I Can’t Wait To Tell You, ‘i Told Ya.’

Wow it was really wonderful. Beautifully written. Sad but hopeful. Like poetry for a lover. Thank you author for writing this beautiful story ❤️❤️

you’re the one i love | JJK

Pairing: Jungkook x (ft.) Reader

Genre/Tags: angst, hurt/comfort, breaking up, sad but hopeful ending? i’d like to think it is.

Chapter Word count: 2.7k

Summary: this is about you and jeongguk after a breakup and you’re returning each other’s belongings through soft, yearning letters

A/N: i read the book why we broke up by daniel handler years ago when i was still in college, trying to move forward from a really hurtful breakup. this small fic is inspired by that because, i don’t really know, sometimes i like making myself hurt and cry. this is written in both y/n and jeongguk’s perspectives so you may interpret this (especially the ending) however you like, but please be kind, this story took a lot out of me and by extension, a literal piece of my heart. there’s also a sort of familiar kdrama scene in one of the letters, let me know if you spot it! as always, thank you for reading and please let me know what you think or maybe chat me up in the ask box :)

you

We could go back and forth, left and right, arguing about who made the final mistake and what went wrong. Maybe it was me, maybe it was you, or maybe it was the both of us and we were just too stubborn to admit it.

Either way, it doesn’t matter. Nothing will ever matter.

Maybe this is why we broke up.

I’m giving you your things back, Jeongguk.

Keep reading

IM WEAK

---

Such a heartwarming and soulful fic. It reminds me of some memories I do not even have. Captivating writing. The author did an amazing job at describing the emotions of the characters. The warm summer vibe furthermore makes the fic remarkable 😍😍

An Endless Summer — jjk

S Y N O P S I S | Jeon Jungkook decided to road trip across Europe—with the money his father had sent him overseas with so he could fix his act. Then maybe, might have picked up a lost and penniless girl at a gas station in London and proceeded to road trip with her across Europe cause why the heck not?

P A I R I N G | Jeon Jungkook, reader (y/n)

G E N R E | fluff, some angst (minuscule), romance, inexplicit ~smut~ (smut nonetheless, you’ve been warned) — road trip au ; NC-17

W A R N I N G S | mild cursing

W O R D C O U N T | 19.7k (aka, the longest one ever)

Seoul, South Korea

Jeon Jungkook would’ve played the perfect part for a drama. He would’ve set a flawless example of a rich, young heir gone wild if it hadn’t been such a negative title.

Jungkook was the type of man to live life by the second and enjoy every last drop of it. There were no such things as planning ahead for him, not even a week ahead. He partied till he saw the sun barely peeking over the horizon, drank as much alcohol his system could handle, at least before blacking out, and threw money around like it was pocket change. Hell, a couple hundred thousand won to him was pocket change.

Keep reading

---

Thank you very much for the flowers 🌼

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR INCLUDING ME IN YOUR LIST OF FAVOURITE FICS 🥺🤍

You're welcome. I loved your fic. It was warm and tender. This kind of dad Jungkook is such a dream. Thank you for this wonderful story 💜💜

—chapter ten: chasing pavements

this is a part of my an ode to a broken heart drabble series.

pairing: jeon jungkook/reader

genre: unrequited love, best friends to (?), heavy angst, smut

word count: 2k

summary: august slips away like a moment in time. slowly, day after another. a story of love that never meant to be. 

previous || next

a/n: sorry for the delay, my loves. i was going through some writer’s block lately and didn’t really have any energy to write but i’m over it now, so here’s a new chapter. prepare tissues :)

If you could use just two words to describe what is it like to be in love with Jeon Jungkook, you’d say it’s like chasing pavements. Fruitless activity, trying to achieve something destined to failure, a result of your blind hope, and perhaps foolishness.

Keep reading

GUILTY AS SIN? | JK | PART 𝐈𝐈

"He remembered how to stay—and you learned that some things are worth the mess, that love sometimes comes too late, but longing never does."

→ Pairing brother in law! Jungkook x widowed fem!reader

→ Genre forbidden love! au, childhood friends to lovers, angst, smut, fluff

→W.C 17.10k

→ Warnings oc is going through it, Jungkook is a flirty menace, ceo jk, lovesick jk, simp jk, possessive Jungkook, jealous Jungkook, rich people lunch time!!, mentions of blood and injury, mentions of drinking, yoongi makes an appearance, he has no lines, namjin, yearning?, bathroom escapdes, silly banter, sexual tension kissing, making out, explicit sexual content, fingering, an almost handjob, penetrative sex, dirty talking, soft Dom jk, praising, creampie, bathroom sex, fluff (you don't even wanna know my definition of fluff), hoseok is a victim, minho is haunting the narrative as he should, angst (sorry girls It’s my brand 😝), doomed siblings

→ Playlist dress by Taylor swift, I can't be more in love by the 1975, in the woods somewhere by hozier, I can see you by Taylor swift, last words of a shooting star by mitski

→A/N Hii! Hello!! First things first: THANK YOU. Like, thank you in all caps lock. The love you all poured into Guilty as Sin honestly made me giggle to myself more than once. Every comment, message, share, and heart, It meant the absolute world to me. You’ve made this messy little story so much more than just words. You made it matter. And it was just so disrespectful of me to keep you waiting so long for a part 2 that wasn't really in my plans but yeah. Life got a little too unbearable, the plot bunnies misbehaved (you know how they are). But I really hope it’s worth the wait and not me just reheating my own nachos 😅😅 This is also most probably the last thing I'm gonna write for this story, at least for a long while. Thank you for reading. Thank you for being patient and most importantly,thank you for being kind. I love you and please do let me know your thoughts. Message me. Tell your plants. I'm all ears.

| PART 1 | PART 2 |

A thing about churches is that they were built for quiet.

Not silence. No, silence is an absence. This is presence. Heavy and hushed and holy.

There was something about the air inside them—perhaps the solemn, how it was weighty, drenched in devotion—that made the world outside feel far-flung. The towering arches, the glow of candlelight flickering against stained glass, the low murmur of prayers threading through the smother.

The light is softer here too, filtered through the glass—fragments of crimson and gold painting benches and pressed shoulders. Candle flames sway slightly, flickering like they know secrets, like they remember everyone who ever sat here in search of something they couldn't name.

You tell yourself this stillness is what you needed. That this space—sacred and slow—would help clear your head. But the truth is, the quiet here doesn’t comfort. It exposes. Peels you open from the inside out.

You hear too much in it. Feel too much in it.

Even on days when you could still hear easy synchronicity—hands clasped, laughter spilling into the cool air. Especially on days like these.

Or maybe you're mixing that up with something else. Something that has been coloring your days blue for a while now.

Something that doesn't pauses for holidays, doesn't make exceptions for birthdays, doesn't even bother to step aside for just one evening and let one breathe.Does not give way to leaded glass windows or the allay of a congregation. No, it lingers, seeps into places meant for worship, curls around the edges of pews and prayers alike. Certainly doesn’t soften on afternoons like these. Even though the flowers hadn’t wilted.

You hadn’t given it much thought.

Or rather, you had avoided thinking about it altogether.

Perhaps that is why, sitting here now—hands folded neatly in your lap, shoulders drawn tight—yet you feel it, heavy as ever.

Your mother-in-law had insisted you come, refusing to leave you alone, her soft-spoken request leaving little room for refusal. Mira had chimed in too, linked her arm through yours with a smile that tried to coax you back into the land of the living, or like she was letting you in on some joke only the two of you shared.

And so, here you were.

Church had never been a place you frequented, even when Minho was alive—he hadn't been particularly devout, preferring to spend bargaining his way through the sunday market and believing in the way the sky could shift from blue to violet in the span of a single evening—though you both had come when his mother had asked you to, of course, had sat beside him in these very pews, but never like this.

Not without him whispering some irreverent joke about heaven’s waiting list, about how maybe angels got bored too.

But now, you found yourself here more often.

If only because there was no reason not to because what waited you was a quiet apartment, a neatly made bed you hardly slept in and a day untouched by plans, by purpose, by anything remotely significant.

Also because you thought he wouldn’t be here.

Your mother-in-law had told you he wouldn’t be able to make it, had mentioned something about work, something about how he's not big on religion, much like his brother and oh, how you’d clung to those words. Let them blanket your nerves in fragile relief. One more hour. One more day of—knowing you wouldn’t have to see him today, that you could go on one more moment pretending you weren't aware of the inevitable, that you weren't unraveling at the seams every time you so much as thought about him.

That, that's why you had been skirting around him.

Maybe not consciously. At least, that’s what it looked like (You knew. Deep down, you knew.) But ever since that night—God, you really don't want to think about that or him in front of.. God without feeling like you're going to burst in flames. But its not exactly easy.

Not here, where the quiet literally wangles you into the deepest darkest of your thoughts. Thoughts that you're sure would.

Because the quiet here curls around your memories like smoke, drawing them out from where you’d hidden them. It coaxes them up your throat and behind your ribs until they’re a dull, burning pressure you can’t shake off.

You shift slightly in the bench. Mira breathes beside you, soft and steady. You press your palms flat against your lap, grounding yourself.

It hardly works. Especially not when he arrives. That strange, electric knowing. Like the air knows him. Like the space adjusts around him.

The low creak of a door, the faintest hush falling over those nearest the back.

Late, quiet, slipping into the back like a ghost who had learned how to walk among the living, embodying every bit of the word 'handsome' in the most tailored of ways. Hair laid out in perfect symmetry. A ironed, muted blue suit hugging every bit of his perfect posture. Eyes so probing, so demanding of attention that you wonder why you ever got confused when everyday a new number of girls would approach you at school, especially at university for his number.

Then he had just been your doe eyed friend who you wanted to spare from heartbreaks. Not aware of the term-"heartbreaker" that had been given to him. Ironic, really.

Now you feel like you understand. You feel like you sense him before you see him. Sense every bit of his presence that you maybe had overlooked before. A shift in the air, the faintest murmur of acknowledgment rippling through the congregation.

Both Mrs Jeon and Mira are turned towards the figure, thier expression brightening in recognition, waving small hands at the figure that is approaching your way, pulse quickening with the footsteps.

No.

He said he doesn't do church.

He wouldn’t.

He wouldn’t sit—

The soft creak of the seat behind you made your breath hitch.

The older woman only smiled, a pleasant suprise. For her, atleast. "Jungkook-ah! You came! Oh, how lovely!"

She's sure the reason is that he is finally letting divinity in, you're sure you're losing yours.

You don’t turn but Mira does as she shifts beside you, knees bumping against yours to smile in greeting. Saying something about how her husband should learn a thing or two from him and give this a try, accompany her once in a while. A deep, warm chuckle in reply hits you square in the back of your head and your shoulders tense.

Low, rich, like warm amber poured over ice.

It lands like a bruise.

You feel it—real and impossible and close.

You swallow hard, keeping your eyes downcast, determined not to react any more. You fix your gaze on the marble altar, on the golden flicker of votive candles.He’s behind you. Of course he is.

Because where else would he be, if not the one place you prayed he wouldn't?

