agreed to give you some privacy. It’s nice of him, you think, but you shouldn’t get high hopes. 

You step into the hot water, your cold limbs feeling more relieved as you stand directly under the shower head. You wet your entire body, about to reach for the citrus shampoo, a smell you recognize from last night, when the sound of the bathroom door opening catches your attention.

“I got you some clothes, this is all I have for you right now.” Jungkook calls over the sound of the shower running while setting the folded clothes on the bathroom counter. Yet he isn’t showing any signs of leaving.

“Hm, okay, thanks… Can you let me finish first, please?” You plead while watching his form move behind the shower curtain. 

He’s not moving towards the door though, but closer to you. As you wait for him to leave, he unexpectedly pulls the curtains to the side and your eyes open wide in surprise when he joins you, completely naked. 

That’s why he wasn’t leaving, he was stripping down from his clothes, having the intention to enter the shower with you. He absolutely ignored your words of leaving you alone. 

You move back instantly, your body hitting the cold tiles of the shower. You again cover yourself with your arms, keeping your mouth sealed shut, paralyzed.

He’s so imposing, even more when naked. You can’t help but stare at him, unable to look at the bottom half of his body, too embarrassed and still shocked by his sudden inappropriate behavior. 

However, he doesn’t seem to think there's a problem, instead reaches for the vanilla body wash just as you were about to do. 

“Just wanna help you,” he explains, big eyes looking back at you. He looks so serene, and you hate that nothing seems to destabilize him. “Turn around,” he instructs and when you don’t budge an inch, he grabs your arm and moves you himself. You gasp at his straightforwardness, your mind already telling you this won’t end well. He’s already lied to you once, so there's a high chance he’s done it again.

He squeezes the soap into a white loofah, moving your wet hair to scrub your backside, making sure to not miss any part. He moves down to your arms, working his way up to your tits. He slowly drags the loofah back and forth over your pebbled nipples, catching on the way your breath hitches when he does. 

After a minute of solely washing your breasts, he brings the loofah to your stomach, each scrub leading his hand lower on your hips.

Jungkook suddenly discards the scrubber, his big hands sinking down to your private parts. He places his head onto your shoulder, his long, wet hair tickling your neck. You try to shove him off of you, but his grip on you isn’t budging, his hand already cupping your pussy.

“You- you said you were just w-washing me,” you frantically spit out, grabbing at his arm that’s on your mound. Instead of answering you, he takes his free arm and crosses it over waist, trapping both of your arms under him.

He takes his pointer and middle finger to spread your swollen cunt open for him to observe. You feel so exposed, so played that he lied to you again after using the excuse of ‘just washing you’ to get his way with you.

“Shit. Taehyung didn’t go easy on you, huh?” 

Taehyung. So that is the name of the one who got his hands first on you. 

You’re quickly snapped out of your thoughts when his index finger makes contact with your clit, pussy clenching involuntarily at the feeling.

“Please, just… stop,” you pathetically beg for him to move his hands. Yet all you get from him is his heavy breathing, and something poking your asscheek.

“You’re sensitive as fuck. Look at you.” He comments as he sees your legs twitching with every rub he gives your throbbing clit, hole slicking up at the stimulation.

Not being able to wait much longer, Jungkook removes his fingers from your pussy, pushing the arch of your back lower, grabbing his now fully erect cock while opening your legs a bit wider than before with his leg.

“No, stop… Please, don’t,” your words are rushed when he forcefully pushes himself inside your swollen cunt. 

His thrusts are rough, almost knocking the air out of your lungs. He doesn’t give you time to adjust to his large size, which leads your hole to violently clench around him, making it harder for him to control himself.

“Tae already dealt with you, how are you still so small?” he says through clenched teeth, his tattooed hand going to grab at your jaw, squishing your lips and cheeks. 

He forcefully lifts your head up to look at him, leaving you no other choice than to make eye contact. 

“N-no, stop, it hurts,” you try to speak when your mouth is being crushed in between his long fingers. He doesn’t listen to you though, repeatedly slamming his cock into you from behind, his pelvis hitting your ass with force within every thrust.

The water is still warm, running down both of your bodies, disregarding the fact that you need to clean yourself. You feel your orgasm building up in the pit of your stomach, his cock hitting the right places. You hate that it's starting to feel good, you’re not supposed to be turned on by this.

Before you can reach the edge, Jungkook pulls his cock out of you, leaving your hole empty and gaping. Yet not being able to utter a single word, your body is turned around and he kneels in front of you, his face directly in front of your crotch.

He gives your clit some attention, throbbing when his tongue licks a full stride over it. You whimper when you feel the metal of his lip rings adding the slightest friction to your clit.

You surprise yourself when your hand travels down to grip his long, wet hair. He eats your cunt like a starved man, his nose replacing his tongue when he finds his way back to your hole.

“Tastes better than I imagined, baby, fuck,” he groans before shoving his face back into your sopping pussy. 

You slightly grind your hips on his face, feeling him smile against your pussy. You’re shocked at how quick you’re about to reach your orgasm, Jungkook sliding his fingers inside of you to bring you to the edge even faster.

He speeds up the pace of his fingers that are hitting your sweet spot, his mouth sucking harshly on your clit, desperate for you to cum on his face. Your hole clenches repeatedly at the feeling, unable to hold it in anymore, you finally reach your high.

Jungkook fucks his fingers into you through your orgasm, your legs tightening around his head. Your hand on his hair shakes weakly, moaning at the feeling of his lips being still on your cunt, tongue flicking your bud of nerves from side to side. 

He stands back up and passes your legs around his waist. Just when he’s about to slide back into you, he notices a creamy ring of your cum at the base of his cock and his fingers, covering some of his dark pubes, a little dripping down to his balls. He can’t help but get more excited than before now that he sees your body is enjoying it. 

You moan out at the stretch in this new position, your pussy taking every inch he gives you even though you are sensitive from your first orgasm. Both of your naked chests rub together when he pushes himself closer to maintain the same eye contact as before. His wet abs clench at the feeling, thrusts sloppier than they were previously. 

You can’t even lie to yourself, the bulging muscles and strength he has to hold you brings you a tingly feeling in your tummy you’re ashamed to admit. Your nails dig into his sides at the oversensitivity, pussy still quivering around his cock. 

A small whimper escapes your lips that you tried so hard to keep from leaving your throat. Your walls tighten up around Jungkook while he never slows down his thrusts, fucking you to reach his own orgasm.

“Yeah, baby. Gonna fucking make me cum too.” 

He fucks into your spent pussy sloppily which has you wincing in overstimulation. The pain doesn’t last much longer when you feel his thick ropes of cum filling your cunt.

“Shit, yeah. Like it when I fill you, huh?” He groans into your ear, his soaking wet hair brushing against your face.

His thrusts finally stop when he pulls out of you, cum quickly escaping your bruised pussy. He backs you up from the wall to set you down back onto your feet, legs shaking from how intense he fucked you.

Without a word, he brings your body forward to the shower head, rinsing your body. He rubs his hands over your body, slowly inching down to your swollen pussy as he cleans it of his cum gently. Your face can’t help but heat up at the action, you wouldn’t have expected him to give you aftercare. 

He leans over, turning the faucet off and steps out of the shower first. He grabs a towel from the cabinets to wrap around his slim waist, and another to wrap around your shivering body. 

You’re still shaking, barely being able to get out of the tub. He places his hands under your underarms, swiftly lifting you up and out of the tub, your feet meeting the cold floor. He’s about to unwrap the towel from you when you tighten your grip around it. 

“I’ve got you, don’t worry,” he reassures you. You loosen your hand from the hem of the towel, letting him take care of it.

He undoes the towel from your body, beginning to dry you off. No one has done this for you ever, so you don’t know what to do with yourself. It is odd letting a man you don’t know dry you after a shower.

He admires your body, your smooth skin filled with goosebumps which makes your delicate nipples hard.

Once you’re dried off completely, he leans over to grab the t-shirt for you to wear. 

“Arms up.” He instructs when he pulls the shirt over your head, helping you to slip it on. He grabs a pair of black boxers you assume are his for you to wear. 

Once he slips the underwear onto you, he wraps his arms around your torso, kissing your jaw and down your neck. You’re flustered, but you don’t make an effort to lean into his touch. How can you react to that after what he’s done to you in the shower. 

The sound of the front door being unlocked interrupts the moment between the pair of you. Jungkook removes his arms from around you and grabs a pair of sweatpants from the dresser, slipping them on quickly.

“Tae’s back.” He says nonchalantly. In all honesty, you are most afraid of Taehyung out of the two men for obvious reasons.

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You start to adjust to how things work between the two boys and their routines. It took you a bit by surprise when Taehyung instructed you to sleep directly in between them in one bed. It did make you a bit uncomfortable, but you got used to it.

Jungkook is with you the majority of the day since you’re asleep in the mornings he has class and awake when Taehyung goes to his own. It's as if they have you in ‘shifts’, not ever letting you have alone time or any privacy. 

You were bored most of the time, but you’ve found Jungkook cooking to be entertaining. You love watching his veiny tattooed hands prepare meals for you. You hate to admit that it turns you on.

Jungkook never lets you out of his sight, forcing you to be in the room with him at all times. His standards are very strict for you, like his ‘no TV or phone’ rule unless he’s there. 

No matter what you do, you are left with no way to reach the outside world. It drives you crazy having to live with constant unanswered questions since they refuse to give you any answers.

“I miss my family,” you mumble under your breath, playing with the food on your plate, which you know angers Jungkook a lot. 

“Stop playing with your food and eat it before it gets cold.” Jungkook responds, completely ignoring your comment. 

He side-eyes you and you keep looking at your plate, not acknowledging his command, getting him irritated. Taehyung, on the other hand, gives you a sad look with pouty lips, having pity for you.

“Do they even know where I am, if I’m even alive?” You pick at the topic more, not daring to coward away from Jungkook’s irritated look. 

“Baby, why are you thinking about that right now? Just eat.” Taehyung coos, going to reach for your shoulder when you dodge his touch. 

You groan at him and he doesn’t like this at all, hating when you avoid his touch. You know you’re making both of them angry, but it isn’t any of your fault. They shouldn’t be the ones to be mad, it should be you. 

That's when you’ve had enough of their silence. Instead of constantly bombarding them with questions you know they’ll just brush off, you decide to ignore them entirely. Not making eye contact, constantly refusing their commands, and not eating. 

“Don’t give into her whims, Tae. It's just gonna give her ideas.” Jungkook speaks, making stern eye contact with Taehyung. You can tell this is something that they’ve discussed before. It was inevitable you’d get curious and ask questions.

You get up to push out of your chair, leaving your untouched plate on the table. You know not finishing your food will strike a nerve.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Jungkook raises his voice, causing you to flinch at his loud tone.

“Obviously nowhere. I can’t leave this stupid place!” You point out as if it isn’t clear enough for them to know.

Jungkook matches your action and gets up too, disregarding your full plate.

“Watch your tone. You’re the one who’s asking pointless questions. Sit your ass back down and finish eating.” 

“No! I can’t, I don't want to!” You reply back right away, your eyes starting to water. “I want to know, that’s all I want,” you explain to them almost desperately, almost begging. 

Taehyung tries to cool down the situation.

“Let’s all just calm down, okay? I’m sure you’re hungry, baby,” he speaks to you softly, even though you made him upset as well. 

“No, I won't calm down. It isn’t fair!” you heave, controlling your tears in an effort to not to seem weak.

“Yes, you will,” Jungkook intervenes, “because if you don’t you’ll regret it. Don’t underestimate what I’ll do, understand?” 

“You both have done enough to me but you draw the line at me asking about my family? Just leave me alone.”

“Where is this even coming from? We give you everything, so stop being ungrateful.” Jungkook argues back.

Deflecting from the subject, one of the things he’s best at. You hate when he does it, but you don’t want to fight with him. You physically and mentally can’t. 

“You don’t understand! You ripped me away from my family and school. You took everything away, and I’ll never get my life back! The worst thing about this is not knowing anything…”

You can’t hold it in when sobs escape your mouth. You aren’t able to stand up on your feet anymore and let yourself fall down on the floor, curling up on yourself. 

As if a switch flips in their minds, they both come rushing towards you. Taehyung is the first to crunch down at your level, worry and pity plastered on his face. He comforts you with his embrace while Jungkook looks guilty, nibbling down on his lip. 

After that day, you’ve learned to not question them about anything associated with your past life. All it did was lead to big arguments and lost trust from you. You’ve come to terms that this is your life from now on, whether you like it or not.

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a/n: hiii this is my first post on this side blog! i hope you guys enjoyed it bc there's more to come! lmk if you think I should start a taglist on here!!! :)

Bunny Boy (JJK x Reader)☁️⚠️🔪(💜)🔞 Part 2

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Reader

Genre: Angst, Yandere!AU, Stalker!AU, questionable romance, smut, Oneshot

Warnings: (oh boy) Stalking, Obsession, Yandere themes, cute Koo but aggressive, he ready to fight, graphic description of violence, blood, very twisted JK, oblivious! Reader, kinda Stockholm-syndrome Reader?, soft romantic lovemaking, body worship, Dom! Jungkook, Sub! Reader, Handjob (fem. receiving), oral (fem. receiving), protected sex because even with your mind scrambled up in a frying pan we still wrap it before tapping it y’all hear me STDs ain’t cute Susan

Summary: It all started with a hello kitty charm.

A/N:(IMPORTANT) I’d like to note here that I do not condone nor romanticize any of the things depicted in this. This is purely fictional, and only to be seen as a work of art, not as a depiction of real life relationships. For short: if he a creep, kick his balls, don’t kiss. Thank you.

Part 1 || Part 2

The nurse opened the door, and past her dashed the young man in Question, a total opposite of what he looked like the night he’d found you. His clothing was disheveled, eyes and nose red, his hair a mess as he immediately fell onto your chest, crying so hard his shoulders shook, nurse watching him with sympathizing eyes. This didn’t make sense. Why did you feel your body tense up at his touch, when he was so upset?

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۶ৎ SUGAR AND SPICE —

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growled, stepping closer, cupping your face, his thumb parting your lips. “So shy, so sweet, and all mine.”

pairing: sugar daddy dom!taehyung x sub!femreader

genre: ceo!taehyung, college student!reader, age gap (19 years), slowburn, luxury lifestyle, sugar daddy x sugar baby, strangers to lovers, seoul setting, romance, erotica, smut, fluff, angst

warnings: 18+, explicit smut, power dynamics, emotional vulnerability, reassurance, insecurities, mentions of financial struggles, emotional bonding, tenderness, light mentions of argument, D/s dynamics, use of "sir", possessiveness, obsessive!taehyung, lingerie kink, multiple sex scenes, multiple orgasms, oral sex (f. receiving), cunnilingus, fingering, vaginal sex, missionary position, rough sex, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation (use of terms like "slut," "whore"), orgasm control, creampie, unprotected sex, clit stimulation, breast play, nipple play, nipple sucking, unprotected sex, doggy style, eating out, face riding, face sitting, tongue fucking, clit sucking, pussy worship, making out, hickies/markings, body worship, mentions of visiting a sex toy shop, mentions of dildo, blindfolds and vibrators, vibrator use (f. receiving), crying (in pleasure), vibrator used to stimulate nipples, vaginal penetration with vibrator, multiple stimulations, mild somnophilia, morning sex, missionary position, light choking, restraint play (implied with silk ties), consensual power imbalance, hair pulling, cum swallowing, oral sex (m. receiving), cock sucking, face fucking, several aftercare scenes, softest aftercare

wc: 10.1k

masterlist

۶ৎ

In Seoul’s pulsating heart, where skyscrapers gleamed like blades against the sky and the Han River shimmered under a neon glow, Kim Taehyung reigned as a titan. At 40, he was the CEO of Vante Enterprises, a conglomerate that dominated luxury real estate and high-end fashion. His life was a masterpiece of ambition, each decision a calculated step toward greater power. Standing at 6’1”, Taehyung’s presence was commanding—broad shoulders filling out bespoke suits, a lean frame sculpted by discipline, and hands that could seal a multimillion-dollar deal or silence a room with a gesture. His jet-black hair, lightly threaded with silver, framed a face both strikingly handsome and intimidatingly stern, with sharp cheekbones and a jawline that could cut glass. His deep brown eyes, often cold and piercing, held a storm of intensity, capable of unraveling secrets or freezing someone in place. His voice, a low, gravelly timbre, carried an authority that demanded obedience, whether he was negotiating with tycoons or dismissing an inept assistant.

Taehyung’s world was one of opulence, but it was a solitary empire. His penthouse, perched atop one of his own skyscrapers, was a study in modern elegance—polished marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of Seoul’s glittering skyline, and minimalist furniture in stark blacks and ivories. The air was cool, the silence broken only by the faint hum of the city or the clink of ice in his whiskey glass. He had no family; his parents had passed a decade ago, and he was an only child. His relationships were fleeting, often transactional—women drawn to his wealth and charisma but deterred by his gruff demeanor and unrelenting standards. Taehyung was grumpy, his patience razor-thin, and his temper could flare at the smallest misstep. Employees tiptoed around him, rivals respected him, and the world saw him as untouchable. Yet, beneath the iron facade, there was a man who craved something real, a softness to balance the hardness of his existence, though he buried that longing deep.

Across the city, in a cramped dorm at Seoul National University, lived you—Y/N, a 21-year-old literature major with dreams as vast as the ocean but a life tethered by scarcity. Your dorm was a cozy chaos of secondhand books stacked precariously on shelves, fairy lights strung haphazardly across the ceiling, and a worn-out laptop that groaned under the weight of your essays. Petite at 5’2”, you had a heart-shaped face that radiated innocence, with wide doe eyes framed by long lashes and soft, wavy hair often tied back with a pastel ribbon. Your wardrobe was a patchwork of thrifted sweaters, flowy skirts, and scuffed sneakers, a reflection of your tight budget. You were painfully shy, your cheeks flushing at the slightest attention, your voice soft and hesitant when speaking to strangers. But your heart was warm, your kindness drawing people in, even if you were too timid to notice.

Your life was a delicate balancing act. Raised in a small coastal town by a single mother who worked two jobs, you’d grown up knowing sacrifice. Scholarships and part-time jobs funded your education, but money was a constant worry. You worked as a barista at Bean & Blossom, a quaint café near campus, where you spent evenings steaming milk, serving pastries, and scribbling story ideas in a tattered notebook. Submissive by nature—not weak, but deferential—you avoided conflict and sought approval, finding comfort in structure. You dreamed of writing novels that would touch hearts, but you also longed for stability, for someone to ease your burdens. Romance was a distant fantasy; your inexperience and shyness made intimacy both thrilling and terrifying. You’d never had a boyfriend, and the thought of someone wanting you felt like a story from one of your books.

It was a crisp autumn evening, the air thick with the scent of falling leaves and the promise of winter. Bean & Blossom was quiet, its warm lights casting a golden glow over the wooden tables. You were behind the counter, wiping down the espresso machine, your pale blue apron slightly askew, a smudge of flour on your cheek from baking muffins. Your shift was nearing its end, your feet aching, your mind drifting to a looming essay. The bell above the door chimed, a sharp sound that snapped you out of your thoughts. You looked up, and your breath caught as Kim Taehyung walked in.

He was a vision of power, his presence filling the small café like a storm. His tailored black overcoat brushed against his calves, the fabric catching the light as he strode toward the counter. His expression was stern, his jaw tight, as if the world had already tested his patience. He’d been at a grueling meeting with investors, his mood soured by their demands, and needed a black coffee to keep him sharp. You froze, your hands trembling as you met his gaze. His eyes were intense, twin pools of dark amber that seemed to see through you, and you felt small, exposed. Your heart raced, your pulse a frantic drumbeat.

“G-Good evening, sir,” you stammered, your voice barely a whisper. Your cheeks flushed pink, and you ducked your head, fidgeting with your apron as if it could shield you from his intensity. “What can I get started for you?”

Taehyung raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his stoic face. Your nervousness was refreshing, a stark contrast to the calculated flattery he was used to. “Black coffee, no sugar,” he said, his voice deep and clipped. “Make it quick.”

“Y-Yes, sir,” you replied, your voice trembling as you turned to the coffee machine. Your hands fumbled with the portafilter, nearly dropping it, and you cursed yourself for being so clumsy. The machine hissed as you tamped the grounds, your movements jerky under his gaze. Taehyung watched, his expression unreadable, his eyes lingering on your trembling hands, the flush creeping up your neck, and the way your lips parted as you focused.

As you prepared his coffee, you stole glances at him, your curiosity warring with your nerves. He was older, undeniably handsome, with an aura of power that made your stomach flutter. When you handed him the coffee, your fingers brushed his, the brief contact sending a jolt through you. You gasped, pulling back, your cheeks crimson.

“Thank you,” he said, his tone softer. He noticed the flour on your cheek and, without thinking, reached out to wipe it away with his thumb. His touch was warm, firm, and you froze, your eyes wide. He paused, realizing what he’d done, and withdrew his hand. “You had something on your face,” he muttered, clearing his throat.

“T-Thank you, sir,” you whispered, mortified, your body tingling from his touch. He nodded, paid with a crisp bill, and left, the bell chiming as the door closed. You stared after him, your heart pounding, your mind replaying the feel of his thumb.

Taehyung, in his chauffeured car, couldn’t shake your image—your wide eyes, trembling hands, soft flush. You were a breath of fresh air in his sterile world, and he wanted to see you again.

Taehyung became a regular at Bean & Blossom, arriving late, just before closing, when the café was nearly empty, and ordered the same black coffee. Each visit, he watched you with an intensity that made your knees weak, his eyes tracking your every move as you worked. You grew accustomed to his presence, though you remained a nervous wreck around him. Your shyness manifested in small ways—stuttering when you took his order, avoiding his gaze, calling him “sir” in a voice so soft it barely carried. The honorific amused him, his lips twitching with a rare, fleeting smile that made your heart skip.

One night, as you were closing up, he lingered longer than usual. The café was empty, the lights dimmed to a warm amber, and you were sweeping the floor, the soft swish of the broom the only sound. Taehyung sat at a corner table, his coffee untouched, his eyes fixed on you. “You’re always so nervous around me,” he said suddenly, his voice low and teasing, cutting through the silence like a blade. “Do I scare you?”

You froze, clutching the broom so tightly your knuckles whitened. Your heart raced, and you felt heat flood your face. “N-No, sir,” you lied, your voice trembling. “I-I just… you’re very… um, intimidating.”

He chuckled, a deep, rich sound that sent shivers down your spine and made your core pulse with an unfamiliar heat. “Intimidating, huh? Most people say that.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his gaze pinning you in place. “But you… you’re different. What’s your name?”

“Y/N,” you said softly, barely meeting his eyes before looking down at the floor, your cheeks burning.

“Y/N,” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like a caress. He stood, his movements fluid, and approached the counter, leaving a generous tip—far more than the coffee warranted. “See you tomorrow, Y/N,” he said, his voice carrying a promise that made your pulse quicken. The door chimed, and he was gone, leaving you clutching the broom, your mind a whirlwind of emotions.

That night, you lay in your dorm, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of your interactions with him. His voice, his eyes, the way he said your name—it all felt significant, like a thread pulling you toward something unknown. You were intimidated, yes, but also curious, drawn to the enigma that was Kim Taehyung.

He returned the next evening, and the one after that, each visit stretching longer. He started engaging you in small talk, asking about your studies, your favorite books, your dreams. His questions were simple, but his attention was anything but. He listened intently, his eyes never leaving your face, and you found yourself opening up, your shyness easing slightly with each conversation. You told him about your love for literature, your dream of writing novels, the stories you scribbled in your notebook. He, in turn, shared glimpses of his world—tales of high-stakes deals, travels to Paris and Tokyo, the pressure of running an empire. He never spoke of his loneliness, but you sensed it in the way his voice softened when he talked to you, in the way his eyes lingered on you as if you were a rare treasure.

One evening, as you were locking up, he made an offer that changed everything. The café was dark, the only light coming from the streetlamps outside. You were slipping on your coat, your scarf tangled in your nervous hands, when he spoke. “Y/N,” he said, his tone serious, almost reverent. “I’d like to take care of you.”

You blinked, confused, your scarf slipping to the floor. “T-Take care of me, sir?” Your voice was small, your heart pounding as you tried to process his words.

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, and you caught the faint scent of his cologne—sandalwood and musk, rich and intoxicating. “You’re struggling, I can tell,” he said, his eyes searching yours. “School, work, money—it’s too much for someone like you. Let me help. I’ll pay for your tuition, your rent, anything you need. In return, you spend time with me. Be mine.”

Your heart stopped, your breath catching in your throat. You’d heard of arrangements like this—sugar daddies, sugar babies—but you never imagined it happening to you. The idea was both terrifying and thrilling, a lifeline wrapped in danger. “I-I don’t know, sir,” you stammered, your mind racing. “I’ve never… I mean, I’m not sure if I’m… good enough for that.”

He reached out, his hand gentle as he tilted your chin up to meet his gaze. His touch was firm but not forceful, his thumb brushing lightly over your jaw. “You’re more than enough,” he said, his voice soft but resolute, a vow etched in every syllable. “I don’t want to pressure you, Y/N. Think about it. But know this—I see you. And I want you.”

You nodded, too overwhelmed to speak, your eyes wide and glassy. He released you, stepping back, and gave you a small, almost tender smile. “Good night, Y/N,” he said, and then he was gone, the door chiming behind him.

That night, you tossed and turned, your mind a battlefield of fear and temptation. Taehyung was intimidating, a man who could command a room with a glance, but he was also kind to you, softer than you’d expected. The idea of being cared for, of not worrying about rent or tuition, was intoxicating. And deep down, you were drawn to him—his strength, his dominance, the way he made you feel safe despite your nerves. You imagined his hands on you, his voice praising you, and your body responded, your pussy growing wet, your clit throbbing with a need you didn’t fully understand.

The next evening, you gave him your answer. The café was quiet, the counter between you a fragile barrier. He stood there, his coat draped over his arm, his eyes locked on you as you spoke. “Okay, sir,” you whispered, your voice trembling but resolute. “I’ll… I’ll be yours.”

His smile was triumphant, possessive, a predator claiming his prize. “Good girl,” he murmured, the words sending a thrill through you, your core pulsing with heat. He stepped closer, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lips. “You won’t regret this, baby. I’ll take care of everything.”

That was the start of your relationship, a dynamic built on his dominance and your submission, his gruff exterior melting only for you. It was a dance of power and trust, and you were ready to step into his world.

Taehyung was true to his word, transforming your life with a speed that left you dizzy. Within days, your tuition was paid in full, your cramped dorm replaced with a sleek one-bedroom apartment near campus. The apartment was a dream—hardwood floors, a plush sofa, a kitchen with gleaming appliances, and a bedroom with a bed so soft it felt like sinking into a cloud. He filled your wardrobe with designer clothes—silky dresses, cashmere sweaters, delicate lingerie that made you blush when you tried it on. He gave you a black credit card with no limit, slipping it into your hand with a low, “Spoil yourself, baby. You’re mine, and I take care of what’s mine.”

He was lavish, almost excessive. He bought you first editions of your favorite books, their leather bindings smelling of history. He gifted you a rose-gold necklace with a tiny diamond pendant, clasping it around your neck himself, his fingers lingering on your skin. When he noticed your laptop lagging, he replaced it with a top-of-the-line model, complete with writing software you’d only dreamed of. He took you to restaurants where the menus had no prices, ordering for you with a confidence that made your heart flutter. He loved controlling the details—picking your outfits, planning your dates, guiding you with a firm hand that was both possessive and protective. But he was never cruel; his dominance was laced with care, his grumpiness softening when he saw your shy smile.

You, in turn, became his sanctuary. Around you, Taehyung’s stern demeanor melted, his sharp edges dulled by your presence. He’d pull you into his lap after a long day, his arms wrapping around you as he buried his face in your hair, inhaling your scent—vanilla and jasmine, a fragrance he’d bought you. “You’re my good girl, aren’t you?” he’d murmur, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through you. You’d nod, your heart swelling at his praise, your body tingling at his touch. Your shyness never fully faded, but you grew comfortable with him, learning to trust his commands and revel in his attention.

Taehyung took you to a rooftop restaurant, a haven for Seoul’s elite. The table was set with candles and white roses, the skyline glittering below. You wore a red silk dress he’d chosen, the fabric clinging to your curves, the neckline revealing the tops of your breasts. His eyes darkened as he saw you, pulling out your chair, his hand brushing your lower back, sending shivers through you.

“You look stunning, baby,” he said, his voice husky, taking your hand. His thumb brushed your knuckles, and your nipples hardened, pressing against the dress. “T-Thank you, sir,” you murmured, blushing, your core throbbing.

He chuckled, leaning back. “Still so shy, huh?” His eyes flicked to your chest, smirking. “I like that. Makes me want to ruin you.”

You gasped, your thighs pressing together, wetness soaking your panties. “Taehyung,” you whispered, forgetting the honorific.

His grip tightened. “What was that, baby? You know what to call me.”

“S-Sir,” you corrected, trembling. “I’m sorry, sir.”

He smirked, sipping his wine. “Good girl. Eat. You’ll need your energy.”

The promise hung heavy. You picked at your scallops and risotto, anticipation coiling in your gut. Taehyung watched, his gaze predatory yet tender, sensing your arousal. After dessert—a rich chocolate torte—he led you to a private alcove overlooking the city. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, his hands on your hips, his breath warm against your ear.

“Look at that,” he murmured, his chest against your back. “All those lights, and you’re the only one I see.”

“Sir,” you whispered, leaning into him. “You make me feel so special.”

He turned you, cupping your cheek. “You are special, Y/N. You’re mine.” He kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue claiming you. You melted, your hands clutching his shirt, your pussy throbbing as his hardness pressed against you. “Let’s go home, baby,” he growled. “I’m not done with you.”

One Saturday, Taehyung took you shopping, a whirlwind of indulgence that left you dizzy. You started at a boutique on Gangnam’s fashion row, where he sat convencen a plush armchair, watching as you tried on dresses. Each one—a flowy chiffon, a fitted velvet, a daring satin—drew a nod or a smirk from him. “That one,” he’d say, pointing to a emerald-green gown that hugged your curves. “It’s perfect for you.” You blushed, twirling for him, your heart fluttering at his approval.

He bought everything you tried on, the saleswoman’s eyes widening at the total. “Sir, I don’t need all this,” you whispered, clutching his arm as you left, bags in tow.

He stopped, tilting your chin up. “You deserve it, baby,” he said, his voice firm. “I want you to feel beautiful. Besides, I like seeing you in things I choose.” His thumb brushed your lips, and you shivered, your nipples hardening under your sweater.

The day took an unexpected turn when he led you to a discreet shop tucked away in a quiet alley. The sign read “Velvet Desires,” and your heart raced as you realized it was a high-end sex toy boutique. Your cheeks burned, your shyness flaring, but Taehyung’s hand on your lower back was steady, guiding you inside.

The shop was elegant, with dim lighting, black velvet walls, and glass cases displaying toys—vibrators, dildos, silk restraints. You froze, overwhelmed, but Taehyung’s voice was calm. “Relax, baby,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. “I want to pick something for us. Something to make you feel good.”

You nodded, your voice caught in your throat. He led you to a case of vibrators, his eyes scanning the options. “What about this?” he asked, pointing to a sleek, rose-gold wand with multiple settings. “It’s versatile. I can use it on your clit, inside you… wherever you want.”

You blushed, your pussy throbbing at the thought. “I-I trust you, sir,” you whispered, barely audible.

He smirked, signaling the clerk to wrap it up. He also picked out a set of silk restraints, their deep burgundy color catching the light. “For when you’re feeling extra obedient,” he teased, making you squirm. The clerk rang up the purchase discreetly, and Taehyung paid with a card, his hand never leaving yours.

In the car, he pulled you close, his hand on your thigh. “Excited to try our new toys, baby?” he asked, his voice a low growl.

“Y-Yes, sir,” you admitted, your cheeks burning, your panties soaked.

“Good,” he said, kissing your temple. “Tonight, you’re all mine.”

Back at his penthouse, Taehyung’s demeanor shifted to commanding. The bedroom was vast, the king-sized bed draped in black silk, city lights casting a glow through the windows. He closed the door, his eyes dark with desire. “Strip,” he ordered, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal his toned chest, his trousers hugging his thighs, his cock already straining.

You hesitated, shyness flaring. “S-Sir, I…” you started, clutching your dress.

His eyebrow arched. “Don’t make me ask twice, baby,” he said, his tone dangerous, sending a shiver through you.

You reached for the zipper, trembling as the silk pooled at your feet, leaving you in lacy black lingerie—a bra barely containing your breasts, lace teasing your hardened nipples, and soaked panties. Your skin prickled, your clit throbbing as he stared.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growled, stepping closer, cupping your face, his thumb parting your lips. “So shy, so sweet, and all mine.”

You whimpered, arching into him, your pussy dripping. He kissed you, slow and possessive, his tongue claiming you as his hands roamed. He unhooked your bra, groaning at your pink, puckered nipples. “Lie down,” he commanded, and you crawled onto the bed, the silk cool against your skin, your legs pressed together.

He parted your thighs, his hands firm. “Look at you,” he murmured, tracing your soaked panties. “Your pussy’s begging for my cock.” He slid them off, groaning at your glistening folds, your clit swollen. “So fucking wet,” he said, brushing a finger over your clit, making you moan.

Taehyung started slow, his fingers circling your clit, watching your reactions. “Such a pretty pussy,” he praised, slipping a finger inside, curling it to hit your g-spot. Your walls clenched, and he added another, stretching you gently. “So tight, so needy. All for me, right?”

“Y-Yes, sir,” you gasped, clutching the sheets as he pumped his fingers, his thumb brushing your clit. Your nipples ached, your pussy dripping as he worked you.

He leaned down, his tongue flicking your clit, and you cried out, your back arching. His mouth was relentless, sucking your clit, his fingers fucking you steadily. The wet sounds filled the room, mingling with your moans, and your orgasm built, intense and overwhelming. He added a third finger, the stretch burning deliciously, and sucked harder.

“Cum for me, baby,” he growled, his voice vibrating. “Let me feel you.”

You shattered, screaming his name, your pussy gushing as waves of pleasure crashed through you. He licked you through it, his fingers slowing, drawing out every aftershock until you were trembling, your clit throbbing.

He rose, shedding his clothes, revealing his toned chest, faint scars, and thick, veined cock, leaking precum. He positioned himself between your legs, his cock nudging your entrance. “Ready, baby?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Please, sir,” you whispered, trembling.