Even as the sermon continued, voices rising in unison for prayer, you could barely hear them, could barely not feel your dirtiest secret behind you, close enough that if you leaned back even slightly, you might brush against him.

The service moves forward, and you try to focus. You try to listen. Tried to will your ears to listen, to stay anchored in psalms and promises and the choir’s distant swell. Just get through this.It couldn’t possibly be so difficult. No one knows. No one suspects a thing. The polished congregation kneels and stands with rhythm and faith, unaware that your spine was stiff with a secret, that your breath refused to steady. Only you knew. Only he does. And that truth grips your tounge so hard there’s no way it’s ever slipping past your mouth.

But then a touch happens. As if maneuvering. A whisper of movement behind you, so faint it could be the air shifting, a trick of your mind.

Light. Fleeting. Not direct. Not quite.

You freeze.

Just the faintest brush of fingertips against the ends of your hair that spilled over your shoulders, the softest, most cursory pull. Just a teasing pass, like he’s testing the silk of it between thumb and forefinger. There’s a pause, then the strand is gently looped once, slow and idle, as though he’s turning it over in thought.

Then released.

The answer to that is that it happens again. A lazy twirl of a strand, a slow release.

Not enough for anyone to notice. Not enough to draw attention. But enough for you to feel it. Enough to make your skin prickle, your heartbeat stutter.

You shift in your seat, pressing your hands tighter into your lap, back rod-straight, lungs stuck in a breath that wouldn’t come. The sensation was too distinct now, too exact to mistake.

It doesn’t stop. Another strand. A drag of fingertips. A near-caress.

What the fuck is he doing?

You don’t turn. You don’t react when you should have thrown him a warning glance—but that would mean acknowledging him. That would mean facing him.

And you didn’t know how to look him in the eye and not think about it.

His mouth. Your sigh. The sound of your name said like prayer and profanity.

Didn’t know how to hear his voice and not remember the way how his lips shaped against your skin. Venal. Hungry.

Didn't know how not to follow the tattoos that ran through his sleeve and pretend that you haven't took your time exploring them. Aversly. Teasingly.

Didn’t know how to feel the weight of everything you weren’t supposed to want pressing down on you like a second heartbeat.

The way he had tugged your shirt up with reverence and bitten down like he wanted to leave a mark not even salvation could scrub away.

Do not react.

Do not move.

But he kept going. And the sermon blurred.

Gods, you were going to burn. You were going to hell. And he'd be there already, waiting with his hands in your hair.

When the sermon concludes, you stand too quickly, push your hair forward and Mira shoots you a look, her fingers grazing your wrist in question. You shake your head, offering her a quick, brittle smile before stepping toward the exit. You walked. Out of the stall. Out of the building. Out of your goddamn mind.

To your relief—you were still a perfectly coordinated bundle of cells when you were out. The sun hit you outside, sharp and sudden, dragging long shadows over the stone steps. You sucked in fresh air like someone who had been underwater too long.

The relief lasted long enough until Jungkook spoke under the sun casting long shadows against the stone steps. “I’ll drive.” Voice cutting through the polite chatter.

“Oh, that would be great, dear. Y/N, Mira, come on.” Your mother-in-law, oblivious, beamed, completely unaware that you had just spent forty-five minutes debating if setting yourself on fire in the house of God would be less painful than what had just happened.

The car ride should be easy.

It should be nothing. A short drive. A forgettable stretch of road between church and the Jeon family estate.

Should be.

But as you are pressed against the window, your coat bunched beneath you like a failed barrier, you want to either open the window for air or bolt from the moving car, with every inch of your skin crawling with awareness, tight and buzzing and flushed in ways that had nothing to do with the temperature.

The cabin is too quiet. Too warm. The low hum of the engine does nothing to drown out the sound of your heart, which feels like it’s beating directly into your throat.

And then there’s that scent again.

The scent of leather and something distinctly Jungkook curling in the closed space. A mix of his cologne—something dark and woodsy—and the faintest trace of laundry detergent, clinging to his shirt like it had no intention of leaving. It shouldn’t be so familiar, but it is. And that’s the problem.

“That sermon was lovely, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Jeon’s voice is light, warm, like freshly baked bread. The kind of voice that belongs in a home, not a car filled with tension so thick it could choke you.

Mira hums in agreement beside you. “It was.”

You blink, only now realizing how little of the service you actually absorbed.

“Of course,” Mrs Jeon continues, turning slightly in her seat, eyes alight with something rebuke, “not everyone was paying attention.”

You tense, breath catching, even when the accusation isn’t aimed at you. You feel it anyway.

“What?” He finally speaks, voice even. A little hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken in hours. Like his vocal cords were dry from silence and prohibition.

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t know, Jungkook-ah." his mother huffs, shaking her head. “You join for the first time ever in a while, sit in the back, and then spend half the time looking like you didn’t even knew where you were." she finishes with a scolding tone.

Jungkook exhales through his nose, hand tightening against the steering wheel. He doesn't argue.

Because It did seem so.

Mira, ever the enabler, bites her lip to stifle a laugh, glancing at you with barely concealed amusement.

You do not look at Jungkook.

You absolutely do not.

Mrs. Jeon, unbothered by the quiet tension thickening in the car, continues, “You know who else was praying a little too hard?”

Silence. No one answers with whatever self preservation they have.

Not because they don’t want to. But because they know better.

Because when Mrs. Jeon starts on church gossip, there’s no stopping her because apparently it's what it's best for.

She leans in, lowering her voice like she’s about to reveal something sacred. “Mrs. Kang.”

Mira gasps dramatically. “No.”

“Oh, yes.” A firm nod. “She was crying, dear. Again. Right in the middle of the third hymn.”

You blink. “Why?”

The older woman tsks, as if the answer should be obvious. “That husband of hers. You know how he is.”

You makes a thoughtful noise, tilting your head. “Didn’t he… move to Seoul?”

“Yes, but does distance stop a man from causing stress? I don’t think so.” You didn't think so too.

Jungkook exhales, long-suffering. “Why do you know all of this, eomma?”

His mother waves a hand dismissively. “Please, son. I hear things.”

Mira leans in. “Did she cry last week too?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Jeon replies. “But last week was because he didn’t call her for three days. This week, I believe he’s dating someone half his age.”

Mira sighs. “Men.”

You let out an involuntary snicker before you can help it. You don’t even know if it’s a real sound or something your soul exhaled out of disbelief.

Then, you make the mistake of glancing toward the front.

Because Jungkook’s eyes are on you.

Not on the road.

Not on his mother, who is still detailing the tragic love life of a woman you barely know.Not at the red light blinking in the distance.

His eyes are dark and unreadable, barely hooded, like he’s watching you and also thinking about the last time you were under him, gasping. Like maybe he’s remembering the way your nails looked against his neck. Or the way you said his name like a prayer, far more pledged than anything the pastor could conjure.

And every so often, you caught him.

The first time, you looked away immediately. The second time, you stared out the window so hard you gave yourself a headache. The third time, you stared back, even as something molten and dangerous simmers in the quiet between you.

His gaze held yours for a beat longer than necessary before shifting back to the road.

Every part of you was aware of him.

Of the way he adjusted his grip on the wheel. Of the way the veins along his forearm flexed when he turned. Of the way he never looked away fast enough.

Mira nudged you gently. “You okay?”

You nodded through the lie. "Fine."

Your mother-in-law again turned in her seat, smiling warmly. “I hope you’ll stay for lunch, Mira. We have invited the kims too. It’s been long overdue." The word ‘lunch’ doesn’t quite capture what’s waiting at the Jeon house.

Because it isn’t just lunch.

It’s crystal glassware, centerpieces too elaborate for a midday meal, and courses that require cutlery you don’t know how to use properly. It's a show. A subtle flex. A performance wrapped in linen napkins and wine pairings. And if you had to guess, this lunch isn’t just a friendly catch-up.

It’s Mrs. Jeon doing what she does best—playing politics with a smile. Maybe it’s her way of returning the favor after that party the Kims threw. Maybe she’s angling for something else entirely. But it’s definitely not casual.

She then adds as an afterthought. “We thought it would be nice to host something a little more intimate after such a wonderful service.”

“Oh, I’d love to.” Mira grins, relaxing against the seat. “Y/N, you up for it?”

You forced a small smile. “Uh-yeah. Yeah, of course!”

It’s automatic. Reflexive.

Because you can't say what you really want.

Which is to get out of the car.

To breathe. To clear the fog from your chest that smells like leather, and cologne, and fire.

From then, from the backseat, you had counted the moments until you could step into open air again and feel the crisp edge of early spring, the scent of freshly turned earth and blooming jasmine lacing through the quiet garden. The table was set beneath the sprawling branches of the old oak, where dappled sunlight filtered through on the delicate porcelain plates, silverware so polished it reflected the light, dishes, conversations lively and layered with subtext in the way rich families knew how to be.

You, too used to know the dance.

Used to let the brezzy hum of conversation wrap around you, used to nod along at the right moments, used to catch the way Minho would kick Jungkook under the table just to make him crack a smile.You remembered that.

Now, Mira sat beside you, her elbow jolting against yours as she reached for a serving spoon, her plate already filled to the edges.“Try this one,” she whispered, already loading her plate still like she hadn’t eaten in days. And then there was Yoongi—her husband—sitting with a plate he barely touched, scrolling through something on his phone until Mira shot him a look. He cleared his throat and slid it away.

Across from you, your mother-in-law delicately dabbed her lips with a napkin before resuming conversation about Mrs kang with a woman- namjoon's mother- who had grayer streaks in her hair that only painted the greater picture of elegance, her voice carrying that effortless ease of someone used to commanding a room. Someone who had enough money to command at all

Then there's Jungkook who sits two chair away from you, separated by separated only by a stretch of linen and eating irons. Jungkook who could barely catch up to Namjoon's enthusiasm about his dad dying, something about the shifting board members, something that should require Jungkook’s full attention."And now that my father’s out, the balance is shifting," Namjoon said. “We’ve got a chance to pull things clean, finally. The new proposal’s solid.”

Especially when his father speaks. "You’ve seen the numbers, Jungkook," His deep voice cutting through the low hum of conversation. “The deal’s been in discussion for months now. The board expects your response by next week.”

“I’ll look it over.” He acknowledged it with a slow nod.

"Not look over, son." His father’s tone was measured, but firm—the kind of voice that had always left little room for negotiation. "Confirm."

Jungkook exhaled through his nose, setting his wine down. "I won’t confirm anything without making sure it’s solid first."

He pauses. A glance. His father’s sharp gaze flickered over him, assessing. Not questioning—no, never questioning. Because Jungkook had earned his place, had spent years proving himself, had molded himself into the kind of son his father could rely on, because Minho never did.

Not that Minho ever needed to. Not that he ever wanted to.

Jungkook had understood that early on. That Minho had been different. That Minho’s place had always been elsewhere—with paint on his fingers and art in his head, with you curled into his side, laughing in a language he had willed himself to forget. And so it had fallen to him.

And Jungkook—Jungkook hadn’t minded. Not really.

Not when he could see the relief in Minho’s eyes every time their father skipped over him in business conversations, every time he looked at him liked he had birthed a catastrophe. Ambition morphed into inheritance and starry eyes jaundiced. Jungkook realized that this was what he was born for. That his older brother was a fool for denying everything that had been laid on a silver platter for him.

And because it had been easier than actually admitting that maybe he wasn't a fool at all. That maybe it wasn't the legacy he was born for.

Because every waking moment he finds himself tangled in the thoughts about what was right in front of him.

It had been days, yet it remained, stitched into him like something permanent—like the ink on his skin, like the weight of his own name.

It wasn’t just the memory of it. Not just the way you had felt beneath him, the way his name had left your lips in shuddering breaths. It was everything else—the before, the after. The way you had looked at him, wide-eyed and hesitant in the dim light of that unfamiliar room, as if realizing for the first time that he was capable of something like this. That he had spent years knowing, wanting.

Jungkook, who had spent years perfecting restraint, found himself breaking under the weight of it at only the sight of you that brought the memory of the night where he pretended you were his, like fever rushing through.

Because you would not look at him.

Because your eyes had skimmed past him all afternoon, slipping over him like he was nothing, like he hadn’t once been pressed against you, groaning into your skin.

And fuck if it didn’t drive him insane.

His fingers curled around the stem of his glass, his knuckles white as he brought the wine to his lips, stealing glances of you reaching for a pitcher of water at the same time as Mira, your fingers brushing, the smallest of startled laughs escaping you.

Soft. Effortless. Rivaling the intoxicity of the drink in his hand. He couldn't remember when it was the last time he heard it, only the withdrawals that came with it.

Jungkook exhaled sharply, setting down his glass before he did something reckless—before he let himself stare too long, let his thoughts slip into something visible, something impossible to ignore.

And then, as if the universe were intent on pushing him closer to the edge—you left, something he used to be best at.

You pushed back your chair, the scrape of wood against stone barely registering above the conversation which started with Mrs Kim going- “I should probably head home soon,” she said. "Joon's father probably running the househelp ragged by now.”

Namjoon huffed a laugh beside Jungkook, reaching for the hand resting on his thigh. “Let him. Maybe they’ll finally get him to stop redecorating the library every three months.”

Seokjin, seated beside him, shrugged. “Or maybe he’ll burn the place down and finally have an excuse to build that ‘modern masterpiece’ he’s been threatening to commission.”

Mrs. Kim sighed, exasperated but fond. “I wouldn't put it past him. He’s been threatening that ‘modern masterpiece’ since 2003.”

Mrs. Jeon clapped her hands together. “Oh, nonsense. Stay for tea at least. Mr Kim will be fine. Yoongi, you’ll take another pour, won’t you? Y/N, dear, why don’t you grab the set from the kitchen?”

"Of course. I'll be right back." you murmured, barely loud enough for anyone to catch, save for the ones listening too closely. Save for him.

Jungkook watched as you stepped away, disappearing through the doors of the house, something tightening in his chest.

The moment his hand closed around the stem of his glass again, Jungkook knew what he was about to do.

Would it be too obvious? Too stupid?

He doubted it.

Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was childish. But as his grip tightened and the glass stem cracked beneath his palm, sending shards of glass and a sharp jolt of pain through his hand, he felt something darkly satisfying settle in his chest.

The table fell silent.

And all eyes fell on him. "I-I'm sorry. I didn’t realize." He cleared his throat and started to rise up from his seat.

Namjoon, the closest to him, attempted to reach for his hand and he instantly flinched. Just because the wound was intentional, didn’t mean it didn't hurt.

"What the hell, Kook? Are you okay?"

“Its nothing,” he muttered, jaw clenched as he pressed his uninjured hand to his palm, watching the thin trickle of crimson bead against his skin.

“Jungkook?” His mother’s voice came next to break through the quiet, sharp and immediate, her chair scraping against the stone as she pushed back. “Oh my god—what were you thinking? Do you need me to—”

“No,” he cut in, firm but even, already standing. “I’ve got it.”

Seokjin, looked up from beside his boyfriend, a just as suprised and bewildered expression taking over his face. The same one that mimicked every other person's that sat around the table, with Mira looking like she was going to choke on her food as she met his eyes before her husband smoothed a hand down her back.

"Are you sure? You don’t need any hel—"

"I'm okay, hyung. I said I got it." He said it with perhaps too much irration shimmering beneath his words and the table fell silent again.

Jungkook ignored them all.

He was already moving.

Already following.

Through the hallway, past familiar frames on the wall.

He finds himself checking his reflection in one, taking note of his hair that seem tousled and runs a smooth hand over them.

He finds you in the kitchen.

The afternoon light streamed through the windows, casting golden lines across the marble counters, across the soft fabric of your dress. You stood with your back to him, your hands grasping something—kettle, tray? Don't know.

You just know that you feel him before you hear him like you always do, the weight of his presence shifting the air, settling around you like something impending. You pretend you don’t notice. Pretend you’re too preoccupied with the cups in your hands, as if arranging over the same sets of cups for the fourth time will make it any more legible. It’s pointless, really—You had always known Jungkook, even in silence.

“Gonna keep avoiding me?"

It’s not exactly a question.

Not accusing, but certain. Because yes, you have. Not because you’re angry, not because you regret it, but because it scares you how little you do.

You swallowed. Still not looking. “I’ve been busy.”

He drawls out. “Have you?"

That makes you look up.

By this time you should have realized that it's always a mistake when you do that.

Because he’s leaning against the counter, a hand tucked casually in his pockets, sleeves still rolled up, collar slightly undone. And he’s watching you.

Not like at the table, where his expression had been smooth, unreadable or like that one time where you had been exactly where you are now and he was exactly where he was. Just then, it had been the same illegible look.

Here, in this quiet, his eyes are darker. He looks at you like he knows.

Its in the way his gaze dips, taking you in and how the amber light fluidly danced across your hair that framed your guilty face. So fucking adorable. "So busy you won't even look at me."

You hated how your breath hitched. Hated how you had no answer that didn’t sound like a lie.

You forced a slow breath and placed the napkins in the space left in the tray. "I've had a lot to do."

"No you didn't."

"I did."

"No you didn't, Y/N."

You force yourself to move, to wrap your hands around the tray, to act as if this conversation isn’t happening. “What do you want me to say?”

Instead, he pushed himself off the wall and came closer, close enough that the warmth of him touched your spine, close enought that you could see everything—the way his jaw tightens, the way his throat bobs when he swallows, the way his fingers twitch at his sides and when he finally spoke, it was low, just for you.

"Tell me you don't hate me. I can't go on like that." Has no idea how he has done that for years and has no intention to relive that ever again. He's a buisness man now. Buisness men learn from their losses and never give up profit.

Heat curled in your stomach.

Minutes passed. Too many, too few.

And he waits. He’s patient like that. He always has been.

But your eyes were drawn to something else entirely.

His hand.

The sharp contrast of crimson against his skin, fresh and glistening, pooling at the edge of his palm before dripping onto the tiled floor in slow, schemed drops.

You inhaled sharply, setting the tray down with a quiet clatter, your pulse kicking up. “What the—Jungkook, what happened?”

He didn’t answer right away, didn’t even glance at the wound. Instead, his eyes stayed fixed on you, dark and unreadable, watching the way you reached for his arm, fingers curling around his wrist, your touch careful and instinctive. Maybe it wasn't that bad of an idea, he thinks.

You turned his palm over, assessing the damage. A deep cut, but nothing catastrophic. "You're bleeding."

His voice was slow, aforethought. “I noticed.”

Your head snapped up, irritation flickering behind your concern. “What do you mean, you noticed? Why didn’t you say anything? You should’ve—”

Your breath catches, shifting your weight, as he steps closer, the space between you dwindling.

You try to ignore it. Try to recoil from it. Try to do anything but this. Because you recognized it now. This wasn’t about his hand.

Not really.

Not when his gaze flickered down to your lips in that moment.

Not when his fingers twitched at his side, like he was waiting.

Not when the air between you suddenly felt too thick, too warm, too charged. Too much like that one hallway.

You swallowed, cursed under your breath and forced your eyes away from his wound to take hold of the abandoned tray. You didn’t trust yourself enough with his. With him.

He seemed to revel in that fact.

His fingers brushed against your wrist in protest, dwadling, intentional. His head leaned in, lips grazing the curve of your jaw, just the lightest touch, just enough to rattle the glasses on the tray, just enough to summon a maelstrom of sensations.

Your hand flexed beneath his grip, and for a moment, the room felt smaller, quieter, like the world outside of it ceased to exist.

No. No. You reminded yourself of the straight stuff.

“Jungkook, let go. Everyone's ou—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

Jungkook’s breath ghosts over your cheek, his nose brushing against yours, the scent of him—sylvan cologne, something faintly sweet—pulling you under, drowning you in it.

He turns you, presses you back against the counter. His eyes are dark, searching of the surroundings for a moment before they are back on you. Then, so is the unrelenting heat of his mouth, catching your lips with his, slow and deep, like he had all the time in the world to corrade you.

His lips moved against yours, insistent, beguiling you to open up, to give him what he wanted. Because it had been days. Days since he had his first taste. Days since you have deprived him off it.

And so you did.

You gasped against his mouth, your fingers curling against the handle of trays, gripping, steadying yourself. He groaned at the way you responded, at the way you always responded, despite every calmour, despite every attempt to put distance between you.

You didn’t know who reached first, who needed more, who ached better—only that neither of you pulled away.

The kiss deepened, his uninjured hand slipping beneath the curve of your jaw, his thumb dragging against your cheek, his teeth grazing against your bottom lip. The wounded one curled around your waist. You gasped at the contact—at the warmth of his blood seeping through the fabric of your dress, staining the pale church blue with sin. You felt it against your ribs, hot and sticky. You didn’t care. You whimpered into his mouth, heat pooling low in your stomach, and that was all it took to prouduce a low, guttural noise in his chest, his fingers flexing against your waist, gripping, needing, wanting

And suddenly, the counter is the only thing keeping you upright. Your mind is spinning, lost in him, lost in this, in the fact that this is happening—

Here.

Now.

Where anyone could walk in.

“Y/N?”

Your heart stopped.

Jungkook froze.

Your mother-in-law’s voice was distant but getting closer.

Your breath hitched, panic flaring in your chest, but before you could pull away, Jungkook caught you again.

Pressed his lips to yours, stealing another kiss, this one shorter, sharper, like a punishment, like he was branding you with it as if he hadn’t already stained you with his blood, making sure you’d feel it long after he let go.

But he didn’t.

“Please” he breathed against your mouth, he kisses you deeper, hungrier. He drinks you in like he’s been starving, like he wants to ruin you.

Like he already has.

His tongue brushed against yours, hot and sure, and your stomach twisted, heat

licking at your spine. “Tell me you don't."

A voice—your mother-in-law’s, calling your name grows closer and semblance slams into you like a freight train.