He entered you slowly, inch by inch, the stretch intense but delicious. You whimpered, your nails digging into his shoulders as he groaned, his hands gripping your hips. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he said, his voice strained. “So perfect.”

His thrusts were deep, controlled, hitting spots that made you see stars. Your pussy was soaked, the wet sounds obscene. You moaned, your legs wrapping around him, pulling him deeper. His restraint slipped, his thrusts growing rougher, the bed creaking. “Take it, baby,” he snarled. “Take my cock like a good girl.”

You screamed, your nails raking his back as he pounded you, your breasts bouncing, nipples grazing his chest. Your second orgasm built, and he rubbed your clit, his fingers relentless. “Cum for me,” he growled, and you did, your pussy clenching, gushing as you screamed. He followed, spilling inside you, his cock pulsing, filling you with warmth.

Taehyung collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, his chest heaving. “You were perfect, baby,” he murmured, kissing your forehead, his voice soft. He reached for a warm cloth, cleaning you gently, his hands tender as he wiped your thighs, careful around your sensitive folds. He checked for any discomfort, his fingers brushing your skin with care. “Feel okay?” he asked, his eyes searching yours.

“Yes, sir,” you whispered, smiling shyly. “Just… wow.”

He chuckled, wrapping you in a blanket, pulling you against his chest. He stroked your hair, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on your back. “My good girl,” he murmured, kissing your temple. He offered you water, holding the glass as you sipped, his arm steady around you. He whispered praises, telling you how beautiful you were, how much you meant to him, until you drifted off, safe in his embrace.

One morning, you woke to Taehung’s lips on your inner thigh, his breath warm. The room glowed with dawn’s light, the city waking beyond the windows. His hair was tousled, his eyes dark with desire, his muscles flexing as he held your thighs apart. “Good morning, baby,” he murmured, his tongue teasing your clit, sending a jolt through you.

“Sir,” you moaned, your hands tugging his hair as he sucked your clit, his lips closing around it. He slipped two fingers inside, curling them to hit your g-spot, and you gasped, your pussy throbbing.

He ate you out lazily, savoring your moans, his tongue circling your clit. “You taste so fucking good,” he growled, licking a long stripe up your slit. His fingers pumped, the wet sounds mingling with your gasps, and your orgasm coiled tight. He sucked harder, and you came, screaming, your pussy clenching around his fingers. He licked you through it, drawing out every aftershock.

He flipped you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up. “Ass up, baby,” he ordered, his voice rough. You obeyed, your cheek against the pillow, your pussy dripping. He entered you from behind, his cock sliding in deep, filling you. “Fuck, I love this,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips, his thrusts slow but powerful.

He leaned over, his lips brushing your ear. “This pussy was made for my cock,” he murmured, his words sending shivers through you. His thrusts grew harder, faster, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles. “Cum again,” he ordered, and you did, your pussy gushing, screaming into the pillow. He followed, spilling inside you, his cock pulsing.

Taehyung pulled you close, his arms wrapping around you as he kissed your shoulder. “You’re amazing, baby,” he murmured, his voice soft. He cleaned you with a warm cloth, his hands gentle, checking your skin for marks. He massaged your hips, easing any tension, and offered you juice, holding the glass as you drank. He tucked you against him, stroking your hair, whispering, “You make me so happy, Y/N.” He stayed until you fell asleep, his warmth a cocoon around you.

One rainy afternoon, you were curled up on the penthouse sofa, a book in your lap, the city blurred by rain. Taehyung came home early, his suit damp, his hair tousled. He smiled—a rare, genuine smile—and joined you, pulling you into his lap. “Hey, baby,” he said, his chin on your shoulder. “What’re you reading?”

You showed him the romance novel, and he chuckled, kissing your cheek. “My little dreamer,” he murmured. “Always lost in stories.”

“They’re better than reality sometimes,” you said shyly, blushing.

He tilted your chin up. “Not anymore. Your reality’s with me, and I’ll make it better than any book.” You smiled, kissing him softly, your hands in his hair. It was a quiet moment, but it spoke volumes—his love, your trust, the bond growing stronger.

That evening, Taehyung decided to use the toys from Velvet Desires. The bedroom was dimly lit, the silk sheets cool as he sat on the edge of the bed, the rose-gold vibrator in hand. “Strip for me, baby,” he ordered, his voice low, his eyes dark with anticipation.

You blushed, your hands trembling as you shed your dress, revealing a sheer pink lingerie set, your nipples visible, your panties damp. “Fuck, you’re a vision,” he growled, patting his thigh. “Come here.”

You straddled his lap, your pussy throbbing as he kissed you, his tongue possessive. He turned on the vibrator, the low hum filling the room, and pressed it to your nipple through the lace, making you gasp. “Feel good, baby?” he asked, his voice husky.

“Y-Yes, sir,” you moaned, your hips bucking as he moved the toy to your other nipple, the vibrations sending sparks through you. He slid your panties down, exposing your dripping folds, and pressed the vibrator to your clit, the sensation intense. You cried out, clutching his shoulders, your pussy clenching.

“Look at you, soaking for me,” he murmured, circling the toy around your clit, teasing your entrance. He slipped it inside, the vibrations pulsing through your walls, and you moaned, your hips rocking. He fucked you with the toy, his other hand pinching your nipples, his lips sucking your neck.

“Sir, please,” you begged, your orgasm building. He turned up the intensity, the toy buzzing harder, and rubbed your clit with his thumb. “Cum for me, baby,” he growled, and you did, screaming, your pussy gushing around the toy, your body shaking.

He wasn’t done. He shed his clothes, his cock hard and leaking, and entered you, the toy still buzzing against your clit. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his thrusts deep, the vibrations amplifying every sensation. He fucked you hard, the bed shaking, his hand gripping your throat lightly, his eyes locked on yours. “You’re mine,” he snarled, and you came again, your pussy clenching, triggering his release, his cock pulsing inside you.

Taehyung was meticulous, pulling you into his arms, kissing your forehead. “You were incredible, baby,” he murmured, cleaning you with a warm cloth, his hands gentle, checking for sensitivity. He massaged your thighs, easing any strain, and offered you tea, holding the cup as you sipped. He wrapped you in a plush robe, pulling you against his chest, stroking your hair. “I love you, Y/N,” he whispered, the rare admission making your heart swell. He stayed, humming softly, until you drifted off, his warmth a shield.

The love between you and Kim Taehyung was a living, breathing entity—a fierce, all-consuming force that wove itself into every facet of your existence. Taehyung was a man of iron, his gruff exterior and commanding presence a fortress that only you could breach. His deep brown eyes, often cold to the world, softened when they met yours, revealing a vulnerability he guarded fiercely. You were his counterpoint—a shy, gentle soul with a heart that radiated warmth, your doe eyes and soft, wavy hair a vision of innocence that disarmed him. Your relationship, rooted in a dynamic of dominance and submission, transcended its transactional origins, blossoming into a profound connection built on trust, vulnerability, and an unspoken vow to belong to each other eternally.

Taehyung’s love was not confined to the lavish gifts that reshaped your life, though they were a testament to his devotion. The diamonds that glittered on your neck—a choker with a teardrop pendant that caught the light like a captured star—the designer dresses that clung to your curves like a lover’s embrace, the first-class trips to Paris, Santorini, and Kyoto—these were symbols of his desire to see you shine, to elevate you to the pedestal he believed you deserved. He took pride in adorning you, his fingers lingering as he fastened a sapphire bracelet around your wrist, the cool metal a contrast to the warmth of his touch. “You’re my princess,” he’d murmur, his voice a low growl, his lips brushing the pulse point at your throat, feeling it quicken under his attention. “I want the world to know how precious you are.” Each gift was chosen with care, a reflection of his meticulous nature—whether it was a first-edition novel by your favorite author, its leather binding smelling of history, or a pair of Louboutin heels that made your steps feel like a waltz, he saw you as a canvas for beauty, and he was the artist.

But beyond the material, Taehyung gave you something infinitely more precious—his time, his attention, his heart. After a day of boardroom battles, his shoulders tense, his jaw tight with the weight of his empire, he’d come home to you, and the moment his eyes found yours, the world’s chaos fell away. You were his soft spot, the one who could coax a rare, genuine smile from him, even when a deal collapsed or a rival tested his patience. He’d pull you into his lap, his arms a fortress, and bury his face in your hair, inhaling the vanilla-jasmine scent that had become his sanctuary. “You’re my peace, baby,” he’d whisper, his voice rough with emotion, his hands stroking your back, memorizing the curve of your spine. In those moments, the grumpy, intimidating tycoon melted, leaving only Tae, the man who loved you with a ferocity that stole your breath.

You adored him with a devotion that was both quiet and bold, your shyness a delicate thread that wove through your every interaction. Even after months together, you’d blush at his compliments, your cheeks flushing a soft pink as you ducked your head, murmuring, “Thank you, sir.” But beneath that timidity was a growing confidence, a strength nurtured by his unwavering support. You learned to tease him, to push the boundaries of your dynamic in playful ways. In public, you’d call him “sir” with a subtle smirk, a secret code that made his eyes darken with desire, his hand tightening on yours. In private, you’d whisper “Tae” against his lips, the name a sacred intimacy reserved for your most tender moments. You’d surprise him by wearing the lingerie he’d chosen—a sheer black set that left your nipples visible, your curves accentuated—and watch his composure falter, his cock hardening as he growled, “You’re gonna be the death of me, baby.”

Your relationship was a dance of contrasts—his dominance and your submission, his grumpiness and your gentleness, his world of power and your world of dreams. It wasn’t perfect, and you both bore the scars of its challenges. Taehyung’s temper could flare, especially when work piled up or a business rival pushed too far. He’d snap, his voice sharp, his words cutting, and you’d feel the sting, your insecurities whispering that you weren’t enough for a man of his stature. “I’m sorry, baby,” he’d say later, his voice soft as he pulled you close, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs brushing away your tears. “You’re everything to me. Don’t ever doubt that.” You’d nod, your heart aching, and he’d kiss you, his lips gentle, his touch a vow to do better.

Your insecurities were a hurdle, the fear that you were too young, too inexperienced, too ordinary for someone like him. You’d lie awake some nights, the city lights filtering through your apartment’s windows, wondering if you were a fleeting obsession, a phase he’d outgrow. But Taehyung sensed these doubts, his intuition uncanny. One evening, after a quiet dinner at his penthouse, he caught you staring out the window, your expression distant. “What’s wrong, Y/N?” he asked, his voice low, his hand resting on your knee, his thumb tracing circles.

You hesitated, your shyness making the words heavy. “I just… sometimes I wonder if I’m enough for you, sir,” you admitted, your voice barely audible. “You’re Kim Taehyung. And I’m just… me.”

His eyes darkened, not with anger but with resolve. He stood, pulling you to your feet, his hands framing your face. “Listen to me,” he said, his voice firm, each word a hammer striking your doubts. “You’re not ‘just’ anything. You’re mine. You’re the one I come home to, the one who makes this empty fucking world make sense. Don’t you ever think you’re less than that.” He kissed you, hard and possessive, his tongue claiming you, his hands gripping your hips, anchoring you to him. “I love you, Y/N,” he said, the words raw, unguarded, a rare vulnerability that made your heart soar. “And I’ll spend my life proving it.”

That night, he made love to you with a tenderness that left you trembling, his touches soft, his words a litany of praise. “You’re perfect,” he murmured against your skin, his lips tracing the curve of your breast, sucking gently on a nipple until you gasped. “My beautiful girl.” He took his time, worshiping every inch of you, his fingers teasing your pussy until you were dripping, your clit throbbing under his touch. When he entered you, it was slow, deliberate, his cock filling you as he whispered, “You’re everything I need,” his thrusts deep, his eyes locked on yours until you both came, your bodies entwined, your hearts beating as one.

To deepen your bond, Taehyung planned a weekend getaway to Jeju Island, a surprise he sprang on you one Friday morning. “Pack a bag, baby,” he said, leaning against the kitchen counter, a mug of coffee in hand, his tailored shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a sliver of his toned chest. “We’re leaving in an hour.”

You blinked, still in your pajamas—a soft pink set he’d bought you—your hair a messy bun. “S-Sir, where are we going?” you asked, your shyness flaring at the suddenness, your fingers twisting the hem of your top.

He smirked, stepping closer to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch sending a shiver through you. “It’s a surprise. Just trust me.”

The private jet was a revelation, its plush interior a world away from your modest life. You sat beside him, your hand in his, your heart racing as you watched the clouds through the window, the sky a canvas of blues and whites. “This is too much, sir,” you whispered, your voice trembling with awe, your fingers tracing the leather armrest.

He squeezed your hand, his thumb brushing your knuckles, the calloused pad a contrast to your softness. “Nothing’s too much for you,” he said, his eyes soft, a rare warmth in them. “I want you to feel special, because you are.”

The villa in Jeju was a dream—white stucco walls, glass doors opening to a private beach, the ocean a symphony of blues and greens. Taehyung was relaxed, his grumpiness absent as he pulled you onto the sand, his laughter rich and unguarded as you squealed at the cold waves lapping your feet. “Come here, baby,” he said, tugging you into his arms, kissing you as the sun set, the sky ablaze with pinks, oranges, and purples, the colors reflecting in his eyes.

That evening, in the villa’s master suite, he was playful, teasing you with featherlight touches until you were giggling, your shyness forgotten. “You’re so cute when you laugh,” he murmured, pinning you to the bed, his eyes sparkling with mischief. He kissed you deeply, his hands roaming, and you felt the shift, the playful lover giving way to the dominant one. “But I think it’s time my good girl gets what she needs,” he growled, his voice sending a thrill through you, your pussy already wet, your clit pulsing with anticipation.

The bedroom was bathed in moonlight, the sliding doors open to let in the rhythmic crash of waves, the air salty and cool. Taehyung stripped you slowly, his hands deliberate as he peeled off your sundress, revealing a white lace lingerie set he’d packed—a bra that barely contained your breasts, the lace teasing your hardened nipples, and panties that clung to your damp folds. Your skin prickled under his gaze, your nipples aching, your pussy throbbing as he stepped back to admire you. “Fuck, you’re a vision,” he growled, his voice rough, his linen trousers straining against his hardening cock, the outline thick and promising.

He laid you on the bed, the sheets cool against your heated skin, and kissed you, his tongue slow and possessive, tasting of the wine you’d shared at dinner. His hands roamed, cupping your breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples through the lace, the friction making you moan. He unclasped your bra, his lips closing around a nipple, sucking hard, his tongue flicking the sensitive bud until you gasped, your hips bucking. “So sensitive,” he murmured, moving to your other nipple, his teeth grazing lightly, sending sparks of pleasure to your core.

He kissed a trail down your stomach, his hands spreading your thighs, his fingers digging into your soft flesh. He slid your panties off, groaning at the sight of your glistening folds, your clit swollen and begging for attention. “Look at this pretty pussy,” he said, his voice dripping with praise, his breath warm against your skin. “So wet for me, so fucking needy.” He licked a long, slow stripe up your slit, his tongue flat and broad, savoring your taste—sweet and musky, a flavor he’d never tire of. He flicked your clit, the touch light but electric, and you cried out, your hands clutching the sheets, your pussy clenching with need.

He ate you out with reverence, his tongue circling your clit in lazy, deliberate patterns, then dipping to tease your entrance, lapping up your arousal. His lips closed around your clit, sucking gently, then harder, the pressure making you moan, your hips rocking against his face. He slipped two fingers inside, curling them to hit your g-spot, the stretch delicious, your walls so tight they gripped him. “You taste so fucking good,” he growled, his eyes locking on yours, his pupils blown with desire as he sucked your clit, his fingers pumping in a steady rhythm. The wet sounds of his mouth and fingers filled the room, mingling with your gasps, the ocean’s roar a distant echo.

Your orgasm was building, a tight coil in your belly, and he sensed it, adding a third finger, the stretch burning slightly but oh so good, your pussy dripping onto the sheets. “Cum for me, baby,” he ordered, his voice vibrating against your clit, his tongue relentless, flicking and sucking in a rhythm that drove you wild. You shattered, screaming his name, your pussy gushing as waves of pleasure crashed through you, your body convulsing, your clit throbbing under his tongue. He licked you through it, his fingers slowing, drawing out every aftershock until you were trembling, oversensitive, your pussy still pulsing with the echoes of your climax.

He rose, shedding his clothes, his toned chest gleaming in the moonlight, faint scars adding to his rugged appeal. His trousers fell, revealing his cock—thick, veined, and leaking precum, the tip flushed an angry red, so hard it curved slightly upward. He positioned himself between your legs, his cock nudging your entrance, the heat of him making you whimper. “Ready, baby?” he asked, his voice soft, checking in despite the hunger in his eyes.

“Please, sir,” you whispered, your voice trembling, your eyes glassy with need, your pussy aching to be filled.

He entered you slowly, inch by agonizing inch, the stretch intense, your pussy clenching around him like a vice. You whimpered, your nails digging into his shoulders, the fullness overwhelming but delicious. He groaned, his hands gripping your hips, his fingers bruising as his control frayed. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he said, his voice strained, his forehead resting against yours, sweat beading on his brow. “So fucking perfect.”