Yet Jungkook stands untouched, refusing to let go, refusing to understand what's he doing, how it could end.

"Jungkook, stop—mhmm—Mom's coming!"

Your resolve is slipping.

Falling.

Falling.

Gone.

And then, when you finally find your voice—

You don’t tell him to stop.

You whisper—breathless, aching, a confession and a surrender all at once.

“I don’t.”

Jungkook groans a curse and he's swift in the way he pulls away because it's only in a second away that another figure breezes into the space.

Your mother-in-law stands in the doorway, looking between you and Jungkook , her brows pinching in mild confusion.

“What was taking so long, dear?”

Jungkook is the first to move, straightening, rolling his shoulders back like nothing happened. Like his tounge wasn't down your throat.

You, though, find it hard to hide the compact it had on you. You're sure everyone in the room can hear how your heartbeats, can hear how it wants to get out of your constructing chest. Your wide blown pupils gaze roams everywhere and stops at the tray in your hands.

Yeah, right.

You start to speak. “I was just—”

But before you can finish with whatever you come up with, her eyes land on his still-bleeding hand that's making a mess on the once polished clean floors.

“Why haven’t you cleaned that up yet, Jungkook-ah?” she scolds, sighing. “You’re going to get an infection.”

Jungkook exhales through his nose, and swips his tounge over his kiss bruised lips. “I was going to."

“I’ll help him, mom. Why don't you take this?” you blurt out, too quick, too loud.

Your mother-in-law’s eyes flicker to you. Something unreadable passes through them.

Then, after a long beat, she nods, smiling. “Youre a sweetheart, Y/N. I'll take this.”

She steps forward, plucks the tray from your hands, and turns toward the dining room without another word.

The moment the door clicks shut behind her, the weight of everything crashes into you.

Your pulse was still erratic, your lips tingling from his kiss, your hands shaking as you turned to him.

You whirled on Jungkook, eyes blazing at his audacity.

"What were you thinking?"

You wanted to kill him.

Your fingers curl into a fist before you can stop them, and you swat his chest, your palm colliding against solid muscle.

He catches your wrist before you can pull away.

And before you could yank off, he pressed a kiss to your knuckles. Your breath stutters.

His eyes flicker down to meet yours, dark and knowing. His expression pleased. Deliciously so. Almost resembling the look that crossed over his face after he had made you come on his mouth for the second time, saying something along the lines of how he could stay buried—

Oh, shit. Uh, scratch that.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” you heave out.

His lips quirk. “Likewise.”

You inhale sharply, snatching your hand from his grip, grabbing his unsullied wrist instead.

“Shut up and come here.” you mutter, tugging him toward the hall.

Jungkook lets you drag him to the bathroom, silent, unresisting. He thinks if it's you he has to follow, he will, even to the ends of the world. Wherever you want.

For now it's the bathroom that was silent, except for the soft drip of the faucet and the sound of your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears. The space was impossibly small with him in it, the air thick with something that hadn’t dissipated even after your mother-in-law had nearly caught you both in the kitchen.

And the moment the door closes behind you.

You realize two things.

One: His hand is still shaking, still bleeding, still a mess of raw skin and recklessness.

And two: You really don’t trust yourself to be alone with him.

Yet you always found yourself in closed rooms. Closed bathrooms, for this instant. Only places you can afford being this close.

You turned the tap, watching as the water rushed down, steam curling into the air. Jungkook stood behind you, leaning against the sink, his injured hand still cradled in his other. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms, tendons shifting beneath inked skin as he flexed his fingers experimentally.

The sight shouldn’t make your stomach twist the way it did.

“You’re a idiot." you muttered again, reaching for the first aid kit tucked behind the mirror cabinet.

Jungkook hummed, the sound deep, amused. "So, I've been told."

You turned, finally looking at him, and immediately regretted it. Because he was watching you. Again. Not passively, not carelessly—but like he was memorizing something, like he was still thinking about the way you had whispered I don’t against his lips only minutes ago.

Your throat tightened. You gestured toward the sink. “Hand. Under the water.”

He didn’t move.

Instead, his head tilted slightly, a slow smirk ghosting at the edges of his lips. “That an order, angel?”

You exhaled sharply, grabbing his wrist before he could make another smart remark, forcing his injured hand under the warm stream. He hissed at the contact, fingers twitching, but otherwise didn’t complain. Blood swirled in the sink, a diluted pink that spiraled down the drain.

You repeated, biting the inside of your cheek. “What were you even thinking?”

Jungkook’s voice was ceaseless, unfaltering. “That I wanted you alone.”

Your hands stilled, fingertips just barely brushing against his palm. His words lingered between you, weaving into the steam, settling into your bones.

Slowly, carefully, you lifted his hand out of the water, watching as droplets slid down his fingers, over the sharp lines of his knuckles. The cuts were shallow but jagged, the skin angry and raw, small flecks of glass still embedded in his palm.

Your chest ached.

You reached for a towel and dabbed carefully around the wounds.

This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. But he was also In pain and a part of you has never liked him In pain. It reminded you of nights where he'd think too much about where he actually belonged. Something very candid. Something very raw. Something a child shouldn’t have to think. You had known how to bandage scraped knees and scuffed elbows. Knew nothing about those nights.

You refocused on his hand, plucking a pair of tweezers from the kit and leaning in, carefully pulling out the slivers of glass still buried in his skin. Your breath brushed against his wrist, your fingers gentle, your focus unwavering. Jungkook didn’t move, didn’t even flinch.

But he watched.

Watched the way your brows furrowed, the way your lips pressed together in quiet concentration, the way your hands trembled just slightly when his thumb twitched against your palm.

He inhaled deeply. "You're good at this. You always have been."

You ignored him, reaching for the antiseptic. “This is going to sting.”

Jungkook smirked. “You sure you don’t want it to?”

You pressed the gauze down harder than necessary.

Jungkook inhaled sharply, his good hand gripping the edge of the counter. “You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

“A little,” you admitted, pressing again just to make a point.

His laughter was quiet, but it was real.

You forced yourself to focus, wrapping a clean bandage over his palm, fingers tracing lightly over his knuckles as you secured it in place. His skin was warm beneath yours, solid, alive. You wondered if he could feel the way your pulse was hammering.

You sucked in a breath, finally, finally releasing him, stepping back like distance could fix what had already unraveled.

"This is reckless." You spoke, not knowing yourself if you meant his hand or him following you to the kitchen. "We need to stop doing this." You finished and looked up to gauge his reaction to your words, only to find that he was already staring.

Too close. Too secure. Too much.

You weren’t sure what you were excepting. Hurt? Regret? Guilt?

Definitely not the recap of what happened in the kitchen. Definitely not his good hand lifting. Again.

It’s imperceptibly, resolute. His fingertips brush your hip first, featherlight, a touch so barely-there that you almost convince yourself you imagined it.

Almost.

Until he grips.

Until he tugs.

And suddenly, you're slamming right against his unmalleable frame,

Your eyes fly up, locking onto his.

Jungkook’s gaze is unreadable, filled with something that makes your stomach clench. His hands plant themselves firmly on either side of you, caging you in.

“You tell me to stop,” he said quietly, “and I will.”

Your fingers tighten around his forearm.

You should.

You should.

But you don’t.

Because he shifted, tilting his head slightly, the smallest movement—one that said he’d do it again.

Kiss you.

Undo you.

His gaze flickers down, lingering on your parted lips. "Yet all you do is look at me like you want me to fuck you on this damn counter. And Jesus, angel, if it doesn't make me rock hard."

The crude words leave him like there’s no consequence to him. To you they rise goosebumps all over your body. For a moment, you try to convince yourself that it's a warning sitting heavy on your skin.

It shimmers through your mind, something about distance, about lines, about how you’ve already crossed too many. You could still say it.

You could still put an end to this before it tattered beyond repair.

But then Jungkook’s grip on your waist tightened, and suddenly, the ground wasn’t beneath you anymore.

Your breath caught as he lifted you. Effortlessly, hands firm, unwavering. The air shifted around you, heat rolling off him in waves, and before you could catch your breath, the cool press of marble kissed the backs of your thighs.

You swallowed hard, fingers instinctively curling into the fabric of his shirt. He settled between your parted legs, the warmth of his body bleeding into yours.

Your pulse thrummed, a frantic, uneven rhythm against your ribs.

"That," you breathed, trying to sound firm, trying to anchor yourself in reason, "sounds like a bad idea."

Jungkook exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "It does."

And then he kissed you again.

It wasn’t fair, the way he kissed.

Like he knew exactly how to disentangle you.

Like he knew that every time his mouth met yours, resistance becomes a footnote.

His tounge moved with yours, fingers traced the edge of your knee, palms gliding up the sensitive skin of your thigh before finding its mark at your hip with a confidence that says its his anyways. A soft ache that doesn’t seem to matter anymore. He doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t have to.

The space between you is already non existence.

But his hands need to be closer. Preferably, inside so one of his hands slides higher, disappearing beneath the hem of your dress. Unhurried, exploring, teasing.

Your thighs tensed against his hips, heat coiling in your stomach, something familiar and overwhelming pressing at the edges of your ribs. His bandaged hand then found the small of your back, fingers splaying against your spine as if mapping you, tugging you still until you could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours and the outline of his bulge against your thigh.

Your fingers curled into his shoulders, anchoring yourself, gripping onto something solid as his touch grew more confident, more certain when he found the wet spot forming on the lacy white material—so thin, so damn easy to tear—and something primal glinted in his gaze.

His lips dragged along the planes of your chin, the corner of your mouth, before he exhaled against your skin, voice hushed, but steady. "Still want me to stop?"

His answer was you pressing into his hands instead of pulling away, your breath catching when his fingers brushed higher, thumb pressed bolder and stroking slow patterns against your clothed fold, dragging his knuckles along the delicate fabric.

Your head tilted back slightly, your breath uneven, and Jungkook watched you—watched the way your lashes fluttered, the way your fingers dug into his biceps, the way your body responded to him, even without words.

He knew.

And he liked it.

His lips found your throat, his voice low, rough. "You should." A kiss, slow and deep. "You really should." Another, this one firmer, teeth grazing over your pulse.

A shiver rolled down your spine and desperation rolled on.

"Don't stop. Want your fingers." His cock twitched in his pants and he bit harder onto your neck. He thinks he's again gonna make a wreckage in his pants at the realization of you trembling for him.

"Good girl, angel. Already so wet for me." he breathed, and eased down your soaked panties from your thighs. His eyes glinting again when the thin white late is revealed to him. And god, when it slipped down, revealing glistening skin beneath, he exhaled something broken. "Fuck—have you been waiting for this? Is that what it is?" He wantons and bunches the fabric in his hand to tuck it in his pocket. You flush at the implications, at what he just did, at what he might do.

"Have you?" You dodge the question and he grunts, parting your folds with his thumb and forefinger.

"You have no fucking idea." His forehead pressed to yours, jaw clenched. "The idea of having you like this again consumed me. You consume me."

A soft whimper slipped from your throat, and he grunted again at the sound, his fingers pressing more firmly now, tracing, exploring, teasing you apart. "Did that charming mouth used to get you a lot of girls out there?" The question sounds like a taunt but tastes like lemon on your tounge. You don’t know why you ask it—why you let the thought slip past your lips when you could have buried it like all the others. Maybe now, with his hands on you, with the past and present colliding so violently in the space between breaths, the thought worms its way in.

If he had kissed someone the way he kissed you. If his hands had crammed the shape of someone else’s body. If, somewhere across an ocean, he had found something that didn’t taste like longing.

His fingers stilled. A sharp breath. A pause thick enough to drown in.

Then—he laughed. A low, disbelieving sound that sent a shiver curling up your spine. Not amused. Not really. More incredulous than anything, roughened at the edges with something else.

His bandaged hand tightened around your thigh, dragging you closer. "You think I’ve wasted this mouth on anyone else?"

His voice was low, velvet-soft but weighted, pressing into your skin like the heat of an open flame. Your stomach clenched.

"I don’t know." You swallowed, pulse fluttering against your throat. "I never heard anything, but—"

"But what?" His thumb dragged along your folds. “You think I’d let someone else have what’s yours? Thought I’d put my hands on someone else and think of anything but you?" The pads dig into your skin, his grip an demand for honesty because this is all he plans to give you now. The honesty that every time he tried to want something else, it was your voice in his head. Your name on his tongue.

Your lashes fluttered, the words sinks into your bones, pools at the base of your core. It terrifies you how much you like the way it sounds coming from his mouth—low aching, like it had been a curse, like you had ruined him without ever meaning to— how much you like the way him stressing every word with press of his fingers.

“I want things with you,” he said, the words dragging out of him like they’d been kept in a vault. “Not just this. Not just your body—though fuck, I’ll worship it until I’m in the ground.”

His hand stilled again, the stillness worse than movement, because now he was looking at you. Really looking. Voice softer now. Like he was afraid to let it live in the air.

"I want it all." He whispered. "I want every morning with your hair on my pillow. Every night with your hands on me." Your mouth parted, but no sound came out—just breath, shallow and stunned.

His fingers moved again, slow and reverent, his touch suddenly less about taking and more about giving. "Your clothes in my closest." Showing.

Promising.

Your head fell back against the mirror, your breath coming in sharp, uneven pants, every flick of his wrist sending another spark of pleasure shooting through your limbs.

"Jungkook," you gasped, barely able to form his name.

"Your name on every piece of paper that has mine." he kept going, his voice low, yet the way two of his digits slipped inside, slow, stretching, filling, setting a rhythm that had your thighs trembling wasn't exactly something you could keep quiet for. "Your moans in my ear that I'm gonna keep just for myself."

Your cunt clenched around him and head dropped to his shoulder in an attempt to muffle the sound. "Mhm. Fuck." Your body arched into him, chasing the fire that threatened to consume you whole. His pace quickened, his touch growing rougher, more desperate, as if he needed this just as badly as you did, as if he needed to become a devotee of the way you fell apart in his hands.

"Say it." He curled them just right, making a consistent squelching sound that bounced off the walls. "Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me." His mouth was scornful when it spoke but affectionate when it peppered kisses on the crown of your head.

"You know I do." Your voice was wrecked, barely more than a whisper against his skin, hips stuttering beneath his touch.

"Not enough." He growled, voice thinned by impediment, fingers curling again, slow and deep and your grip on him was the only thing keeping you from floating away.

"I—Jungkook—I" You broke off, a cry catching in your throat as he pressed and flicked. A merciless rhythm of knowing.

"Come on. Be my good fucking angel." He murmured against your hair, fingers pushing in and out of your slick hole with practiced ease, working you open, watching every shift of your body, every tiny gasp and shudder.

"I feel it," you breathed. "God, I feel it—I want you."

He too could feel how you seized against his fingers, how your breath started to come in short pants. "More." He husked. "I want you to lose it for me," his voice took a pleading note, his head dunking down, lips finding the curve of your jaw, his teeth scraping lightly before soothing the bite with his tongue. "Fall apart. Come on my fingers knowing what I want with you. Knowing you're it. Let go, baby."

And then he found that spot—the one that drove knuckles deep into your quivering cunt, curling and flicking, shattering you, the one that had your eyes rolling back, your breath catching in a sharp, broken cry as teeth dug unconsciously into his shoulders, hips shifting, chasing his touch, needing more and he felt the urgent need to bury his cock into you the next second.

“Right there, fuck—Jungkook,” you whimpered, eyes fluttering shut, lashes damp.

“Don’t stop. I’m—god, I’m gonna cum. So close. So fucking close.” Eyes stayed fixed on your face like it was a masterpiece made for him alone. The heat of your slick coated his fingers, the way your body clenched down around him driving a ragged curse from his throat.

Your orgasm hit with brutal force, crashing into you like a wave breaking at high tide, leaving you boneless, trembling, and Jungkook caught you, his arm wrapping securely around your waist, his lips pressing into the side of your neck, as if searing the moment into your skin.

As if he had no intention of letting you go. As if he never had.

"Beautiful girl." He mummered. "So fucking perfect when you come for me." He praised and pulled his two digits drenched with your essence out of your pulsating pussy to slide them into his mouth. Eyes closing when the taste of you settled on his tounge, reacquainting himself what has been taken hold of every inch of his mind. The appreciative hum that starts to leave his mouth gets lodged in somewhere in the middle when he feels your thighs wrapping around him, your front pressing against his cock that throbbed with the need to be lamented inside your salivating warmth.

He cursed under his breath, his control fraying at the edges. "Needy little thing." he growled, half in awe, half in torment. "Still aching for me?"

You blinked at him, all wide-eyed innocence, but your hips shifted again, grinding up into him in a way that had his jaw clenching, his breath turning ragged.

“I can feel how hard you are,” you whispered, voice barely there. “What if I want more?”

"Fuck," he gritted out, "I need to be inside you." He needs and his hands gripped your thighs, clutching you closer with the intention to rub against your bare, soused pussy. You felt the heat of him, the weight of the orgasm he had wrung from you with nothing but his fingers, the sheer presence of him pressing against you, and your pulse fluttered, a mix of nerves and overwhelming want.

His hand that you mended, hooks up your chin. You barely registered his words at first, too dazed, too lost in the lingering ache of pleasure still pulsing deep within you. But then—his voice, low and thick with something rekt, something wanting.

"Think we've got enough time?" He asks, shrugging a glance at his rolex. His hands traced over your thighs, palms spreading against flushed skin to bunch up the silk material of your blood stained church dress, the delectable longness of his erection pressing against you. And though it was phrased like a question, it sounded rather possessive and certain, as if the answer had already been decided.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, torn between reason and the undeniable heat pooling low in your stomach. "We'll have to find out." You whispered, teeth biting onto your lip as you grinded in response, letting you feel him—hard and urgent, straining against the fabric that abstracted you—until it didn’t.

Your fingers moved without permission, trailing down his stomach, feeling the taut muscle beneath the crisp fabric of his shirt. Lower still, to the belt that had been teasing you with its presence, the polished metal of the buckle cool beneath your fingertips.

Jungkook inhaled sharply when you undid it, the sound rough. His hands around you clenched, but he didn’t stop you. Didn’t pull away.

Didn’t want to.

You took your time, savoring the way his breath hitched as you worked open the button, the zipper, how his body tensed beneath your touch. And then—when you pressed your palm against him, feeling the full length of his need—his head fell back, his throat bared in a perfect, aching display.

God.

Your breath stilled in your chest.

He was beautiful like this.

Not just in the obvious way—not in the way the world saw him, sharp-suited and composed, the perfect image of a man in control. No, this was something else entirely.

You traced your gaze over him, over the column of his throat, over the way the muscles in his jaw tightened as he swallowed. Over the way he looked like he was waging a war against himself.

“Y/N,” he gritted out, his voice tight, strained, as if he were warning you.

Or begging.

But you only pressed a little firmer, fingers teasing, tracing, thumb swiping over his swollen tip that leaked with pre cum.

With a growl, his hand wrapped around your wrist, halting your movements, dark eyes snapping open to meet yours. "Fuck, baby. I'm not patient enough for this."

And then he was lifting your hips, guiding you against him, his tip poking at your entrance, making you let out a shuddering  breath. He leaned in, his lips brushing over your cheek, feather-light, a stark contrast to the way his hands gripped your thighs.

"Let me feel you," he hiss, more plea than demand, his voice thick with restraint. "Let me have you all of you, angel."

And when you nodded—when you let him pull you to the very edge, let him replace his fingers with something hotter, heavier—your hands fisted in his shirt, nails biting into his shoulders as your breath hitched.

Jungkook groaned against your ear as he pushed himself all the way to the hilt, sworeing how he would never get enough of you, his fingers flexing at your waist as he stilled, letting you adjust to the sudden intrusion of his massive length, letting himself revel in the feeling of you wrapped around him like you always would in the sweetest of his dreams, like you did a certain night away. And from that moment he had wondered how had he ever functioned without this? How will he ever function without you if you keep yourself away from him?

Your hands slipped up, cupping his face, tilting him toward you until your lips brushed. “Move,” you whispered, voice barely there.

Slow at first, rolling his hips into yours, his mouth catching every broken sound that left you, his hands never stopping their worship of your body.

And when he felt his willpower leave him, when slow became desperate, when his name spilled from your lips like a prayer—he answered.

He met you in every way you needed.

It was urgent—messy and desperate and filled with everything neither of you could say out loud. Could only afford in hushed whispers and lips tracing sin on skin. Something he'd taken pain from you if it meant he'd get to kept this. Because it was better than nothing, better than those years when he wanted you with a desperation that should’ve dulled with time, with grief, with regret.

But it hadn’t.

It had only grown sharper.

It was too much. It was not enough.

The way he gasped softly as he pushed himself inside you—inch by inch, stretching you around him, your hands fisting his shirt like you couldn’t decide whether to pull him closer or push him away.

He pressed you further onto the counter, knocking over something ceramic that shattered on the tile, neither of you caring. The pace of his cock driving inside you turned desperate, driven by something raw, something that tasted too much like loss but felt too much like home.

Your fingers found his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against your lips, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer, closer, closer. "Oh yeah! Fuck, just there!" You panted, hips snapping against his, encouraging him further as he outright pounded into you.

"You’re—fuck—so tight,” he rasped. “So warm. I knew it. You were made for me.” He highlighted with a squeeze to your boob, rolling your pebbled nipple between his digits. Your walls fluttered around him, still so tight, still taking all of him like you had been made to, eyes fluttering close when he gave it a pinch.

And fuck—he wanted to see that again.

“Eyes, Y/N.” he murmured, his voice rough, strained.

Your lashes lifted, glassy and unfocused, your lips parting around a soft gasp as he rolled his hips again, hitting deeper this time.

He smiled, dipping his head, lips brushing over your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “That’s it, baby. Let me see you.”

You swallowed hard, fingers pulling into his hair. “Jungkook I can't—Too much!”