His thrusts were deep, controlled, each one hitting your g-spot, sending jolts of pleasure through you. Your pussy was soaked, the wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out obscene, filling the room with a primal rhythm. You moaned, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper, your heels digging into his lower back. His restraint snapped, his thrusts growing rougher, his hips slamming into yours, the bed creaking, the headboard banging against the wall. “Take it, baby,” he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. “Take my cock like the good girl you are.”

You screamed, your nails raking down his back, leaving red trails, your pussy clenching as another orgasm built, faster and more intense. Your breasts bounced with each thrust, your nipples grazing his chest, sending sparks through you. He reached between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, rough circles, the pressure perfect. “Cum for me,” he growled, his voice a command, his thrusts relentless, his cock hitting every sensitive spot. You shattered, your pussy gushing around him, your scream echoing as your body shook, your clit pulsing under his fingers. He groaned, his thrusts faltering, and came, spilling inside you, his cock pulsing, filling you with warmth, his release so abundant it leaked out around him.

Taehyung collapsed beside you, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. He pulled you into his arms, his lips brushing your forehead, his voice soft as he murmured, “You were incredible, baby. So fucking perfect.” He reached for a warm cloth from the bedside table, cleaning you gently, his hands tender as he wiped your thighs, careful around your sensitive folds, checking for any discomfort. “Feel okay?” he asked, his eyes searching yours, a flicker of concern in their depths.

“Yes, sir,” you whispered, smiling shyly, your body still humming with pleasure. “Just… perfect.”

He chuckled, wrapping you in a plush blanket, pulling you against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your cheek. He stroked your hair, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on your back, untangling the damp strands with care. “My good girl,” he murmured, kissing your temple, his lips lingering. He offered you water, holding the glass as you sipped, his arm steady around you, ensuring you felt secure. He whispered praises, his voice a low rumble— “You’re so beautiful, Y/N. You make me feel alive.” He massaged your shoulders, easing any tension, his touch gentle but firm, and stayed with you, the sound of waves a lullaby as you drifted off, his warmth a cocoon, his presence a promise of safety.

One night, after a grueling day, you found Taehyung in his home office, papers scattered across his desk, his brow furrowed, his tie loosened. You knocked softly, holding a mug of chamomile tea, the steam curling in the air. “Sir, I thought you might need this,” you said, your voice shy, your bare feet silent on the hardwood as you set the mug down, your oversized sweater—his sweater—slipping off one shoulder.

He looked up, his expression softening, the storm in his eyes calming. “Come here, baby,” he said, patting his lap, his voice a low invitation. You settled against him, your head on his shoulder, your legs curled up, and he sighed, his arms wrapping around you, his chin resting on your hair. “You always know how to make my day better,” he murmured, kissing your forehead, his lips warm against your skin.

You hesitated, your fingers twisting the hem of his sweater, your shyness making the words tremble. “Tae, I… I’m scared sometimes,” you admitted, your voice barely audible. “That you’ll get tired of me. That I’m not enough for someone like you.”

He stiffened, his hand pausing on your back, then turned you to face him, his hands cupping your cheeks, his thumbs brushing your skin. “Y/N, listen to me,” he said, his voice fierce, each word a vow. “You’re not just enough—you’re everything. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. You’re my home, my reason to keep going.” His eyes were raw, vulnerable, a window to the man beneath the tycoon, and you felt tears prick your own. “I love you, and I’m not going anywhere.”

You kissed him, soft and desperate, your hands clutching his shirt, the fabric crumpling under your fingers. “I love you too, Tae,” you whispered, the words a sacred promise. He held you close, his lips brushing your forehead, his arms a shield, and you knew your love was unshakable, a beacon in the chaos of your worlds.

Inspired by the passion of Jeju, Taehyung decided to revisit the rose-gold vibrator one evening in the penthouse, a night charged with anticipation. The bedroom was dimly lit, the city lights casting a soft glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the black silk sheets shimmering under the amber light. Taehyung sat on the edge of the bed, the vibrator in hand, its sleek surface catching the light, his eyes dark with hunger, his tailored shirt unbuttoned to reveal his toned chest, his trousers hugging his thighs, his cock already half-hard.

“Strip for me, baby,” he ordered, his voice a low growl, rich with command, sending a shiver through you. You blushed, your hands trembling as you shed your silk robe, revealing a sheer red lingerie set—a bra that left your nipples visible, the lace teasing their hardened peaks, and panties that clung to your damp folds, the fabric dark with your arousal. Your skin prickled, your pussy throbbing, your clit pulsing as he stared, his gaze predatory, his cock now fully hard, straining against his trousers.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he growled, beckoning you to the bed, his hand patting the mattress beside him. You knelt before him, your thighs pressed together, your pussy dripping as he kissed you, his tongue possessive, claiming your mouth with a hunger that made you moan. He turned on the vibrator, the low hum filling the room, a promise of pleasure that made your core clench. He pressed it to your nipple through the lace, the vibrations sharp and intense, making you gasp, your back arching, your pussy leaking onto the sheets. “Feel good, baby?” he asked, his voice husky, his lips curving into a smirk as he moved to your other nipple, the vibrations sending sparks through you, your nipples aching, your clit throbbing with need.

He slid your panties down, tossing them aside, and groaned at the sight of your glistening folds, your clit swollen, your arousal dripping down your thighs. “So fucking wet for me,” he murmured, his voice dripping with praise, his fingers spreading your folds, exposing you fully. He pressed the vibrator to your clit, the sensation overwhelming, a jolt of pleasure that made you cry out, your hands clutching his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. He circled the toy around your clit, teasing your entrance, the vibrations pulsing through you, your pussy clenching with need.

“You look so pretty like this,” he growled, slipping the vibrator inside, the sleek toy sliding easily into your soaked pussy, the vibrations pulsing through your walls, making you moan, your hips rocking against it. He fucked you with the toy, slow and deliberate, his other hand pinching your nipples, twisting them just enough to make you whimper, his lips sucking your neck, leaving faint marks that claimed you as his. “Taking it so well, my good girl,” he murmured, his eyes locked on yours, watching every moan, every shudder, drinking in your pleasure.

“Sir, please,” you begged, your voice thick with desperation, your orgasm building, a tight coil ready to snap. He turned up the intensity, the toy buzzing harder, the vibrations overwhelming, and rubbed your clit with his thumb, his touch rough and precise, the dual stimulation driving you wild. “Cum for me, baby,” he ordered, his voice a command, his lips brushing your ear. You shattered, screaming his name, your pussy gushing around the toy, your body shaking, your clit pulsing under his thumb, your orgasm so intense it left you breathless, your vision spotting.

He wasn’t done. He shed his clothes, his cock thick and hard, leaking precum, the veins prominent, the tip flushed. He entered you, the toy still buzzing against your clit, the sensation amplifying every thrust, his cock filling you completely, the stretch delicious. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips, his fingers bruising as he fucked you, his thrusts deep and hard, the bed shaking, the headboard banging. He gripped your throat lightly, his touch possessive but careful, his eyes intense, locked on yours. “You’re mine,” he snarled, his voice rough, his cock hitting your g-spot with every stroke, the toy’s vibrations pushing you to the edge again.

You came, your pussy clenching, gushing around him, your scream hoarse, your body trembling uncontrollably. He groaned, his thrusts erratic, and came, his cock pulsing, filling you with his release, the warmth spreading inside you, leaking out around him. He turned off the toy, tossing it aside, and collapsed beside you, his chest heaving, his arms pulling you close.

Taehyung was meticulous, his touch tender as he kissed your forehead, his voice soft. “You were perfect, baby,” he murmured, his lips brushing your sweat-dampened skin. He reached for a warm cloth, cleaning you gently, his hands careful as he wiped your thighs, your sensitive folds, checking for any discomfort, his fingers soothing. “Feel okay, sweetheart?” he asked, his eyes searching yours, a flicker of concern mingling with adoration.

“Yes, sir,” you whispered, your voice soft, your body still humming. “Better than okay.”

He smiled, wrapping you in a plush robe, pulling you against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your cheek. He stroked your hair, his fingers untangling the damp strands, tracing soothing patterns on your back. “My beautiful girl,” he murmured, kissing your temple, his lips lingering, his breath warm. He offered you tea, holding the cup as you sipped, his arm steady, ensuring you felt secure. He massaged your shoulders, his thumbs kneading out any tension, his touch gentle but firm, and whispered praises— “You’re everything to me, Y/N. My heart, my home.” He hummed a soft melody, his voice a lullaby, staying until you drifted off, his warmth a shield, his presence a vow of forever.

One crisp autumn night, Taehyung took you to the rooftop of his penthouse, a private oasis he’d transformed with fairy lights and a blanket strewn with pillows. The city sparkled below, the stars faint but visible, the air cool against your skin. You wore a cashmere sweater and a flowy skirt, your hair loose, catching the breeze. He pulled you onto the blanket, his arms around you, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“Look at that,” he murmured, his voice low, his breath warm against your ear. “All those lights, all those lives, and you’re the only one that matters to me.”

You turned, your eyes meeting his, your heart swelling. “Tae,” you whispered, your shyness fading in the intimacy of the moment. “How do you always know what to say?”

He smiled, a rare, boyish grin that made him look younger, softer. “Because it’s you,” he said, his hand cupping your cheek. “You make me want to be better, to be the man you deserve.” He kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue teasing yours, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you closer.

You talked for hours, sharing dreams—your novels, his legacy, a future together. “I want to build something with you,” he said, his voice earnest. “A life, a home, maybe even a family someday. If you want that.”

Your breath caught, tears prickling your eyes. “I do, Tae,” you said, your voice trembling. “I want everything with you.”

He pulled a small velvet box from his pocket, revealing a delicate ring—not an engagement ring, but a promise ring, a simple band with a tiny diamond. “This is my vow,” he said, slipping it onto your finger. “To love you, to protect you, to be yours, always.”

You kissed him, your heart full, the ring a tangible symbol of your bond. The night ended with you curled in his arms, the stars above a witness to your love, a love that would endure through every storm.

Back in the penthouse, the mood shifted, Taehyung’s dominance resurfacing. The bedroom was dark, the only light from the city below, the black silk sheets cool and inviting. He stood by the bed, his shirt discarded, his toned chest gleaming, his trousers low on his hips, his cock already hard. “On your knees, baby,” he ordered, his voice a velvet whip, sending a thrill through you.

You obeyed, sinking to your knees, your sheer black lingerie clinging to your curves, your nipples hard, your pussy wet. He stepped closer, his hand tangling in your hair, tilting your head back. “Look at me,” he said, his eyes dark, predatory. You met his gaze, your pussy throbbing, your clit pulsing with need.

He unzipped his trousers, freeing his cock—thick, veined, leaking precum, the sight making your mouth water. “Open,” he commanded, and you did, your lips parting, your tongue darting out. He guided his cock into your mouth, the taste salty and musky, the weight heavy on your tongue. “Good girl,” he growled, his hand guiding you, his hips thrusting gently, fucking your mouth with controlled precision.

You moaned, the vibrations making him groan, his fingers tightening in your hair. He pulled out, his cock glistening with your saliva, and lifted you to the bed, positioning you on all fours, your ass up, your pussy exposed. “So fucking pretty,” he murmured, his hands spreading your cheeks, his thumb brushing your soaked folds, teasing your clit. He entered you from behind, his cock sliding in deep, the stretch intense, your pussy clenching around him.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips, his thrusts hard, the bed creaking. He spanked you lightly, the sting blooming into pleasure, your pussy gushing. “You like that, don’t you?” he growled, spanking you again, his cock hitting your g-spot, the wet sounds filling the room.

“Yes, sir,” you moaned, your voice breaking, your orgasm building. He reached around, rubbing your clit, his fingers rough, the pressure perfect. “Cum for me, slut,” he ordered, his voice rough, his thrusts relentless. You screamed, your pussy gushing, your body shaking, your clit pulsing under his fingers. He came, his cock pulsing, filling you with his release, the warmth spreading, leaking out around him.

Taehyung was gentle, pulling you into his arms, his lips kissing your shoulder, your neck, your forehead. “You were amazing, baby,” he murmured, his voice soft, his hands tender as he cleaned you with a warm cloth, wiping your thighs, your sensitive folds, checking for any soreness. “Feel okay?” he asked, his eyes soft, his fingers brushing your cheek.

“Yes, sir,” you whispered, smiling, your body sated. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he said, his voice raw, pulling you against his chest, wrapping you in a blanket. He massaged your back, his thumbs kneading out any tension, his touch soothing. He offered you juice, holding the glass, his arm steady, and whispered, “You’re my everything, Y/N.” He hummed softly, his fingers tracing your spine, staying until you drifted off, his warmth a promise of forever.

Your love with Taehyung was a symphony, each note a moment of passion, vulnerability, and growth. His grumpiness, your insecurities, the challenges of your disparate worlds—they were the dissonant chords that made the melody richer. You faced them together, your bond a quiet strength that weathered every storm. He was your protector, your lover, your sugar daddy, but more than that, he was your partner, the man who saw you as his equal, his home.

As the months turned to years, you built a life together. You published your first novel, dedicated to him, and he stood beside you at the launch, his pride palpable, his hand on your lower back a silent vow. He expanded his empire, but made time for you, for quiet nights and grand adventures, for promises kept under starlit skies. The ring on your finger became an engagement ring, then a wedding band, each a symbol of a love that grew deeper, stronger, with every shared breath.

In the quiet moments, when the world was still, you’d lie in his arms, his heartbeat a steady rhythm under your cheek, and know that this—your love, your life together—was the story you’d always dreamed of writing. It was a love that endured, a flame that burned eternal, a tapestry of sugar and spice that would never fade.

HOLAGE |

Synopsis: a tale of a very yendere jungkook

Warnings: mentions of blood, tying up, mentions of cuts, a blade, wound. Reader is kinda babyfied. Possessive jk. [Let me know if I Let something out]

Jk x fem reader.

#Maybe there's a dead dove that you don't wanna eat.

18+. Minors dni

"Now you see if didn't try to run away i wouldn't have to do this"

The man behind you scrubbing your body with a cloth says. His tone very light diminishing all dominance you thought you had.

The warm water falls on your skin lightly but with the way your heart is racing each drop feels like a slap on the skin. You'd think warm water would make you feel relaxed but it doesn't.

And the fact that jungkook has you sandwiched between his naked wet body and the shower wall doesn't help. He doesn't do anything suggestive he only repeatedly rubs the foam drenched cloth around your body, making sure to get off the dried blood on you. Not your own blood but of the man who tried to help you by giving you a lift.

Jungkook never understood why people wanted to take you from him. Well he kinda knew why. You were perfect, the immaculate depiction of the woman in his heart and fantasies. He's dreamt and thought of you everyday, there's no time when you aren't on his mind. And he believed people knew that that's why they'd try to take you from him, but he'll never let that happen. Never in his fully woken self, even in his sleep he can find you.

You can hear his breaths become heavier as he runs the cloth against your breasts then your nipples and runs it down your stomach. He's movements are slow and gentle, if it weren't for your racing heart and the situation you'd be aroused. Jungkook never really pushed the idea of sleeping with you though you could see him here and there struggling with his own body for control. You knew he thought about you that way, you could tell. Especially when you'd see his bulge peaking from his sweat pants as he tucked you into bed after your shower.

Today was no different you could see his bulge through his dark pants as the water rinses your body. He always kept his trousers on when he helped you shower even though you're sure it was uncomfortable for him, you guess it's for self control. You're glad though.

"Why do you always run away like I'm a bad person." He says your bodies facing each other as he dries your hair with a towel. You stand still like a mannequin, not knowing what to do in this situation.

"Do you think I'm a bad person?" His eyes are bright and large as he looks down at you and you up at him. You look away trying to avoid his delicate and innocent gaze. It's a facade and you know it, this man was far from delicate and innocent. Even though sometimes he can act to be, you knew better than to fall for it.

He uses his thump and index finger to trap your chin and pull your attention to him.

"Do you think I'm a bad person baby" he asks expecting an answer and his eyes demand one too. You know he doesn't like being ignored. You're already on his bad side for trying to run away, so it'd be best if you just played along.

You shake your head giving him your answer but by the look on his face he's not satisfied by your answer.

"N-no I don't think you're a bad person" you say timidly. He liked it when you were timid.

"I'm glad that you think that" he says brushing your hair.

"But why do you always act like im a bad person." he brushes

"Why do you run away huh?" He brushes a little harder and you can feel and hear him get angry.

"When all I do is take care of you and give you all you want" he brushes harder again and you want to do something cause he might end up ripping your hair from your scalp, wouldn't be the first time removing your hair. One time when you tried to ran away he cut your hair to teach you a lesson. It's been a year since then and your hair has grown from the short length.

His eyes focus on the brush as he continues to list the things he's done for you and all you think about is a way to cool his brewing anger.

Validation.

"I know and appreciate what you do for me" you place your hand on his chest as you spill lies from your mouth.

"Your actually the reason why I'm still alive" though jungkook can tell when you're playing with him he decides not to acknowledge it.

"Then why do you ran away"

"I'm just silly jungkook. You know that. Sometimes I do things without thinking" you look in his eyes and he must be buying it.

"I just wanna go out sometimes. You know" You say playing with the locks of his hair.

"You know I wanna take you outside." He runs his hand in your hair.

"But you're such a bad girl that I can't do that" he says as you feel his demeanour shift, not longer gentle and delicate.

"And you know what happens next"

"I'm sorry babe" you try to use a pet name to soothe him but it doesn't work. You know what he means and tears fill your eyes as you think of it.

"I'm really sorry" you whine tears falling from your eyes as you try to plead your case.

"Its too late for sorrys now" his eyes glare at you and you can feel the darkness and cold pool from them and his aura.

Your heart begins to pound against your chest, you're afraid your chest might rip open. Jungkook begins to pull you to your bedroom and you try to stop him from taking you there, little 'I'm sorrys' leave your mouth that's now collecting your tears. But he doesn't listen he continues to drag you to your room.

"No dinner for you today" he says coldly, eyes on the ground he's dragging you on. You'd even forgotten how hungry you were because of the fear you were feeling.

Even though it was your room, it wasn't good when jungkook took you there. He'd always let you sleep in his room on his white and comfy bed. He'd always let you sleep there. The only time he took you to your own room to sleep was to punish you. The room itself isn't bad but it's not as good as jungkook's.

The thoughts of what he's gonna do to you and has done to you in this room make your weeping louder. Jungkook never liked seeing you cry, well sometimes, but he had to do what needs to be done to teach you the lesson you never seem to learn.

"Jungkook I'm sorry... I'll listen this time" you yell, mucous now filling your throat. You gag feeling like you wanna puke.

"I-i-i pr-promise I'll listen this time please, I'm sorry I'll never do it again" you plead but it's like he can't hear. He actually can and it hurts him but those feelings are pushed aside. He needs you to be a good girl and if this is the only way so be it.

He steps back and stretches after tying your hands behind your back. He didn't gag you cause he wants to hear your screams and pleads. Your legs are untied and he knew you knew better than to kick him or struggle.

"Why do you have to be so bad" he says hovering over your shaking body. You were sweating from fear, your entire body moist. He stares at the little 'hello kitty' panties you're wearing. He knew you'd look great in them when he bought them.

He chuckles.

Turning around to go to the little drawer you'd never liked to see him approach. You hear the drawer open and the clanking of metals together and your wailing grows louder.

"Jungkook please"

"The audacity you have to even call me by my name" you hear him scoff as the drawer is closed and he approaches you.

You almost lose your breath when you see the blade in his hands. It's become so familiar to you, you know every pattern and design on it by heart and mind. He'd always do this when you misbehaved but especially when you tried to ran away.

You shake intensely when he squats in front of you and spreads your thighs revealing the other 3 wounds you got when you tried to ran away.

"D-da-" You want to say it but its so hard. Maybe if he hears you call him that he'll take it easy on you.

"Oh look at these" he says tracing his fingertips over the 3 soon to be 4 scars on your thighs, when he does this the pain you felt from them resurfaces. You can hear him laugh at the memory.

"Daddy please I'm sorry" you finally say it bit it doesn't change his mind. He simply sighs at the name, he loved when you called him that but you only did when you were in this kind of situation trying to escape his wrath.

"I'll never ran away again" you've said that many times, "I mean it this time" and that too.

"Daddy plea-"

"Why don't you ever just want to be a good girl...my good girl" he seems low his voice not so aggressive, but it still makes you scared.

"I'll be a good girl, I promise" you continue to plead trying to lift yourself up and find his eyes.

"Shut up" he yells shutting you up. But you can't shut your sobs up.

"I don't like doing this you know." He spreads your legs wider and he tries his best to not stare at your core.

"All I want is for you to be a good girl..." he says gliding the blade against your skin and you continue to cry.

"...my good girl..." he pokes the blade againt your skin as your skin tears.

"...a good girl...for me" he finishes saying as the blades begins to drag against your skin, lining the mark with the others. Its like he's counting tallies. Immediately a line of blood follows. You scream and he smiles as he watches the liquid follow the blade.

"You just don't like to listen huh?" He says finally stopping his movements.

"I just want you to know I'll never stop until you learn... I'm never giving up on you Y/N"

Can I request a very smuttyyy storyyy? Pairing a successful & huge actor yandere jungkook x starlet/newbie actress reader pls!

starstruck (1)

jungkook, a highly award-winning actor, has his eyes set on you, an upcoming actress, to be his love interest in his new movie.

word count: 5.652

warning: yandere themes/tendencies, power imbalance, naive reader, manipulation, coercion, dub-con, non-con (acting) scenes, oral sex, dirty talk, face-fucking, ass-slapping, choking/w belt, squirting, unprotected sex, overstimulation, creampie,

“I want her.”

The director’s lips snap shut as Jungkook points at your portrait photo. Dare he say he takes several deep breaths before he speaks. 

“She has little acting experience.” the direct murmurs. “She’s only ever starred in indie horror films that are complete trash-”

“I happened to enjoy “Attack of the Killer Space Beetles”.” Jungkook jokes. He couldn’t help but begin to laugh at how ridiculous the name sounded. “Besides, you said you wanted a fresh face, right?”

The director sighs, but nods his head. A new face alongside Jungkook, an academy award-winning one, was needed. He wanted the audience to come to the theatres because of Jungkook, but stay long enough for the story.

“Exactly. She auditioned. Her credentials are…” Jungkook trails off. 

You did a lot of horror movies that only “horror lovers” would watch - for the sake of saying they’ve watched a lot of horror movies. They weren’t blockbuster or household names. They did, however, have a cult following. You were a newbie, but you did have a small fan base that enjoyed you being dragged across the ground covered in fake blood.

“This is a horror movie, as well.” Jungkook shrugs. He leans back into the leather seat and stretches his arms out. “Right in her element.”

“Yes but…there’s sex scenes.” the director shakes his head. “She’s never done that. She hasn’t even been nude before. I don’t have time to coach a new girl-”

“You don’t. That’s what the intimacy coach is for.”

The director ponders why Jungkook was fighting so hard for you specifically. Being a big name  in the industry, Jungkook cost millions and was the highest paid in any movie franchise or television series he starred in. He directed a few movies himself, and even assisted in producing them. He was the reason as to why a few celebrities had careers today - he had an eye for talent.

Jungkook’s current eye was now on you - a fresh face. Your acting was good and you had the potential. You went to college for acting and all; a degree not everyone had. Your heart was in it, you just needed the opportunity.

Jungkook was going to be that opportunity for you. He watched the way your eyes widen as you walked into the audition room, script in hand. You were immediately nervous when your eyes locked with his that it caused Jungkook to smile with how innocent you were.

So new and naive to the world of cinema - anyone would take advantage of such naivety. 

“Fine. If you think she’s good, then I’ll give her a call.” the director throws his hands up. Jungkook wasn’t a fool. He put on many celebrities - Kim Taehyung was one of the highest paid actors a part of a soap opera right now. The man hadn’t even come to the audition for himself, but instead as support for his friend. It was Jungkook who spotted the deep voiced man and asked him to audition for a role and said “Jungkook sent me”.

When your phone rings with an unknown number you hadn’t recognized, you assume it was either a spam call or a call from your agent telling you that you didn’t get the role but “there will be other roles available”.

You weren’t expecting to get a call from the same director as a week prior telling you that you got the role. You had forgotten how to breathe when the news was given to you that when the director asked if you were still there, you almost fainted.

“I’ll get in contact with your agent and pass her the details. In the meantime, Jeon Jungkook-” Your heart instantly pounds at the name. “-will be speaking with you soon. I hope it wasn’t bad that I’ve given him your contact information.”

“No!” you nearly scream, and you want to slap yourself. “I mean no, it’s not an issue.”

“Good.” the direct chuckles. “Jungkook has a good eye for talent, Ms. Y/L. He chose you himself.”

Your heart jolts and your eyes widen.

“If things go as planned, you could be just as big as him one day.”

Just as big as Jeon Jungkook one day.

Jeon Jungkook - thee Jeon Jungkook - had picked you. The award winning actor who’s graced your screen since you were a teenager had chosen you. You out of hundreds of female leads.

Upon your arrival at the audience, you were already nervous. You were in a room full of beautiful women, some you recognized. You contemplated turning around and going back home to this very apartment you rent for far too much than you can truly afford.

But you hadn’t. You stayed for hours and once your name was called, you entered. You audience and you got the role.

All because of Jeon Jungkook.

You could faint right now, your eyes swelling with tears. This could be the moment you studied so hard for. The acting classes you took daily cost you to work night shift, along with you studying in college for acting. You took your dream seriously and now…

“It’s paying off.” you say to yourself. You’re in complete silence now, head against your satin pillowcase. You’re staring up at the ceiling.

Your phone begins to buzz against your chest. You’re alarmed by the amount of notifications that are coming all at once.

Instagram notifications were coming through rapidly, all too quickly for you to grasp as to why. You open the app and find out for yourself.

You were an actress, yes, and you did have a bit of a following. You posted behind the scene pictures to your instagram sometimes and it garnered you over 10,000 followers.

You were shocked to see the following count rise from over 10,000, to nearly 100,000.

“W-What…?”

You understood why. The post shows up right as you click “home”. 

Jeon Jungkook has followed you. He had uploaded a picture of him with a script in his hands, smiling. His lips are a rosy pink and the lip-piercing adds a touch of attractiveness - how was that even possible? 

jeon.jk can’t wait to start filming our new horror movie “starstruck” with @yn. we’re both going to look good covered in blood 😭

Your breathing quickens. 

Breathe.

Breathe.

“Oh fuck.” you gasp out, palms sweaty. This was an exact reminder that this was all real. Jeon Jungkook acknowledging you publicly. He appeared excited to work with you - fuck, he was the one that chose you.

Not to forget that Jungkook also said you were going to look good covered in blood.

“Oh fuck.” you repeat.

You’re running, your feet nearly getting caught on the pavement. The sky is dark and cloudless, and the street lights don’t do enough to shine your path. 

Your heart is racing outside your chest and you feel as though your body is going to give out any moment now. You want nothing more than to stop and catch your breath, but you don’t. You don’t dare to.

Your footsteps are not the only ones you hear. The ones behind you are catching up - growing closer and closer. You don’t look back - that would only distract you. You could only wish that they are further than what they sound.

A loud screech releases from your throat when your hair is being pulled and you’re set backwards and right onto your back. Your manage to not hit your head on the way down, but your body is soaked in mud.

“Why are you running?”

That voice.

Your ankle is grabbed tightly and you’re being dragged. You continue to scream and cry as the man drags you closer to him. You attempt to kick your feet and to free yourself from this crazed man, but you’re unable to.

“Stop fucking screaming.” the man roars suddenly, his yells echoing off of the trees. “You,” a hand is slammed against your lips. “are only alive because I want you to be.”

Your heart pounds with how close the man was.

With how handsome, too. A handsome man like him didn’t do things like this. Handsome men with good jobs and money didn’t stalk you. They didn’t threaten your livelihood.

They didn’t chase you in the middle of the night, either - yet here he stood.

“Please.” you shake your head, crying. The tears finally spilled down your cheeks and your vision of the handsome man was blurring. “Please…”

“You’re so pretty when you cry.” the man laughs. His thumb rubs away a stray tear. “You’re pleading now because you’re scared. Where’s the woman that fought me earlier?”

You cry harder when the man shakes you roughly, now screaming in your face.

“Where is she? Where is she?!”

Your eyes grow wide when the man clenches your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. His dark eyes stare a hole through you. Almost if he was looking right through you - inside of you.

“Open your mouth.” the man commands.

You stiffen. Slowly, your eyes drifted to the side.

The director is seated in a chair. He’s watching the scene unfold, intrigued with how well you are acting. He doesn’t seem fazed that Jungkook had deviated from the script.

“I said,” Jungkook, in character, hissed. Without much thought, he squeezes your cheek until your mouth opens. He forces two of his fingers inside of your mouth and you’re entirely distraught to do anything. “open your mouth.” he repeats.

DId you somehow forget this scene? You’ve read the script countless times - there was no way this was in it. You’re far too shocked to do anything and neither Jungkook nor the direct stop. 

“Let me see what that mouth of yours can do while you’re afraid.”

Your chest rises and falls, eyes widening. Jungkook’s fingers force themselves deeper inside of you, holding onto your limp form.

“Cut!”

You gasp when Jungkook’s fingers remove themself from your mouth. He wipes them onto his pants without a care and smiles at you. “You okay?”

The demeanor changes instantly. Jungkook’s eyes soften and the hardened expression you witnessed before is gone entirely. 

This was all an act, of course. Jungkook was an actor. Of course he wasn’t some psychotic psycho chasing you through the woods.

“Y/N, you’re a natural.” the director calls from his chair. “I’m actually shocked by how well you’re doing. We’ve filmed all day now so we should have enough.” he says, clapping his hand. “Need everyone back here first thing tomorrow morning. Jungkook, Y/N,”

Your eyes turn back to Jungkook who is now standing. He offers you his hand - it’s covered in makeup to hide the tattoos - and you hesitantly take it.

“I’m sorry about the sudden change in script.” Jungkook murmurs to you. “I was told to improvise. He likes raw reactions.”

Raw reactions.

You nod your head, cheeks warming. “No problem, really.” you assure, yet you’d be lying if you say the change in script didn’t terrify you. It all seemed too real, even with countless people around you watching. Jungkook had a way that made you feel like it was only you and him around - and that’s just with the little scenes you and he acted in already.

“Intimacy coordinator wants to meet with the two of you.”

You bite your lip.

You knew that this was a horror film and there were scenes you’ve never done before. Sex scenes to be precise. You’ve read the script and you were left an embarrassed mess when you had to read the lines over with Jungkook, but he was professional. He made it easier for you with how polite and reassuring he was.

“You’re doing great.” Jungkook says as you and he walk down the grassy hill towards the trailers. 

Jungkook had his own trailer and much to your surprise, he had even rented you one. Typically, there was a trailer for people to share, but you’ve never had your own. It was never in the budget for the films you’ve done.

“Thanks.” you smile at him. “I was hoping I wouldn’t fall on my ass before you got to me.”

Jungkook chuckles. “You’re a natural on camera.” he says, and the compliment causes your body to warm up. “You can tell that you’re accustomed to the horror vibe.”

You nod your head a bit. “I try to be. I’ve been in corny horror movies though.” you joke. 

You recall when you and Jungkook had officially met to go over the script and he mentioned he enjoyed ‘Attack of the Killer Space Beetles’. You were immediately embarrassed, but Jungkook had actually watched and enjoyed it. He recounted scenes from the movie that even you forgot about. 

“Corny movies are only a stepping stone to your big break.” Jungkook says. He places a hand onto your shoulder and squeezes it gently before bringing you closer to his side in a sideways hug. 

Meeting with the intimacy coordinator had only reminded you that you’ve indeed never experienced anything like this. She was sweet in asking for your opinions - if you felt comfortable in the amount of sexual activity that would be happening behind the camera.

 A sex scene was new to you, but not to Jungkook. That also caused more nerves to be added onto your shoulders. You didn’t want to embarrass yourself too much in front of him and the rest of the crew.

Jungkook, however, was more supportive. He insisted that things weren’t as they seemed and most outcomes were just illusions.

“So since you’re new,” the intimacy coordinator states. “you’re possibly wondering how scenes are executed on set. These are modest garments.”

The coordinator shows you different skin-color shades of garments. “They’re strapless things with a barrier inside of them. Do you want to feel?”

Though you’re humiliated, you are also intrigued. You touch the garment and hum as you nod your head. You suppose this is how things are done - so you wouldn’t actually be feeling Jungkook.

“For men, we have them wear something called a modesty pouch.”

Jungkook leans back into his chair. He watches the way your eyes examine all of the garments, genuinely intrigued by it all as the intimacy coordinator explains to you how everything is done. Your naivety with how everything works is what causes Jungkook’s lips to form a small smile - you were cute, he thinks. This was like a whole new world to you that you’ve never been a part of; one that he was showing you.

“We have different types of garments you could wear and try on. Since you are new, we’ll have to find your size.” you nod along to her speech.  “And we’ll also have to work on what we call “faking it”.”

“Fake moaning.” Jungkook nods his head at your confused look. 

“We have to make it look real while we’re filming so the final product appears as such. But as you can see, it’s all fake at the end of the day.”

For the next hour, you were explained step-by-step of how intimacy works, camera angles, faking sounds and all. Once the meeting was over, you felt that this was something you could actually do without feeling like such a newbie.

“Feel better?” Jungkook asks. 

You and Jungkook are side by side now as you make your way out of your own trailer. You changed back into your clothes and decided that it was best for you to head back home. The evening sun casted a burnt orange type of hue over the set entirely.

“Yes.” you nod your head with a soft grin. “I can’t wait to watch the movie when it’s all done. I want to redeem myself from my past work.”

Jungkook snickers. “You’ll be amazing. Trust me.” he assures. “I waited to ask if you wanted to grab dinner and go over the script.”

You blink a few times, uncertain. Your stomach was rumbling and you could go for food right now - but did you truly want to go over the script? “What scenes did you want to go through?”

Jungkook shrugs his shoulders. “A few. Especially if we’re going to get told to keep improvising.”

Improvising. Your mind flashes with the way Jungkook looked and sounded earlier, followed by the way he forced his fingers into your mouth. It was eerie, especially when you didn’t know it was happening. You’re positive, however, that the raw reaction the director was looking for was highly evident.

“It shouldn’t be an issue, I guess.” you shrug your shoulders. You didn’t want Jungkook to think you weren’t passionate about the project - you were!

This is how you and Jungkook found yourselves, eating takeout while attempting to go over the script. You willingly drink the wine Jungkook gives you, admitting to yourself that it actually was an amazing taste - he told you it was thousands of dollars and you cannot comprehend just how someone could spend that much on it.