His grip on your waist tightened, his pace faltering slightly. “Shhh. I've got you,” he whispered, voice shaking. “You don’t have to do anything. Just take me.” He cooed, his head falling to the crook of your neck. His teeth grazed over your pulse, tongue following, lips dragging along heated skin.

The sensation sent a shiver rolling down your spine, sharp and electric.

Your back arched, pressing further into him, your thighs tightening around his waist. You could feel yourself spiraling, the coil in your stomach winding tighter and tighter with every roll of his hips, every deep, mind blowing thrust.

You felt full.

Overwhelmed.

Like you were going to break apart any moment.

Jungkook must have felt it—the way your nails dug into his skin, the way your breath stuttered against his ear—because his grip shifted, one hand slipping between you, fingers pressing against your most sensitive spot, rubbing slow, lazy circles.

Your body jolted at the added sensation, a sharp cry tumbling from your lips that he caught in his own.

And he smirked.

“My angel's so close, hmm?" he murmured against your mouth.

Your breath hitched, a whimper escaping before you could stop it. "Yeah—shit—yeah. Wanna come again. Want come so bad, Jungkook."

Jungkook groaned, his cheeks hollowing, brows furrowing like he was barely holding himself together. “Fuck, you sound so pretty when you do that.”

You were right there.

Jungkook felt it.

And he wasn’t about to let you go without making you fall apart for him.

His thumb rubbed faster, tighter circles, his thrusts rougher, deeper, his lips brushing over your ear, his voice low, wicked.

“You’re gonna come for me again,” he promised, panting. “Right here. Around me. Look at me when you do.”

The coil snapped, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave, your body tightening, then releasing all at once. Your vision blurred, your entire body trembling, your nails raking over Jungkook’s back as you moaned his name, breathless and undone. "Shit, that's right." He heaved.

His thrusts started to get sloppier, trying to constraint the sound of his hips slapping against yours in the tiled bathroom only while he pursued his own release. More urgent—less about control and more about instinct. He could only last so long with your pussy milking him for all he's worth.

"Fuck—baby," he rasped, voice wrecked, forehead pressed hard against yours, sweat-slicked and trembling. "I’m close… fuck, I’m gonna come. Gonna fill you up."

You found yourself nodding mindlessly, relating with the wretched appetite in his voice to be warmed up to within.

“Such a needy girl,” he murmured, voice rough as gravel. “So desperate to be filled, huh? You want all of it, angel?” His hand moved from your waist to your jaw, thumb swiping your lip like he was trying to soothe something uncontainable.

Jungkook's thrusts slowed into something deeper, deliberate, chasing every inch of you as he buried himself to the hilt and groaned, full-bodied and guttural, like it had been torn straight from his chest. His release hit him hard, cock twitching deep inside you, thick warmth spilling in hot waves as his fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise like he was trying to memorize you, like he hadn’t spent the better part of his life trying to memorize you in ways he had never deserved.

He didn’t stop—just kept grinding into you, riding it out, chasing the feeling of being so deep inside you that the world didn’t matter. His jaw clenched, eyes squeezing shut as he emptied every last drop, as if he could carve his name into you from the inside.

Like the years had never carved a distance between you, like nothing—no one—had ever come between this pull, this thing that always seemed to exist between you and him.

And yet, reality was creeping back in.

You could hear it—the soft murmur of voices beyond the door, the distant clatter of dishes, the low hum of conversation that you were supposed to be a part of.

The world you were supposed to return to.

You exhaled shakily, body still trembling in the aftermath, shifting against the counter, trying to gather yourself, trying to think. Your fingers curled weakly into his shoulder, and you felt it—his chest rising and falling against you, his breath warm against your temple, the quiet steadiness of him as he held you there, as if neither of you were quite ready to move just yet.The sweat cooling on his skin glistened where the low light caught it, and his nose nudged softly into your hairline, inhaling you like he wasn’t ready to let go yet.

"Still with me, angel?"

You hummed a airy "barely" and he kissed one, featherlight and sweet, dragging his mouth lazily toward your jaw. He was taking his time. He didn’t seem to care that your clothes were halfway off or that you were still tangled around him.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, wrapped up in the quiet. You sighed, resting your head back on his shoulder, content and warm and glowing all over. The mirror behind you was fogged with breath, the air still thick with the scent of heat and sweat and him.

“We should go back now," you whispered and when you moved to slip away, his hands curled against your thighs, halting you in place. Not tight, not forceful—just there, just asking.

He shook his head, exhaling through his nose, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your skin where he adjusted the hem of your dress after wiping the remnants of him with a tissue, doe eyes giving away the look a kicked puppy would have. “Not yet. Give me a minute."

Not yet.

Not don’t go. Not stay.

Just not yet.

And maybe that was why you didn’t move.

Maybe that was why you let yourself linger for just a second longer, your fingers smoothing over the collar of his shirt, tracing a wrinkle that your own grip had left behind. A pointless action, an excuse to touch, to feel the warmth of him for just another moment before you had to pretend like none of this happened. "Fine. I mean I wouldn't want to walk back smelling like sex and you."

Jungkook’s gaze darkened. His hands slid up, brushing over the curve of your cheekbone, his touch slow and sharp like satisfaction curling under his tongue.

“That right?” he murmured. “You smell like me?”

The question caught you off guard.

Too late. He was already drunk on it. He ducked down, nosing along your throat, breathing in deep with a groan like the idea physically did something to him. “Fuck. You do. You smell like me, angel."

You blinked, your fingers stilling against his shirt, your breath hitching in your throat.

Something darker lit his eyes—satisfaction painted in shadow. “Good.”

Your breath caught. “It’s good that I reek of you?” And definitely not the hottest scandal the neighborhood will get their hands on. Right.

He dipped his head, nose brushing your neck, lips skimming your pulse. “You should smell like me,” he whispered. “You should walk out there with your thighs dripping and my scent all over you. Glowing because you took every inch of me." he murmured, voice low and reverent. "Let them wonder."

You whimpered, helpless under the press of his mouth, the press of his words.

“I—” you started, but your thoughts tangled as he sucked gently at your neck, just above where your collar would hide it.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze again, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Still want to go back?”

"Yes."

Jungkook studied you for a second longer, his eyes searching, tracing every inch of your expression, as if he was looking for something, as if he was still waiting for you to change your mind.

But you didn’t.

So he only exhaled, pressing his lips to your head. And then, finally, finally, he let you go.

You breathed out, fingers curling at the edge of the counter before you shifted again, moving to slide down—to plant your feet back on the ground, to leave but not before letting yours eyes drift to him for a second where he tucks himself in his slacks.

“Y/N.”

His voice was softer this time, but it stopped you all the same.

You barely had time to react before his fingers found your jaw, tilting your chin up, forcing you to look at him.

Your breath stilled.

Jungkook’s thumb brushed against your bottom lip, slow, lingering. And then, so softly, so quietly he asked—“when you walk out from here will you start avoiding me to the next Sunday again?"

Your brows scrunched up and you attempted to look away.

"Please don't, angel." He pressed his lips to where the crease formed for a brief moment.

And god help you, you wanted to listen.

The evening (6:25, you noted from your wrist watch) was quiet, the sky yawning open into a stretch of velvet dark, the stars distant pinpricks of light like secrets kept at a distance. You had always known the halls of the university to be full—full of voices, of conversations that layered over each other, of common stories and repeated gestures. Even today, it had been the same.

The evening air carried the last remnants of warmth, a hesitant shift between winter and spring that clung to the pavement, to the air, to you, you could feel reprieve take hold instead of a sort of suffocation.

You pulled your coat tighter around yourself, your breath curling in the cool air. The once-busy campus had emptied out, leaving only a handful of cars scattered beneath the flickering glow of overhead lights.Your heels clicked against the pavement, hurried, purposeful, as you wove between the cars, searching.

Hoseok was ahead, his figure easy to spot—relaxed posture, a casual sway in his step, his tan coat catching the dim light. It wasn’t hard to catch up with him. He moved like someone who never rushed, even when he should. But you still called his name, breathless from the rush.

“Professor Jung—Hoseok, wait up.”

His tailored blazer was unbuttoned, sleeves pushed up to reveal lean forearms, his usual crisp attire softened by the slight ruffle of his hair, undoubtedly from running a frustrated hand through it after a long day. His dark eyes lifted at the sound of your approaching footsteps, and when recognition flickered across his face, his lips curled into an smile.

"Ah," he mused, had just reached his car, one hand already on the door handle when he turned at the sound of your voice. His lips curved into an easy smile as he leaned against the frame. "To what do I owe the honor of you sprinting across the lot?"

You huffed, coming to a stop beside him, shifting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “I think some of my test papers got mixed up with yours. I noticed a few of my poetry essays were missing, and I have a hunch they ended up with your psychology midterms.”

Hoseok made a thoughtful noise, rubbing his chin. “That… would explain why I was grading a sonnet on existential dread instead of cognitive behavioral theories.”

You sighed. “I knew it. I must have switched the stacks when I was in a rush earlier, I'm sorry."

“Don’t worry about it," he assured you, resuming unlocking his car. "I’ll check when I get home. Worst case, I’ll bring them to you tomorrow.”

You nodded, relief sagging through your shoulders. "Thanks, Professor Jung. You're a life saver. I planned to finish grading them tomorrow."

Hoseok made a mock grimace. “You work too hard.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “Says the guy who spent last night preparing an extra credit seminar.”

“That was different. That was for the kids who actually care about my class,” he countered, before nodding toward the nearly empty lot. “You’re headed home? Want a ride?”

It was harmless. A casual offer from a friend, from someone who had sat across from you in faculty meetings, who had lent you his pen more times than you could count, who had laughed with you over shared frustrations about students turning in assignments late. There was no reason to hesitate.

It had been a long day, longer than you realized. You would actually prefer it rather than waiting for the bus that always seems to be running late by minutes.

Yet the answer that came was.

"She's already got a ride." The voice wasn't yours. It had been the one you had come to realize that avoiding was futile, that whatever admissions it breathed into your ear ran deeper that you would have assumed, affected you more than you'd liked and you have started to come terms with it. The words weren’t sharp either, weren’t cruel, but they cut through the quiet with the ease of something unquestionable.

Hoseok’s brows lifted slightly as both of you turned toward the voice, towards the faint crunch of footsteps against pavement.

The raven haired man who had once been standing a few feets away, watching, was now stepping forward, minimizing the distance until he was right beside you, hands tucked into the pocket of his coat that was as dark as the night, the sharp cut of his jaw illuminated by the glow of the streetlights. His eyes didn't lock with yours as they usually would, instead they zeroed In on the psychology professor who was unaware of the sudden tension buzzing through the air.

What the hell?

“Oh, I didn’t realize you had someone waiting.”

You swallowed, grounding yourself. “Uh—yeah.” You cleared your throat. “Hoseok, this is Jungkook. My—" You cringed at how visibly you struggle to come up with words when the ardour of the man beside you pressed into your side. God, he was always so warm.

When Hoseok, ever perceptive, raised an eyebrow you snapped out of it and continued. "Minho's brother."