“Okay, let’s get back to the script.” you say after another sip of wine. “Where did we leave off?”

Jungkook turns a few pages before looking up at you. “We should try an intimate one. Get it out of the way so tomorrow it’ll be easier to perform.”

Nodding your head, you take a deep breath. You had read this scene countless times to memorize your lines. Watching Jungkook get into character was amazing. Even while practicing, he still gives a stellar performance.

“I missed you.” He says, taking a few steps towards you. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I-I haven’t.” you say. This scene involves you being in bed, but you and Jungkook are in his living room, so the couch would have to do.

“Yes you have. Are you afraid of me?” Jungkook comes closer until he’s hovering above you, dark eyes tracing over your body. “You know I’ll never hurt you.”

You flinch when a hand comes near you. “I-I…you told me you’d kill anyone who touched me. That’s not normal.” you quip.

“I can’t help how I feel!” Jungkook hisses. He plops down besides you, his eyes softening. “Please, baby…I’m sorry. Just give me another chance. You know I’ll never hurt you. Sometimes I get angry and…”

This was where the intimacy got started. Jungkook’s lips are on your neck immediately, kissing at the nape of it. His hand places itself onto your inner thigh and he squeezes.

“You drive me crazy.”

Your eyes close for a moment, swallowing. Jungkook kisses up your neck, hand growing closer and closer to you.

“We shouldn’t be doing this…” you murmur. “...you-”

You stop immediately when Jungkook’s hands touch your clothed heat. He cups it in his palm, your cheeks warming.

“Sssh…” Jungkook hums, continuing to rub. You weren’t wearing any safety garments - Jungkook knows this. You’re unable to move as he continues to rub. “...just let me.”

Jungkook squeezes your cupped heat, eyes flickering to see your reaction. Your shy face appears bewildered and you’re unable to move.

“You okay?” Jungkook asks. That wasn’t part of the script, and neither was him touching you. “Does it feel good?”

“Jung…kook?”

You say his name so sweetly that it causes him to moan.

“I like the way you say my name.” Jungkook admits. He’s so close to your face. It’s warm with embarrassment and nerves. This wasn’t part of the script - was he improvising again? Even this is too much.

“W-What are you doing?” you ask. He’s close like he was before, his eyes dark with someone else that you couldn’t put your finger on. Your heart is pumping so loudly, your thighs quivering.

“We’re going to be around one another for months. You and I have to look like we’re intimate on camera.” Jungkook’s tongue swipes along your neck. The hair on your skin rises. “We mind as well get comfortable.”

Comfortable…

The way Jungkook’s hands forces it’s way into your pants, you’re entirely stiff. You’re afraid to move, especially when his fingers rub along your clothed heat through your panties. A soft gasp comes from your lips.

“It feels good, right?” Jungkook hums against your neck. His tongue slides up towards your ear, his teeth nibbling slightly on it just to tease you further. “Talk.”

“Is this…okay?” you ask him, as if you aren’t the one that should be assured. Jungkook looks into your eyes and it drives him crazy. Those sweet, innocent eyes. Such naivety behind them.

“Of course this is okay. You feel good, don’t you?” Jungkook asks.

You nod your head a bit. It felt good - but you and Jungkook were co-workers. You didn’t want to go too far with him and have things be awkward on set later on. Nor did you want him to think you were a groupie who is willing to jump his bones at any given moment.

“We’re going to have to act in front of the camera, Y/N. You’re going to have to moan…” Jungkook murmurs. “I want you to be completely comfortable for me. It’s just us.”

You don’t move when Jungkook tugs your pants down and discards them on the floor. His eyes are intense, watching you the entire time. He places his hands back between your legs, continuing to rub your wet core through your panties.

“You’re new to this.” Jungkook chuckles. “But it’s just you and me. I want you to be comfortable enough for me, okay? Tell me how you feel.”

You aren’t new to sex, but those hookups weren’t Jeon Jungkook. You were self-conscious already. You’re positive he’s done this with countless women - all beautiful models and actresses. You were just you; a newbie in the world and you’re positive you look it.

“It feels nice.” you mumble.

“Yeah?” Jungkook chuckles again, just because you were so cute. “And now?” 

Pushing your panties aside, Jungkook slides his fingers across your wet clit. He rubs a bit more profusely, hissing as just how good he knows your pussy feels. He knows it's tight and would milk him for everything he has.

“In order to look convincing on camera, we’re going to have to experience it behind the scenes.” Jungkook explains. “Don’t you want this? This movie is going to be big.”

Jungkook wouldn't say he was manipulating you. You could push him away and say no - he just knows you won’t. You did want this. He was going to open doors for you that would’ve remained closed if it wasn’t for him.

"The scene we’re acting out is a bit aggressive, but not all of them are.” Jungkook assures. His cock tightens at just the thought of handling you the same way his movie character handles yours. “You trust me right?”

Slowly, and slightly unsure, you nod your head.

“Good.” Jungkook removes his hand from your clit. “Get up. And strip.”

Jungkook was blurring the lines between reality and the script. But you wanted to be good - good enough for him to realize that he didn’t make a mistake in choosing you.

“Yes, sir.” you nod your head, following along with the script.

Jungkook watches you peel off the remaining clothing. Your bra falls right besides your panties, erect nipples staring back at him.

“Go up the stairs and to the right. That’s my bedroom.” Jungkook instructs. “We can’t act this scene out on the couch.”

You can feel Jungkook watching you as you do as he says. Being fully nude before him is nerve wrecking and you just hope you can appear sexy as you’re supposed to. You and him were actually going to do this - there’s no garments to hide either of your parts from one another.

“You think I’d allow anyone else to have what’s mine?” Jungkook hisses. He removes his belt as you sit on his bed, innocent eyes looking up at him.

“N-No, sir.” you murmur back.

“Exactly. I’d kill anyone who thinks they’ll take you away from me.” Jungkook pushes his pants off. You don’t want to stare at the obvious bulge in his underwear, but it’s hard not to. “How should I punish you then? You tried to run away from me.”

You swallow. “Sir-”

“How about you get on your knees?”

You lick your lips. Your character is supposed to be frightened, doing whatever it takes to survive Jungkook’s character - the obvious bubbling psychopath. Witnessing you on your knees, naked with those eyes causes something in Jungkook’s chest to rumble. His cock throbs, wishing you’d touch him already.

“I’d do anything, sir.” you say. Your soft hands lift up to touch him, sliding up his bare legs until they are on either side of his thighs. 

“Open your mouth.” Jungkook demands. His free hand is placed on your chin. “Wider.” he instructs over and over until your tongue is out.

You’re trembling when Jungkook pushes his underwear out. This is something you’ve never done. Oral sex wasn’t something you were interested in with simple hookups. His cock is big, veiny with a wet tip. Without warning - though you should’ve expected, he rubs his tip against your tongue. It’s salty and at the first sign of your hesitance, Jungkook tightens his fingers on your chin.

“You’re doing good.” Jungkook instructs. “You’ve sucked on a lollipop before, right? Treat it like that.”

This was Jungkook talking to you, not his character. His breathing increases when you listen. You were such a good girl - and your compliance would be rewarded. He could make you into the perfect actress - highly awarded just like he was. In due time, of course.

You do as Jungkook says, licking his tip just as you would a lollipop. It’s new to you and you aren’t sure if you’re doing it correctly, but Jungkook’s gasping lowly so you assume you are. Your eyes flicker up to look at him for reassurance.

“You’re doing good.” Jungkook says as if he knows. “Just…take more of me, yeah?”

Jungkook thrusts himself deeper into your wet mouth, groaning when you allow him to with little resistance. His hand holds onto your cheek. “Stay like this, okay. Let me…”

Jungkook begins to pump his cock in and out of you slowly. His moaning increases, his dark eyes fluttering every so often. You’re shocked with how wet you were, your thighs clenching together. Doing this for Jungkook and witnessing how good it makes him feel makes you feel good.

“You’re so beautiful taking my cock.” Jungkook speaks, rubbing his thumb against your cheek. “You’re so good.”

Jungkook picks up the pace, as does his moans. Watching the way your wet mouth takes his cock deeper and deeper with little resistance, even if he can see the whelming tears forming to your eyes with how overwhelming it was. Fuck, you were such temptress.

“You’re such a good girl, Y/N. I promise you’d have it all. Just be good to me, okay?” Jungkook’s cock is so deep in your mouth that you cannot physically respond, but a hum vibrates from your throat and sends Jungkook into a frenzy. 

You’re unsure how you haven’t gagged more than a couple times with how deep Jungkook was, growing more aggressive by the second. You’re breathing through your nose heavily for air, your eyes glossy.

Jungkook spills entirely into your throat, the salty, warm substance causing you to actually gag. You swallow it, unsure what else to do after he removes his cock from your mouth. You finally breathe from your lips, blinking away the tears from your eyes.

“Look at you,” Jungkook hisses. “turn around.”

You were going by the script again. Once you can see again, you do as you’re told. You already know what’s next - the belt still in his right hand. You had to prepare for when you and him do this scene you suppose.

Jungkook wraps the leather belt around your neck, tightening just enough that it isn’t choking you. He forces you onto your feet.

“This is what I do to whore’s who don’t listen.”

You’re forced onto the bed. You immediately know what position to get into, having read the script. And Jungkook thinks you’re such an obedient person that it drives him crazy.

You aren’t sure how this scene was going to play out in front of the camera, but Jungkook isn’t hesitant to slam a hand directly on your bare ass. You yelp at the sudden action - and the sensation of it.

“Count.” Jungkook demands.

“One.”

SLAP!

“Two.”

SLAP!

“T-Three…”

SLAP!

SLAP!

SLAP!

Your thighs are quivering, forced apart so Jungkook could watch the way arousal trickles down your thighs helplessly. Your ass is stinging, a pleasurable feeling you’ve never experienced until now. 

Jungkook yanks at the belt and you’re forced upward and against his chest. You struggle a moment, eyes widening. 

“You’re wet.” Jungkook says against your ear. “You like this, don’t you?”

You nod slightly, cheeks warm with embarrassment.

“That’s okay.” Jungkook assures. “I want you to feel good, too.”

Jungkook’s free hand slides between your legs. He doesn’t allow you to move and his grip onto the belt is firm. He likes the way you helplessly lean against his chest while his hand rubs along your wet clit.

“Let’s see how well you take my fingers.”

Jungkook’s fingers are intruding, but he doesn’t care. He slides them between your folds and  right in you. You’re tighter than he thought, fully taking him entirely. 

You gasp at the feeling, your pussy clenching instantly. Jungkook doesn’t intend on being soft with you - no. It’s what you were going to have to get used to. This wasn’t a soft movie - it was hard. It was intruding and invasive - showcasing just how obsessed Jungkook’s character was with yours.

Your pussy is squelching so loudly that Jungkook adds another finger. You’re moaning helplessly, your thighs aching too close to stop the overstimulation but Jungkook isn’t going to allow it. He forces his knee between your legs to assure you stay exactly like this.

“Jungkook,” you gasp, a hand on his wrist. “s-slow down, please. I-i can’t-”

“Shut up.” Jungkook hisses. He was enjoying fucking his fingers into your pussy. He can feel it - the throbbing and clenching and unclenching. 

“I have to…” you’re breathing heavily. Your eyes squeeze shut and your hands, to no avail, are attempting to pry Jungkook off of you. His hand only tugs on the belt.

There’s pressure building up in you. You felt as though you had to pee and you weren’t going to humiliate yourself and do that now. “P-please…!”

“Let go, Y/N. I know you feel it.” Jungkook’s voice is so deep that it tickles something in you. He wasn’t going to release you - not until you did what he said.

You have no control over the pressure that builds and builds until your body forces it out. It sprays entirely onto your thighs and onto the silk bed sheets.

“Such a good girl you are, Y/N.” Jungkook shakes his head, his wet fingers removed from your hole.

Jungkook isn’t going to let you regain any peace - not when you and he had to perfect your roles. When you feel something else at your entrance, you’re too overstimulated to say anything.

Jungkook enters you. You’re so wet that he slides past your walls effortlessly. He groans, feeling your wet pussy around his cock is mind blowing. You were amazing, he thinks, so wet and willing. He finds pleasure in knowing that it was him that is going to discover you and all your talents.

Jungkook begins to pump, forcing you onto his bed so he can get a better grip on you. Your legs are forced apart and your head is shoved into the wet sheets. You’re unable to form words and your eyes are still shut. He’s so deep, pounding into you with every ounce of aggression the script calls for.

“You’re going to be a star, Y/N. I’ll make sure of it.” Jungkook hisses. He’s positive that you’re only half listening, the other half of you babbling and moaning to yourself. But he’ll make sure to tell you once more in the morning. 

Your hands grip the sheet, unsure if you were going to be able to handle another orgasm, but Jungkook wasn’t going to stop until you both were there.

Your ass bounces against his abdomen, your wet pussy gushing with more and more juices that he’s unsure just how this was possible. You’re creaming around his cock, so good that he’s positive you’re cumming over and over again.

“You love this, don’t you? You get to get fucked by me and have the world at your hands. You and I…” Jungkook speaks, now more to himself. To think about it, he could be your guide. Someone to protect you from harm in this industry - you were new and naive. Anyone could take advantage of you. “...I’ll protect you, Y/N. Make sure no one has their way with you.”

You whimper once more when you feel another sensation flowing though you and Jungkook are chuckling with delight. You’re limp, forced to allow Jungkook to have his way with you.

“Maybe we should become the next power couple, huh? Dominate the industry…the perfect actress I can have you be…”

Jungkook’s thrusts become sloppy, satisfied with the possibility of making you the star he knows you can be. The one you and he could be together - fuck, he was going to cum. His eyes squeeze shut, a few more thrusts and-

You feel warmth pool through you and Jungkook falls right on top of you. Your thighs are trembling and your eyes are heavy. You’ve cum more than you ever had before and you had no energy in you to move.

Jungkook is panting, his mouth right against your shoulder. He’s still pumping cum into you, sweat forming on his forehead. One thing for sure, Jungkook couldn’t wait to make you a star.

@investedreader @sweetempathprunetree @minshookie29 @darkuni63 @chimmy-licious

trivia-yandere: i think this calls for a second part :3

Early 90s AU - Yandere x Reader

I was thinking about a statistical fact I heard once in a documentary, and combined with me going onto one of those unreality liminal space nostalgia blogs the other day I produced this. 

When I started making this, I thought I would start writing and just determine which boy it would be for as I went along with it, then kinda started crafting a boy in my head and ended up characterizing/specifying details to the point that I was kind of creating a boy that didn’t perfectly fit any character I can think of.

So I guess I have an OC now. This feels like the birth of a firstborn son. Yay.

//DARK CONTENT, fem reader, noncon, kidnapping, smoking/alcohol, fetishizing something that might be a little bit too realistic for some people, specific use of the word “rape” several times, victim blaming, mentions of prison/criminal activity, some gender-related derogatory matters/terms/subjects, some potentially unpleasant/offensive handlings/portrayals of medication/mental health topics, mentions of classism

———————

There is one occupation that, while now the risk is essentially obsolete, throughout the 80s and 90s, led to more cases of stalking and harassment than any other.

This position was perhaps a surprising one: the local news girl.

The time and era is an important factor in this. Prior to being able to open your phone and check an app at any given second, you would have to turn on the TV in the morning to check the weather and temperature for the upcoming day. Likewise, rather than the instantaneous accessibility of major world events at your fingertips, most people simply turned on their television and listened in.

This was often on a local basis. National news existed per country, but for weather, people needed to tune in to their local news stations, who also presented local and some national/international news anyway.

The history of weather girls and news girls is long standing, too. Although professional speculation states the obvious, it doesn’t take a historian to guess that one of the reasons it was so common to have a girl doing it was to attract viewers. People like tuning in and watching a nicely dressed, bubbly and energetic woman with a soothing voice. And predictably, it worked.

Some of the repercussions of this, however, were… unpleasant.

Throughout the era, it has been noted by historical statistics that the girls of the local news faced instances of stalking and harassment from men to a level highly disproportionate in comparison to other occupations. There have been speculations as to why this is, most believe it was an early form of the same parasocial relationships that would later become more common with the rise of widespread internet.

What you’re told when you start, though, is simply that people may recognize you around town. Not that it’s a very big deal, but you’re told that if that happens, you should try to maintain that upbeat, peppy, friendly demeanor, and not show any tiredness or irritability. Part of the job is maintaining the image of a lively persona and all. Pretty soon you’ve gotten a few people who recognize you at the store or the park and the like, usually just smiling and exchanging a few brief words or admiration, which you appreciate.

But they’re not the… issue, so to speak.

In truth, there are a lot of very lonesome guys out there. Plenty of them watch you. Plenty think you’re cute, sure. But one in particular – a man you have never met, a man who you don’t know exist – happens to fixate on you.

There’s no OnlyFans, no egirls. If you want porn online, you have to wait for a single jpeg to load up, and his computer chair isn’t very comfortable anyway. And he’s tried, but has never been able to summon the gall to go through the awkward process of getting a magazine or VCR tape from a store. Perhaps ironic, considering someone who did all those things he did would be unable to do something so simple… ah, well.

The local news girl, thus, is… comforting, in a way.