Hoseok glanced between the two of you, and his mouths part in understanding. Dots connect. His eyes glance at you with a look that says 'That Jungkook?' And you blink, 'That Jungkook.' All that you've ever told him about Jungkook making it clearer.

"Ohhh." He grins and extends a hand without hesitation, always one for politeness. “Well, nice to finally meet you, Jungkook. I'm Jung Hoseok. I first met Y/N at a masters program. Been friends since then."

Jungkook’s gaze flickered to the offered hand before he shook it, firm and brief. Just a little tighter than necessary, enough to make Hoseok chuckle under his breath.

“Oof. Strong hands,” he said, raising an eyebrow but otherwise unfazed.

"Nice to meet you." There was nothing outright hostile in Jungkook’s voice. Nothing overly tense but you still felt like you were caught between two frequencies—one warm and familiar, the other crackling with something dangerously unspoken.

Hoseok seemed to pick up on it. He glanced between the two of you again, the corners of his mouth tilting into something unreadable before he shifted his weight.

“Well, I won’t keep you if you're settled then,” he said easily, flashing you a small smile. “See you Tomorrow?”

You nodded, grateful for the out. “Yeah,

see you.”

Hoseok gave Jungkook a small nod before slipping into his car, headlights flashing on as he pulled out of the lot.

You exhaled slowly, shifting on your feet, resisting the urge to lean into him. No, you were supposed to question him first.“What was that? And what are you doing here?”

“What was what?” He hummed, his mouth no longer set in that stern shape, his hand slipping from his coat pocket to brush a stray strand of your braid that barely seemed to hold its own away.

You narrowed your eyes, looking around instinctively before back at him. “You know what.”

Jungkook took a slow step forward, not even bothering that you were out in public, the space between you shrinking, charged. His head tilted slightly, voice deceptively light, tounge pushing against his cheek; That little tell of his, a habit you learned and found more attractive that it should have been, a habit he did when he was displeased with something. Maybe even pissed. Or both. "Didn’t know you were that close with Hozook, angel."

You blinked, thrown by the sudden turn in conversation. “It’s Hoseok.” You scoffed. “We work together, Jungkook. I’ve known him for years."

His lips pressed together, as if that information did absolutely nothing to quell whatever had flickered across his face moments ago.

Then—he opened his mouth, about to say something else, when you cut in, tone flat, unamused, every word sharpened.

“You’d know that if you hadn’t ghosted me for years.”

Whatever he was about to say dissolved right there on his tongue. His jaw twitched once. His brows dipped slightly, something unreadable passing through his gaze—but he said nothing. Good.

After a beat, he exhaled, shaking his head before motioning toward his car when he noticed the thin layers of your clothing, a dress shirt paired with a half sleeved sweater. “Come on.”

You frowned, your feet hesitating. You should be walking the other way. Should be dealing with public transport, going through the motions of an evening that should have belonged to you alone. He wasn’t obliged to be a part of this. “You didn’t have to come pick me up.” you say, smoothing down the strap of your bag.

He shrugs and his hand reaches you, or most specifically your bag, fingers curling around the strap and taking in his fist. “I was in the area.”

You snort, unimpressed. “Right.”

Still, you don't protest when he opens the door for you for reasons you don't want to analyze. And when you slide into the passenger seat, you don't mind how natural it's starting to feel.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting against his thigh. The city hums past you in streaks of gold and red, the kind of light that makes you feel like you’re inside a dream you once had and forgot the ending to. The faint murmur of the radio filling the space between you.

You’re both quiet for a while.

Then—“How was work?” he asks, without looking. His tone is mild, almost too careful, as if the question isn’t just about your day but about the right to ask.

It’s a simple question, casual, but the way he says it slows your thoughts. Like he’s trying, like he wants to know you again.

You shrug, shifting in your seat. “Fine. Uneventful. Spent half the day grading, the other half convincing students that deadlines actually mean something.”

He hums in amusement. “They don’t.”

You glare at him. “They do when I say they do.”

“Terrifying,” he muses, the corner of his mouth twitching.

You roll your eyes but it does little to conceal your own smile. “What about you?” It feels like you owe him the same curiosity.

Jungkook exhales through his nose, a slow, measured thing. “Had a meeting. Went as expected. Some numbers that needed fixing. Boring stuff.” You had always understood your husband's disdain for a life that was a repeat of listening to some guy talk too much, lose his temper when his ego would be on the line. But you had never known why Jungkook would prefer this or even why he wouldn't.

You look at him then, the sharp cut of his jaw, the way the city lights flicker across his skin in intervals—light, dark, light, dark—like the world couldn’t quite decide how to hold him. You weren’t sure you could either. Maybe you never asked enough questions, never studied every crease on his face liked you'd with minho and inspect it to hell.

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It is.” He steals a glance at you, quick, assessing. “Less exhausting now, though.”

But now that you do, now that you want to, you understand what he means.

It’s easy, this. Talking like this. Falling into a rhythm you hadn’t realized you still knew, one that had been untouched for years but still existed, waiting beneath the veneer. The intimacy of nothing in particular.

Jungkook has to force himself to focus on the road, fingers flexing again as he shifts gears.

If you scrutinize deeper, you'd also find that this—this slow glide through streets neither of you had named, the soft murmur of the radio, your shoulder nearly brushing his in the dark. This is what he’s always wanted. Not the secrecy. Not the stolen minutes behind doors that you had to double check if they are locked.

But this.

A ride home after a long day. A quiet conversation. The sound of your addictingly sweet voice in his car, in his space, in his life in a way that feels so woefully unpolished that it almost hurts.

“You’re not driving to my place.” Your voice pulls him back, your gaze sharp now, watching as the streets grow less familiar.

He doesn’t even pretend to be surprised at your realization.

“No.”

Your brow furrows. "Can you for once just drive me to my apartment without taking me to some place I don't want to go?"

"No."

That alone makes your fingers twitch where they rest in your lap.

You had spent so much time trying to untangle your own thoughts about him, about whatever this was turning into. Picking at it. Trying to name it. But Jungkook had been the picture of certainty. Unflinching. Unbothered. Like none of it had touched him the way it had touched you. Like he had already made peace with something you were still trying to name.Like he’d walked back into your life not to ask if he could stay—but to decide that he would.

Tonight, he seems different.

Its in the way his jaw tightens every time you shift in your seat, like he’s bracing himself. The way his tongue swipes over his bottom lip before he speaks, only to change his mind and stay silent. The way his gaze flickers toward you like he’s waiting for something.

You don’t know what to do with that.

Jungkook and hesitation have never belonged in the same sentence. At least, not since he came back.

You try again. “Where are we going, Jungkook?”

His mouth pressed into something unsure. Jungkook, unsure. It wasn’t something you were used to seeing now. It wasn’t something he looked when he pressed you against the kitchen counter, hadn’t sounded like this when he whispered his most cordial of dreams into the corner of your neck.

When he finally speaks, his voice is even, controlled. “Somewhere I want you to see.”

“That’s vague.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s a surprise.”

Something about the way he says it makes your stomach pull tight.

Because you’ve seen Jungkook confident. You’ve seen him arrogant, smug, amused. You’ve seen him angry, cold, unreadable. But nervous? No. Not since he came back from a different life, not since he became the man that no longer fit into the spaces you had once saved for him.

And yet, right now, here he is. Inside, the space, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting against his thigh, fingers drumming idly like a song he hadn’t decided to play yet. It was a small thing, a habit from when he was younger—back when he used to tap against the wooden desks in class, always restless, always itching to move.

Some things hadn’t changed.

Some things had.

Your fingers curled against the fabric of your coat. “You’re being weird.”

"I’ve always been weird, angel."

"No you haven't." There's something defensive in the way you phrase these words. "Don't change the subject."

This time, he smiled—brief but real. It softened something in his face, something he so rarely let slip anymore.

“You’ll like it,” he murmured after a beat, voice softer now, like he was almost convincing himself of the same thing. “I think.”

Just turned down a street you didn’t recognize, the road quieter here, the buildings spaced apart, until he finally pulled up in front of a modest, modern structure with floor-to-ceiling windows and a single light illuminating the entrance.The kind of place you wouldn’t look at twice if you didn’t know what you were searching for.

You couldn't help but ask again. "Where are we? What is this?"

Jungkook cut the engine, but he didn’t move right away. His fingers tapped against the wheel once, twice, before he finally exhaled and turned to you.

"I bought this place," he said simply.

You blinked up at the building again. "What?"

His lips pressed together, eyes flickering away before he cleared his throat. "Just—come inside."

You followed him out, your steps slow as you took in the building, the way the large glass panes mirrored the stars. The sky leaned against the windows like it, too, wanted to press closer, to see inside. There was a sign by the entrance—simple, elegant script, almost shy in how little it asked to be noticed. You don’t recognize it, and that alone makes you reconsider.

Jungkook said nothing as he unlocked the door, the quiet snick of the key turning loud in the stillness. He held it open for you like always, but this time his eyes didn’t meet yours.

You stepped inside and the push of the door revealed —A gallery.

Not just any gallery.

Paintings. Everywhere.

Paintings stretched across every wall, soft pools of golden light falling over their frames. Each piece breathed color—bold, bruised, aching with emotion. Blue melted into umber, ochre kissed the edge of crimson. Every brushstroke pulled something raw from your chest.

You moved forward, like your body remembered the path before your mind could catch up. Your fingers hovered in the air, trembling as they traced the lines without touching them, as if the act of reaching alone might wear you.

All of it look like what had been painfully dear to you.

Your stomach twisted.

Because you knew this work.

You knew it. Not just the style, not just the way the colors lived together in layered silence—but the soul of it. The way it looked back at you. The way it knew you.

You knew the hand that had created it. Been the first and last one to hold them close to you.

You reached for the closest canvas, your vision blurring at the name signed at the corner.

Jeon Minho.

The name cleaved through you like a wave, cruel and kind in equal measure. Your heart twisted. Your fingers hovered over a piece, afraid to touch, afraid it might slip through your hands if you weren’t careful. It was his—all of it, the way he saw the world, the way he translated it onto canvas.

It was like standing inside his head again, like hearing him laugh through color, like stepping back into a time where his presence still existed beyond memory.

Your breath shook.

“This…” Your voice wavered. “This is his.”

He was watching you instead, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense like he was waiting for you to feel it before he explained it.

And you did.

God, you did.

In the farthest corner of the room.

Your feet carried you again, before your mind could catch up, before you could brace for the impact of what you were about to see.

The world blurred at the edges.

The painting was soft, muted in color, like it had been caught in the golden hour of a fading summer. Three figures sat at the edge of a dock, backs turned, feet dipping into a painted lake that rippled with every brushstroke.

Two boys who's curves of smiles you would know even from behind.

One girl who knew.

It was them.

It was you.

Your throat tightened painfully, a memory rising unbidden, curling at the edges of the canvas, spilling into the quiet of the gallery until it was no longer just a painting—It was then.

You were twelve the summer Minho decided that the best way to survive the heat was to sit at the edge of the lake until the sun stopped trying to kill him.