You’re a familiar face, a familiar voice. He can come home after a long grueling day at a job he hates, remove all the filthy work clothes, shower off the grime (sometimes), turn on the TV and sit back. Your face is so cute. But even if he’s tired, he can just lay on the mattress, close his eyes and listen to your voice, so soothing. If he wants to see you really well he has to sit really close to the TV anyway, and the screen often starts going haywire until he has to bang it with his fist a few times before it starts working again… anyway, yes, sometimes just laying down and listening to you is better.

Not that he actually cares in the slightest about anything going on in the world. It all began because he just needed to check the weather before leaving in the mornings, and started realizing how much it improved his day to hear you talk. It’s a welcome comfort in a quiet, empty house. Keeps him sane. Living alone can get… Upsetting, after a while. It’s a good thing you’re on a lot.

Keep reading

۶ৎ SHADOWS OF OBSESSION | m. list

In a gritty city, a ruthless criminal's obsession with a shy medical student ignites a dangerous, passionate dance of desire and darkness. As their worlds collide, secrets unravel, and the line between love and possession blurs, pulling them into a thrilling, heart-wrenching saga. Will their twisted bond survive the chaos, or will it consume them both?

pairing: criminal dom!jungkook x student sub!femreader

genre: criminal au, dark romance, forbidden attraction, enemies to lovers, murderer!jungkook, stalker!jungkook, innocent shy!reader, virgin!reader, medical student!reader, violence, stalking and obsession, contrast of worlds, crime, thriller, smut, angst, fluff

warnings: 18+, several explicit sex scenes, mature themes, dark content, graphic violence and gore, non-consensual and dubious consent, cnc, psychological and emotional abuse, kidnapping and captivity, substance use, mental health themes, each chapter contains their individual warnings (reader discretion is advised due to the intense, dark and potentially triggering nature of the content)

status: ongoing

main masterlist

۶ৎ

— 01 ; "eclipse of envy"

— 02 ; "thorns of desire"

— 03 ; "ashes of devotion"

— 04 ; "embers of absence"

— 05 ; to be released.

The More You Struggle, The Tighter I Hold

Synopsis: Jungkook has given you everything, so he doesn’t quite appreciate it when you choose a broke college boy over him.  Themes: chaebol yandere jungkook, rich brat reader, mind conditioning, manipulation, age gap, older jk, nsfw, smut, dubcon, crempie, pregnancy kink

Jungkook has spoiled you rotten for as long as he can remember—lavishing you with expensive gifts, funding your every whim, covering your wishlist without hesitation. Free trips abroad for you and your friends, extravagant dinner dates, even pulling strings to get you into your dream university when your grades didn’t quite meet the requirements. A simple call to the dean, a casual mention of your "relation," and suddenly, doors that should have remained closed swung wide open for you.

He has always been there, protecting you, guiding you, offering advice like a good older brother would. And for years, that’s exactly how you saw him—a doting, dependable presence, someone you could always rely on.

But Jungkook never wanted to be just seen as an older brother.

He wanted more.

Maybe it started the first time he met you, when your father brought you to one of his meetings with Jungkook’s grandfather. You were just ten years old then, a shy, quiet child clinging to the edges of the conversation while he, at sixteen, regarded you as the little sister he never had. Someone fragile, someone to protect.

At least, that’s what he thought his feelings were.

Until you turned seventeen.

That was when everything shifted. Your body began to change—your hips, your chest, the graceful curve of your waist.

Your innocence took on an unintentional allure, oblivious to how you moved, how your body would be pressed into him when you came running to hug him, how you smiled, or how your presence began to unearth something dark and possessive inside him.

That was when Jungkook stopped seeing you as his little sister. And started seeing you as something else entirely.

He saw you as a woman, a woman that should belong to him, rather than that of a younger sister, but you are oblivious to that fact. 

Jungkook’s help isn’t limited to just you—it extends to your entire family, ensuring their unwavering favor, shaping their perception of him as a saint, a savior, a blessing from heaven that they could never repay.

When his grandfather retired as chairman of the Jeon Conglomerate, Jungkook stepped into his rightful position, making sure that your family reaped the greatest benefits from his power.

But those benefits didn’t come without cost…

He had orchestrated everything. Pulled the right strings, made the right moves, and watched as your family’s company crumbled under carefully placed pressure—only for him to appear at just the right time with an outstretched hand and an offer too generous to refuse.

A lifeline. A godsend.

Your father and brother were given prestigious positions within his empire—roles they were woefully unqualified for, yet perfect for keeping them satisfied.

Jungkook knew your father had been embezzling funds from the Jeons for years, a rat biting the very hand that fed him. But Jungkook never stopped him. He never exposed him. Instead, he tolerated it, even allowed it, letting your father gorge himself on wealth that Jungkook could make back in mere minutes.

Because money has never been an issue to him,

It’s not what Jungkook wanted the most…

You are. 

Your family had been consumed by greed long ago, blind to the noose tightening around them as they dug their own graves.

And Jungkook?

He only watched in quiet amusement.

He had always known their sins would serve him one day. That when the time came, their insatiable hunger for wealth and status would tip the scales in his favor.

After all, they were nothing more than beggars dressed in wealth—always grasping for more, always willing to sell whatever was necessary for a place at the Jeon table.

Even you.

And why wouldn’t they? Everything they had—every luxury, every privilege—existed only because of him.

If not for Jungkook, your family would have sunk into bankruptcy long ago.

You were almost just like them—you couldn’t live without gold under your feet. The only difference was that you never took advantage of anyone, never used people for your own gain. 

You weren’t capable of something like that. 

In Jungkook's mind, a kind and innocent thing like you isn’t capable of such sin.

You were just... spoiled. If that was the right word for it. Born into wealth, raised in luxury, never knowing what it was like to beg for anything.

And Jungkook was fine with that.

More than fine.

Because once you became his, he planned on spoiling you even more.

For a long time, everything unfolded just as Jungkook had planned—until he received the most offensive news from you.

“Kookie, meet Hoseok. We’re in the same college department… he’s, um, my boyfriend.”

You introduced him shyly, a blush creeping up your cheeks as you wrapped your arms around your boyfriend’s slender frame.

Jungkook sat there, his glass of wine in hand, gaze locked onto the two of you. He looked at Hoseok from head to toe, trying to process what you had just said—as if hearing it aloud would somehow make it more real.

Here you are, standing beside a guy who looked like he had thrown himself together in five minutes—jeans, Converse, and a wrinkled T-shirt that was probably the first thing he grabbed from his small closet.

An attire that's entirely not suited to a luxurious dinner place like this

His nervous smile only made the contrast more jarring.

And then there’s Jungkook, in a perfectly tailored suit, polished shoes, a Patek Philippe watch on his wrist—an image of wealth and power that felt completely at odds with this moment.

“You never told me anything about this… guy, baby,” Jungkook finally spoke, his voice cold as he set his wineglass down.

Of course, you're twenty now. It's only natural that you’d have a boyfriend. But he never imagined it would be this soon, especially since he’d never seen you show any real interest in relationships.

He always thought your attention was his alone—that no unworthy man could ever steal it.

But it seems he was wrong.

In his mind, maybe he should’ve arranged your marriage with him sooner.

Hoseok stiffened at the way Jungkook called you baby, but he quickly shook off the thought. You’d told him before that Jungkook was like an older brother—maybe this was just how he spoke.

“Well, I always forget,” you said casually, taking a seat and gesturing for Hoseok to join you as you skimmed through the menu.

Jungkook only hummed in response, swirling the wine in his glass.

“U-uh, hi, sir,” Hoseok finally spoke up, his voice tentative, trying to break the tense silence.

You had warned him before coming in that Jungkook might come off as strong and intimidating, but that he was actually sweet underneath it all.

But nothing about Jungkook’s aura felt sweet to Hoseok.

Well—at least to you, Jungkook was sweet.

Jungkook certainly heard Hoseok’s attempt at a greeting. He even glanced at him briefly. But he didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, his attention remained fixed on you.

“Baby, do your parents already know about this?” His voice was calm, but there was something heavier beneath it, something unreadable.

You tensed for a second but quickly recovered. “Kookieeee, please don’t tell them. You know how they can be sometimes. I only told you because I knew you’d be happy for me,” you said with a sweet smile.

You were definitely wrong about that.

None of this made Jungkook happy. Not even a little.

But he chuckled softly, watching how you tried to act cute in front of him, hoping to convince him to keep your little secret.

"Fine,”

Hoseok sat there, feeling increasingly uncomfortable—the way Jungkook’s presence seemed to dominate the space, the way the dynamic between the two of you didn’t quite sit right with him.

This wasn’t how normal childhood friends act, even if you say that you're very close with Jungkook.

Still, he chose to remain silent. He wasn’t about to speak out of turn in front of a man who looked like he could crush him for even the smallest mistake.

Jungkook drained the last of his wine, then glanced at his wristwatch before rising from his seat.

“Well, you two have fun,” he said smoothly, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge. “Order whatever you want.” He said as he handed you his black card.

“But Kook! I thought you had cleared your plans for tonight?” Confusion flickered across your face.

“Yeah, I know, baby. But you know how it is. I’m a busy man.”

That was a lie.

He had indeed cleared his schedule. This night was supposed to be just for the two of you. But Hoseok’s presence had ruined his appetite.

My driver will pick you up at eight,” he continued, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You know how your mom doesn’t like you coming home late.”

“Uhh, sir… I actually intend to bring her home myself—”

“Alright, baby?” Jungkook cut him off, his voice gentle but firm, like a parent dismissing a child.

The conversation was already over.

You hesitated for a second before nodding. “Okay…” you murmured, the slight sadness in your voice betraying the unspoken truth:

Jungkook didn’t like Hoseok for you.

And he never would.

And just like that, the night ended with you being picked up by one of Jungkook’s driver after you and hoseok finished eating dinner that jungkook had paid for.

Hoseok might not say it aloud, but he hated it…

Hated how Jungkook had effortlessly covered the bill when he could’ve just taken you somewhere he could afford.

It felt like a reminder—like a quiet way of putting him in his place.

And it didn’t help that you wouldn’t stop babbling about how good the food was.

“God, that steak was delicious! It tasted almost the same as the ones we had on our Europe trip…”

Hoseok only hummed in response, already annoyed, his fists clenching at his sides as the two of you stepped out of the restaurant. And there it was—a sleek black Mercedes waiting in front of the restaurant, Jungkook’s driver standing there to greet you.

“Good evening, Miss Y/N.”

You barely noticed Hoseok’s stiff posture beside you. “My driver’s here. Bye, Hoseok!” you chirped, flashing him a small smile before slipping inside the car without a second thought.

Hoseok stood there for a moment, watching as the car pulled away, his jaw tightening.

If that’s how Jungkook reacted, then what more if your parents found out you were dating him?

And though you had always been so kind to Hoseok, he couldn’t help but feel like he was beneath you—like he wasn’t someone worthy of standing by your side.

A week had passed since that dinner. The one where you introduced Hoseok to Jungkook like it was nothing, like it wouldn’t shift the earth beneath your feet.

You honestly thought things were going fine.

But Hoseok had been… gone.

Not in the literal sense—no, he was still enrolled, still somewhere in the city—but he hadn’t attended any of your shared classes, hadn’t shown up at the student publication office where the two of you spent almost every afternoon.

His name no longer popped up in your notifications, no missed calls, no good morning texts.

Just... silence.

A gaping void where he used to be.

You reached out to people, trying not to sound desperate.

But the responses were all the same:

"I don’t know." "Ask someone else." "We’re not getting involved in your drama."

Drama?

What drama?

Everything was going fine. Wasn’t it?

Something in you says that he's avoiding you, but you refuse to accept that, because everything was just fine. Instead, you convince yourself to believe that maybe something has just happened that doesn't concern you, perhaps a family emergency that he has to take care of.

But why is he not messaging you if that's the case? The longer the silence dragged on, the more it chipped away at your patience.

Until finally, you decided you’d had enough.

If he wasn’t going to face you at uni, then you’d confront him at his apartment. You need to get your answers to the questions that have been bugging your mind.

You didn’t bother texting. You didn’t even knock.

The spare key he’d given you months ago still worked.

The lights were off when you stepped inside. Your first impression was that he might not be home—you were halfway through calling his name, just to make sure he really wasn’t there, when you heard something from the bedroom—faint, but unmistakable.

A moan.

You stopped cold.

Your heart plummeted straight into your stomach.

No.

No, no, no.

You moved before you could think better of it, storming down the short hall toward his bedroom. The door was cracked open just enough.

You pushed it.

And instantly wished you hadn’t.

There he was.

Hoseok.

On top of someone, some girl you barely recognized from one of the campus orgs. Her legs were wrapped around his waist, her nails digging into his back, both of them breathless, gasping, fucking like they had no care in the world until they felt your presence that caught them off guard.

You felt stupid—after all those days of searching for him, calling and worrying, wondering what could've happened to him, only to find him enjoying himself between some other girl's legs.

A strangled noise left your throat as you stumbled back a step. Your vision blurred for a second, and the ringing in your ears drowned out whatever garbled excuse the girl tried to throw on as she scrambled for a sheet.

Hoseok didn’t even flinch.

Didn’t even look guilty.

He didn’t bother covering up. Didn’t even look surprised anymore. Just annoyed.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, pulling away from the girl beneath him. “What the hell are you doing here?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You were frozen, the image of him and that girl still burned behind your eyelids.

“You stalking me now?” he scoffed, reaching for his jeans without shame. “God, I should’ve known you wouldn’t take the hint.”

“The hint?” your voice cracked. “You disappeared on me, Hoseok. You ignored my calls, ditched class—what the fuck was I supposed to think?”

He rolled his eyes, zipping his pants. “That it’s over. That’s what you should’ve thought.”

Your stomach dropped.

“But… you didn’t even—”

“Didn’t even what? Text you some sappy breakup message?” he sneered.

“Why would I waste my time on that? It’s not like we were anything serious.”

Your breath hitched, refusing to believe what he just said, though it was crystal clear.

"You told me you loved me!"

“Yeah, well,” he said, grabbing a shirt and carelessly pulling it over his head, “I say a lot of shit. Doesn’t mean I meant it.”

The girl behind him giggled under the covers, which only infuriated you further, and Hoseok didn’t even glance at her. His eyes were on you, and they weren’t kind like how it was before.

“Look,” he said, “That Jungkook guy? He opened my eyes, alright? You’re nothing but trouble. Ever since I got with you, my grades lowered, fuck, my scholarship's even hanging by a thread. My future is on the line. You dragged me into your chaos and I’m finally fucking done.”

You blinked back the sting in your eyes, confusion tightening in your chest. How was Jungkook even involved in this?

“No… Jungkook wouldn’t do that,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “He’s not like that.”

“Oh yeah?” Hoseok barked a bitter laugh, eyes blazing. “Well, he fucking did.”

“Go cry to your sugar daddy or whatever the hell he is to you. I’m done.”

You were speechless.

As much as you hated Hoseok for cheating on you, there was one person you blamed even more—Jeon Jungkook. The tears came before you could even begin to process it all, a sob breaking in your throat as the pain swallowed you whole. Hoseok didn’t spare you a second glance; he shoved you out of his dorm like you were nothing, slamming the door shut in your face.

You felt betrayed...

not just by Hoseok, but by Jungkook.

How could he sabotage the one relationship that meant the world to you? How could he be so cruel and manipulative, as if destroying what you had would somehow bring him any satisfaction?

It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

Jungkook had always been your angel, your protector. The thought of him being the one pulling the strings, the one who ruined you, didn’t make sense.

You wanted so badly to believe that Hoseok was just lashing out, making excuses for his betrayal. But no matter how tightly you clung to that hope, his words rang with a cruel kind of truth that you couldn’t ignore.

You didn’t even know how you got here.

After all the drama, the shouting, the betrayal—after all the tears you’d shed in Hoseok’s hallway just this afternoon—you should’ve been curled up in your bed, buried under blankets, trying to sleep the pain away.

But here you were.

At Jungkook’s building.

At his penthouse.

Driven by rage, betrayal, confusion, everything tightening in your chest until your body moved on its own.

You barely remembered how you got through the lobby. The security guard looked up from his desk and blinked in surprise, but when he saw your face, something in his demeanor softened.

“Miss,” he said gently, “You can go right up. He said you’re always welcome.”

Of course he did.

You hated how familiar this was—how the elevator doors opened to his private floor like the building itself was trained to welcome you. You hated that your trembling fingers still remembered the code. The moment the door swung open, his scent was already wrapping around you like a trap.

And you hated, most of all, that he looked happy to see you.

He was standing in the middle of his massive living room, wine glass in hand, dressed in a soft brown sweater and slacks, like the world hadn’t just been shattered around you.

His smile bloomed the moment your figure came into view.

“There you are,” Jungkook said, voice warm and slow, eyes twinkling as he opened his arms for you.

“Come here, angel. I was just thinking about y—”

Instead of a tight hug, all he got from you was a slap in his cheek.

The slap rang louder than you expected.

His cheek snapped to the side, skin blooming red where your palm struck him.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t react.

Just stood there with his face turned, lips slightly parted, as if you’d short-circuited something in him.

Silence.

Then slowly, his eyes returned to yours as his calm demeanor didn't change.

A slow smile curled at the corner of his mouth—too knowing, too soft, too smug.

“Ah,” Jungkook murmured, the hint of a chuckle in his voice. “So you found out.”

And that was the only confirmation you needed. It was all his doing. A part of you had already known it was him, but you needed to hear it from him, and he delivered.

Your throat tightened, but no tears came this time. You were all cried out.

“So you really did it,” you whispered. “You ruined us.”

Jungkook tilted his head as he eyed you intensely. “Ruined?” he echoed, like it was a foreign word.

He let out a breathy laugh, tongue poking against the inside of his cheek.

“No, baby. I didn’t ruin anything,” he said softly. “I just reminded him of what he already knew.”

You stared at him in disbelief

His eyes dropped to your swollen, puffy face—red-rimmed eyes and cracked lips. He stepped closer, not to console, but to admire.

“I hate seeing you cry,” he murmured, brushing a knuckle against your cheek.

You slapped his hand away.

He didn’t flinch.

“You had no right,” you snapped, voice trembling with restrained fury. “Hoseok and I—what we had, it was real. He loved me. We were—”

“He was weak,” Jungkook cut in smoothly, “and undeserving.”

“You don’t get to decide that!" You shouted at him as your face flushed red from anger.

“I do,” he said calmly, like he was explaining something to a child.

"Don’t you get it, Y/N? You belong to me. After everything I’ve done for you, for your family, and you still dared to choose him? I was being generous, patient, so fucking kind with you. But let me make one thing clear."

He steps closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper as he grips your chin a little too tightly, leaning in until his lips nearly graze your ear.

"I don’t share. No one touches what’s mine."

Your breath hitched, skin prickling where his words lingered against your ear. It all started to make sense—every sweet gesture, every moment he showed up exactly when you needed someone, the silent ways he looked at you like you were already his. His care had never been brotherly. Not even close. You had been so foolish, blind to the possessiveness hiding behind his soft smiles, mistaking his obsession for affection.

And now that the truth was out, there was no going back.

Your legs felt unsteady as you took a step back, but Jungkook didn’t let you get far. His hand slid from your chin to the side of your neck, gentle yet firm, anchoring you in place.

“You manipulated Hoseok,” you whispered, the realization choking out of you. “You wanted to ruin us.”

He didn’t even flinch. His thumb caressed the curve of your jaw, voice steady and low.

“No. I had to ruin him. Because he was in the way.” His smile curved, slow, and sinful. “He was holding onto something that never belonged to him in the first place.”

Jungkook, you used to know, the boy who used to laugh with you, protect you, was gone. In his place stood a man whose obsession clung to you like a vice, dark and suffocating.

He looks like he could kill in this moment, as you keep on throwing hurtful words at him

“You’re fucking insane! I don’t ever want to see you again! I swear to God, I’ll leave the country if that’s what it takes to get away from you!” you screamed, ripping his hand off your neck with every ounce of strength you had. He was too strong. It took force, and it hurt.

You see, Jungkook had always been patient. Painfully patient. If he hadn’t been, he would’ve taken you years ago.

But now? Now the thread had snapped. And the moment those words left your mouth, something inside him broke.

Leave?

You were going to leave him?

After everything he gave you? After everything he destroyed for you?

“No, baby. You’re not fucking leaving,” he said lowly, eyes dark as he stalked toward you like a predator. He gripped your arm hard, making you stumble back, his breath hot against your face.

“Let go! I’ll tell my father everything!”

He smirked. “Oh yeah? Want me to dial him for you?”

You tried to fight him, lashing out like a wild animal. The vase by the table shattered as your arm knocked into it, and you didn’t even think—you just grabbed a jagged shard and held it up, hand trembling, eyes wild.

“Stay the fuck away from me, you psycho!”

He stared at you with that maddening calm, like you were amusing. Like, your resistance was cute. And then he stepped forward with lethal grace.

He knew his flowering words and soft tone wouldn't work with you in this situation, you left him with no choice but to use a little bit of force in order to tame you.

“You really think I’d let you hurt yourself over something this stupid?”

In one swift movement, he twisted the shard from your fingers, faster than you could react. Before you could scream, his hand was in your hair, the other on your waist, and your head slammed into the wall with brutal force.

The last thing you heard was your name on his lips before everything faded to black

Your head throbbed painfully as consciousness slowly crept in. The ceiling above you was initially unfamiliar—until the soft fabric brushing against your skin, the scent of expensive cologne, and the dim glow of the city lights pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows reminded you exactly where you were.

You're still in his penthouse... in his bed.

You shifted, realizing you were wearing one of your pajama dresses. One you hadn’t worn in ages. One you hadn’t brought here.

A soft voice broke through the fog in your head.

“You’re awake,” Jungkook murmured beside you, his fingers gently stroking your hair, eyes filled with something unsettlingly tender. “You hit your head, baby. I had to take care of you.”

For a fleeting second, you saw him—the version of Jungkook you used to know. The kind smile. The boy who was always there. But you forced yourself to push that illusion away. That version of him is just an illusion, a facade to his true, dark intentions.

You scrambled off the bed in a panic, nearly tripping over yourself as you ran to the door. Locked. Every other exit—locked. No keypad, no handle you could pry open. You darted from one end of the penthouse to another, only to find nothing but dead ends.

“It’s no use,” Jungkook said calmly, standing from the bed, his hands tucked into his pockets as he watched you look for an exit.

“You’re staying here now. I’m not letting you run away from me.”

“What the hell are you talking about?!” you snapped, voice cracking with disbelief.

Then you saw it—all your designer clothes, your bags, your makeup, your shoes, tucked neatly in his walk-in closet like they belonged there.

Like you belonged here.

You spun to face him, breath short and broken.

“You moved my things…”

“I’ve been preparing this for a while,” he simply said as he slowly walked toward you.

“This is insane,” you whispered, eyes wide with disbelief, your voice trembling before it exploded into a scream. “My parents—they’ll come for me! You’re gonna pay for what you’re fucking doing!”

Jungkook chuckled low, dark, and slow, like he found your defiance amusing. He stepped closer, eyes gleaming with possessive fire as he tilted his head. “Come for you?” he echoed, voice almost mocking. “You mean your greedy parents who work for me now?”

He leaned in, voice dipping into a growl against your ear as he added, “Sweetheart, they’re the ones who sent all your things here. They were more than happy to hand you over to me."

And that’s when it hits you—you’re alone in here, with no one to run to. Even your parents betrayed you, their only daughter, all because they were too blinded by the money Jungkook has.

"No! This is impossible. My parents wouldn’t do that—Jungkook, please," you begged, falling to your knees as you wrapped your arms around his legs. At this point, you didn’t even know why you were begging him. Desperation? Hope? A final plea for the version of him you once knew?

But empathy was the last thing on his mind.

Instead, the sight of you, broken, pleading, lips trembling as you whispered his name, only turned him on.

There was something so intoxicating about having you like this, so helpless and pretty on your knees, as your plump lips were wet with your tears.

Sooner or later, he'd have you crying for something else.

"Shh, sweetheart," he cooed as he crouched down to meet your level, brushing your hair back with a gentleness that contradicted the madness in his gaze. "Stop crying. You’re going to learn to love it here. This is your home now."

Indeed, you had no choice but to stay in his penthouse for these past few weeks, trapped in his world with no way out. Your days blurred into one another, a monotonous loop of routines: a cold, solitary bath, forced meals, and endless hours spent staring at the city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. You waited for Jungkook’s return, your mind spiraling as the isolation ate away at your sanity.

The silence was maddening. The lack of human contact drove you to the edge, and desperation took hold.

You missed the life that you once had, partying and going out with friends, attending classes, and so on, so you tried to escape, of course.

The first time, you managed to hurt one of his security guards as you scrambled your way out, though it was of no use as there were too many of them.

The second time, you threatened to harm yourself with a kitchen knife if they didn’t let you out.

That was when Jungkook decided that enough was enough. He began working from home, his eyes always on you, keeping you under his watchful gaze, with every sharp tool that he thought you could use to hurt yourself are now hidden or moved away.

"Ahhh... please stop!" you pleaded as a harsh slap landed on your bum. You were bent over, turned around with your tummy pressed against his knees as he spanked you (if that makes sense).

"Fucking stubborn woman! What did I tell you about lying, huh?!" he growled, landing another slap to your ass. The dress you were wearing had ridden up, exposing your bare core—he hadn’t allowed you to wear any undergarments.

You didn’t know why, but your body had been so needy and hot these past few days. You’d been getting wet out of nowhere, so turned on that you ended up touching yourself in the bathroom whenever he wasn’t around—too embarrassed to let him see you like that.

And just like now, you were already soaked from the way his rough palms met your skin, each slap sending a sting of heat through your core, making you tremble with want.

It was humiliating… and unbearable.

But of course, Jungkook knew everything.

He’d been slipping aphrodisiacs into your meals every time he forced you to sit on his lap and eat like a baby. And yes—he knew how you secretly touched yourself, thanks to the hidden cameras planted all over the house. He got off on watching you fall apart when you thought he wasn’t looking, addicted to how lewd you’d become under his control.

“Dirty whore,” he sneered, fingers suddenly sliding down back and forth to your slick folds. “You’re even getting wet from this, huh?”

You shuddered instantly, a sharp moan ripping from your throat as his fingertips grazed your sensitive pussy lips before spreading it with his fingers, exposing just how soaked and desperate you truly were.

“Look at you,” Jungkook muttered, almost amused as he ran his fingers along your soaked slit, spreading the slickness just to watch you twitch. “Dripping all over my lap like a fucking slut. Getting off on being punished?”

You whimpered, face flushed with heat, your fingers curling into the fabric beneath you as his touch sent sparks down your spine. His voice was low and mocking, but it lit you up in the worst way.

“You act like you hate it,” he said, dipping one long finger inside you without warning, “but your cunt tells me the truth.”

A breathy moan escaped you, hips jerking as the digit curled deep inside. He moved slowly at first, dragging it out just to watch your body react. Then he added a second, scissoring them apart, stretching you as you gasped.

“Such a filthy little thing. Bet you’ve been dreaming of this, huh? My fingers inside you while you grind your pathetic pussy on the bathroom sink,” he hissed into your ear, his fingers now pumping with more force. “You like being watched, baby? Knew I’d see you eventually?”

You couldn’t even form words anymore—just broken moans and whines as your walls clenched around him.

Then came the third finger.

You cried out, your legs trembling as he stuffed you full, knuckles deep now, fucking you rough and slow, like he wanted to feel every desperate flutter inside you. The stretch burned and thrilled you at once, leaving you clawing at his thigh, right on the edge.

So close. You were right there. Vision hazy, thighs slick and shaking, pleasure curling so tight it hurt.

But then he stopped.

Just like that—everything halted. He pulled his fingers out, slow and wet, leaving your cunt clenching around nothing.

You gasped, back arching as if trying to chase the feeling, your body trembling with frustration.

“N-no—please!” you cried, writhing against him, your once stubborn self now long gone, like a passing rain as you begged “Please, Jungkook… don’t stop, please—I need it, I need you—anything!”

He held his slick fingers up to your lips, eyes dark with twisted satisfaction. “Anything?” he smirked. “Then beg like the needy little cumslut you are.”

Without hesitation, you nodded, eyes glassy, lips parting as you leaned in—desperation burning in your gut.

“Yes—please, Jungkook. I’ll be good. I swear. Just—please—”

But he didn’t wait for you to finish.

He pressed his fingers against your lips, the same ones slick with your arousal, and you moaned as you eagerly opened your mouth, sucking them in like they were his cock. Tongue swirling, lips sealing tight around each one, you cleaned them with such obedience it made his cock twitch beneath you.

His jaw clenched as he watched you, his breath shallow, eyes dark and gleaming.

Fuck.

The drug worked.

He knew it would, but seeing the result was another thing entirely.

There you were—his once defiant little brat—on your knees, brain fogged, drooling around his fingers like they were candy. Completely unaware. Completely his.

So sweetly fucked up that you didn’t even care anymore that you were locked in here. That he owned your body, your mind, your every breath.

And now, after all your pathetic little protests, you were begging him to touch you? To fuck you?

Thought you hated me, sweetheart. Thought you wanted to escape.

His cock throbbed at the thought—how far gone you were. How easy it had become to twist your desire into obedience.

And he wasn’t even close to done.

Jungkook slowly pulled his soaked fingers from your mouth, watching your tongue chase after them like you couldn’t stand to be without the taste.

“Good girl,” he muttered, voice thick with hunger. “You want to be fucked that badly, huh? You want to be ruined?”

You nodded, whimpering as you pressed your thighs together, slick leaking down the insides of your legs. “Yes—please, please—kookie"

That was all it took.

He gripped your hips with bruising force and dragged you down off his lap, flipping you over like a ragdoll onto the plush carpet. You barely had time to gasp before he was yanking his sweats down, cock already thick and hard, veins throbbing with anticipation.

“Then take it,” he growled, grabbing your thighs and spreading you open. “Take all of it, slut.”

He slammed into you in one brutal thrust.

Your back arched, a choked scream bursting from your lips as he buried himself to the hilt—stretching you so deep, so full, it knocked the air from your lungs. There was no time to adjust. He didn’t give you that luxury. His hips were already snapping into yours, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing off the walls as he fucked you raw.

“God, listen to you,” he hissed, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head back. “Crying on my cock like you were made for this. And maybe you were, huh? Just a filthy little hole to fill up and break down.”

Your mind was gone—drugged, drunk off him, off the stretch and the heat and the possessive grip he had on your body. Your moans turned to sobs, pleasure slamming into you over and over, your nails clawing at the floor as he pounded into you without mercy.

“Gonna come?” he mocked, voice ragged, hips grinding against you with devastating precision. “You’re already close, aren’t you? Fucking pathetic. All it took was a few slaps, a little drug in your food, and now you’re creaming all over my cock like a whore.”

You could only moan his name in response—broken, needy, soaking him with every thrust. The coil in your gut tightened so violently you couldn’t breathe, your body ready to shatter.

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear, his voice like poison and silk.

“Then come for me,” he whispered. “Let me feel this ruined cunt squeeze around me.”

And just like that—you snapped.

Your orgasm hit like lightning, legs trembling, walls clenching around him so tight it dragged a feral groan from his throat. He didn’t stop—riding you through it, fucking you harder, chasing his own high.

“Take it,” he grunted. “Take every fucking drop. Gonna put a baby in you, gonna make you round and full"

With one final thrust, he slammed deep, spilling inside you with a guttural moan, cock pulsing as he filled you full. Your body jerked, overstimulated and wrecked, tears sliding down your cheeks as you lay there trembling under him.

Breathless and used

And Jungkook—still buried deep inside you—grinned.

The room still smelled like sex.

Your body was limp in his arms, skin marked with his touch—red, bruised.

Jungkook hadn't let you move much after he’d fucked you into the floor. He'd simply gathered you into his lap, his cock still wet with your slick, and held you there, stroking your hair like you were the most precious thing he ever ruined.

“I think it’s time,” he murmured against your temple, voice soft. “You’ve been good lately.”

Your lashes fluttered as you looked up at him, dazed and exhausted. “Time… for what?”

“To go see your family.”

Your breath caught.

He chuckled. “Under my watch, of course. couldn't let you be naughty"

Jungkook knew he couldn’t keep you locked up forever. That would only risk bringing back your stubborn streak. No—rewarding you with a bit of freedom was the smarter move. After all, you were already too blind to see that any of this was wrong.

You should’ve felt uneasy or angry, like the first time he brought you here. But you didn’t.

Not anymore.

Now, you understood.

Jungkook was right. He did know what was best for you. You were wrong to think the man you once loved was gone. He wasn’t. He never left. He just needed to tame you—to show you who you truly belonged to.

“Thank you, Kookie,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around him, clinging to the only person who ever really saw you.

clearly pleased—finally seeing you with the man they had always wanted for you. It wasn’t just approval in their eyes anymore… it was pride. As if they, too, had finally earned their seat at the Jeon table.

You sat quietly beside Jungkook, his presence towering even in his silence. His hand rested on your thigh beneath the table, firm and possessive. Every so often, he’d squeeze—his palm sliding just a little higher, fingers teasing slow circles into your skin, right where it made you press your legs together.

And then he walked in.

Hoseok.

He wore an apron now, working as a server at the restaurant your parents had chosen. His eyes widened when he spotted you, tray in hand—probably shocked to see you after the messy breakup you had with him.

You should have felt mad that he was there—should’ve remembered how deeply you once loved Hoseok, loved him enough to choose him over Jungkook, again and again.

But you didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

Because now you knew. You remembered what Jungkook told you—what he made you see.

Hoseok had never loved you. Not really. He’d cheated on you. Lied. Gaslit you into thinking it was your fault.

Only… he hadn’t done it on his own. Jungkook had orchestrated it all—manipulated things behind the scenes to tear you away from him.

And you weren’t even mad about it anymore.

Because he’d been right all along.

You didn’t belong to Hoseok. You never did.

Jungkook squeezed your thigh again and leaned in close, his voice low but unmistakably proud.

“We’ve been trying for a baby,” he said loud enough for Hoseok to hear, tilting his head just so. “Finally setting a date for the wedding too.”

You blushed on cue, eyes falling to your lap, but you didn’t pull away when he kissed your cheek—didn’t protest when his arm wrapped around your waist and tugged you closer.

Hoseok’s mouth twitched like he wanted to say something, but then he nodded stiffly and focused on serving your family before he turned back to the kitchen, defeated.

Good.

Jungkook’s fingers traced idle circles on your hip, slow and smug.

“That’s right, baby,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear.

“You’re mine. Always were”