Jungkook had been the first to follow, feet kicking idly at the water, arms propped behind him as he leaned back, his oversized t-shirt damp from an earlier splash war that he had definitely lost.

You had been the last to sit down, cross-legged between them, tossing small pebbles into the lake just to watch the ripples expand.

It had been quiet, warm, easy. The afternoon smelled of earth and sun, of laughter spilling into the open air.

“Stay still, Minho!” you giggled, reaching over to press another blade of grass into his already messy hair.

“Why?” he huffed, cracking one eye open. “You’re ruining my masterpiece.”

“You’re ruining my masterpiece,” you shot back, grinning as you tucked another strand behind his ear. A few away, Jungkook sat cross-legged, watching the two of you with quiet fascination. He was younger then, still round-cheeked, his dark eyes wide and serious as he curled his fingers in the grass.

“Are you gonna put grass in my hair too?” he finally asked, tilting his head.

You paused, considering, then reached over and plucked a small daisy from the ground.

“Not grass,” you said, leaning closer. “But hold still.”

He did.

Even then, Jungkook had been good at that—at waiting, at being patient in a way that seemed too big for his age.

Carefully, you tucked the daisy behind his ear.

“There,” you murmured, sitting back.

Minho snorted, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Now he looks really ridiculous.”

But Jungkook only blinked, reaching up to touch the flower gently, like it was something delicate, something that had been given to him and him alone.

He didn’t take it out.

It stayed there like the three of you—trapped in summer light, forever twelve, forever laughing, forever somewhere time could not reach.

A quiet exhale broke the silence behind you. But the deep ache stayed spread through your chest, slow and unforgiving.

"He never showed me this," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "He painted it the year before he…" Jungkook hesitated, the words catching. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze tracing the familiar lines of Minho’s signature. "Before he passed."

Your chest constricted. The truth never stopped feeling like a knife.

From the first time since you stepped inside, you finally turned to Jungkook then, eyes searching, waiting for him to tell you why.

Why he had done this.

Why had he crushed that one devastating voice in your head that would make it's appearance timely—you are forgetting him. You are forgetting the exact way his laughter curled at the end. The domesticity of how his step fell beside yours. Those were slipping with every sunrise you surived without him. Dissolving like fog under the sun. You are forgetting your min min.

And one night, you'd wake up desperate, breathless, trying to recall the way he said your name but you wouldn't. And the guilt—God, the guilt—would sit on your chest.

Until now that Jungkook had gathered every fragment of Minho’s soul and brought it back to life. Not as a ghost. But as something immortal. As something known. Someone someone will always know. A hundred things rise to the surface. None of them make it past your lips.

Jungkook exhaled softly, running a hand through his hair before shoving it back into his coat pocket. His shoulders were drawn tight, but his voice was steady when he finally spoke. "I started looking for them a while ago. A month before I came back, maybe longer. They were scattered—some in old studios, some with collectors. A few were in storage, collecting dust. I tracked them down, bought back what I could."

He hesitated before continuing. "Hyung's anniversary is next month." The words felt heavy, like they were scraping raw against the throat of a boy who had never quite come to terms with losing the only man he's ever looked up to. "And I—" A pause, like he was choosing his next words carefully. "We—never really did anything, did we?"

You blinked hard, trying to push back the sting behind your eyes.

"No." Your voice was barely there.

A muscle in Jungkook’s jaw ticked. "I didn’t want this year to be like that. I wanted to do something. Do you like..this, angel? We could open this to the public too if you want. Show mom and dad."

Something rises within you, vast and unnameable—less a feeling, more a tide. It isn’t just the gallery. It isn’t just Minho.

It’s the echo of affinity stitched into every frame. The invisible thread that leads back to Jungkook.

It’s the fact that Jungkook did this. That he spent God knows how long making this happen, gathering Minho’s work, making sure his art wouldn’t just sit in forgotten portfolios, lost in the quiet corners of time.He unearthed what time tried to bury. Preserved what you feared was lost.

And the immensity of it—the quiet significance of what he’s saying, of what he’s not saying—hits you harder than you were prepared for.

The gallery holds its breath. Your pulse does not.

Slowly, carefully, you reach for his hand like you would in the dreamiest of dreams.

Jungkook stills.

His fingers are warm beneath yours, rough at the knuckles, tense. But he doesn’t pull away. Not from you. Never from you.

“Thank you,” you whisper. It doesn’t feel like enough, but it’s all you have. Like gratitude too big for language. Like grief softened into approbation. “This is—” Your throat closes, a breath hitching past your lips, eyes blinking away tears that had nothing to do with sorrow and everything to do with love."This is beautiful. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Jungkook doesn’t speak, but something shifts in his face, something almost imperceptible. In a way that made him want to take this moment where you're looking at him like he had hung the stars back in the sky and bury it deep inside his ribs, somewhere no one could ever touch it.

And when he does speak, his hands intertwine with yours, eyes holding yours like gravity. "You're beautiful."

Your lips parted, caught off-guard.

A muscle of his cheek clenches. “I meant—your face is all red. It’s distracting.”

You smiled, watery and gentle, and he swore if he if he had even a silver of the talent his brother carried in the cradle of his hands, he would’ve painted you too.

With your face flushed from crying and the faint glimmer of laughter still clinging to your lashes. With your fingers looped between his like you didn’t even realize you were holding on.

He would’ve painted you in soft oils and pale light, your presence the only subject, the only truth. And maybe he’d leave a smear of color just beneath your eye where your tears had dried, like a signature only he could understand. Not even someone who could’ve looked at it years from now would have understood.

But Jungkook couldn’t paint.

Couldn’t even draw a straight line without it wobbling under pressure. He had no brushstroke to offer you, no canvas that could carry the weight of this feeling blooming in his chest like it had always belonged there.

So he squeezed your hand instead, pulled you into him and pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, repeating how you're so beautiful, how he wants to spend the rest of his life telling you so, how he will lay the world on your feet if you only just smile like that for him.

What he doesn't say is that he came back for this. He stayed for you. He'll always stay.

And how still, in the soft lull that followed, his mind—traitor that it was—pulled him somewhere else.

Back to the night he first listened to Minho’s voicemail.

He hadn’t planned to.

It had sat in his inbox for two weeks after Minho passed, unopened. Just a little notification bubble, small and silent, like it knew it wasn’t ready to be heard.

But that night, something in Jungkook had split.

Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was the way the world kept turning like nothing had happened. Maybe it was just loneliness.

He’d climbed up to the roof of some rented building in Daegu, drunk off something cheap, the stars sharp above him, the world far below.

And he played it.

"Jungkook-ah." Minho’s voice cracked a little. Old, soft, raspy. Too gentle for someone whose lungs had been fighting him for years.Too familiar, too. The kind that had once read bedtime stories and yelled over bicycle crashes.

“I figured you’d be too pissed to pick up. Can’t blame you.” A soft chuckle, winded.

"I know it’s been a while. Years, actually." He waited, if considering whether it's worth a try or not before resuming. "Too long, huh?"

"I saw your name the other day. Don't even remember where. But it made me stop. Not that I got too much going on for me." Another shaky chuckle followed. "I don’t know what kind of life you’re living now. Maybe something busy. Maybe something brilliant. But if you’re hearing this… I want you to know I was proud. I am proud. Even when I was angry. Especially then, maybe. Even when I didn’t understand you. I watched you become your own person, and it scared the hell out of me. I didn’t wanted to see you turn into our father."

His voice wavered, raw and fraying.

"But you didn’t become him. You didn’t. And I wish I’d told you that sooner."

“Because you're my little brother. You always will be and I'm sorry I forgot that for a moment and I..I don’t know how much longer I’ve got so I had to tell you this." He paused, and Jungkook could almost hear the way Minho looked up at the ceiling when he was thinking. Like there was something celestial about regrets once they’d been said out loud.

"They don’t say it, but I can tell. I can see it in the beautiful brown of my wife's eyes."

Jungkook remembered pressing his palm against his chest like it could stop the ache. It couldn’t.

"Though it has dulled a shade ever since the coughing starting hurting worse. I suppose, I should be sorry for that too, but I don't want to die drowning in sorrys. I don't want to die regretting. Even if it kills me that I'll never hear your name in the news again, that I will never see her in morning light and think that heaven’s not far off."

He cleared his throat, like it hurt to speak. Maybe it did.

"I want to be content with all that I've had. With all that I've become. I want to be hopeful that the world will be kinder to her. To you. That you'd not spend your whole life outrunning ghosts."

Minho’s voice lowered, like it was just the two of them now. Like it had always been.

"I hope it’s not too late." I hope I'm not too late. "I hope—when the dust settles—you’ve still got something to hold onto. Someone. And I really hope she forgives you."

Silence stretched, one last time for minho, perhaps. For his little brother, it was the sound of his own breaking. He tried to hold his breath. Tried to stay still. But the pain didn't stay quiet. It raked up his throat, rude and coarse, until the first sob slipped out, ruptured and helpless. His hand, the one holding the phone, trembled violently. The other curled into a fist against his thigh, knuckles white, nails digging into his palm like that might stop the shaking.

It didn’t.

“I’ll be somewhere soft. Don’t rush. Just… be good. Remember your hyung. I love you, Jungkook-ah."

Static.

He pressed the phone harder to his ear, like if he clung to it tightly enough, Minho might speak again. That maybe—somehow—he could rewind, could stop it, could change everything.

Only static.

"The centre of every poem is this: I have loved you. I have had to deal with that." — Salma Deera, Letters from Medea (2015).

---

Commitment

Summary: Everything seems to be going perfect in your life. Your boyfriend Jungkook is more than you could have dreamed of and there’s been a break in the case that could define your career — one of the members of the most elusive mafia, The Devils has been captured. Heading down to the precinct you couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling: Was everything too good to be true?

A/N: This Au has been sitting inside my WIPs for far too long. I decided to publish it and see if there was anyone willing to go on another Mafia!Jungkook trip with me. So, I’m sending this out to see how the reception goes. Much love, Jenn. Headers made by @firefly-graphics

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: Mafia!Jungkook, Detective Reader, enemies to lovers, mutual pining

Warnings: mentions of fingering, sexual content, and violent settings

It was close to two in the morning when you’d got the call. You knew without having to look at the caller ID that it was your Chief. Something had forced his hand enough to call you to bring your ass back to the station. What you hadn’t prepared for were the words that greeted your gruff hello: “We got one of the sons’ a bitches.”

It was hard to miss the victory in his tone, and it was enough to spur you out of bed. Your feet hurrying towards the discarded uniform of slacks and button down from the previous day. You weren’t worried about jumping into a shower or putting on a wrinkle-free outfit to try and impress. For the first time in over a year you had a solid lead.

Being the youngest detective on the force, it left the heavy burden of having to prove your worth. The better part of your career being plagued by this case. You were a junior detective, promoted to lead strictly due to the unfortunate event the previous detective was found floating in the Han river.There’d been the wasted man hours on leads that fell through or witnesses that either went missing or completely refused to talk. The ones who turned up in missing persons’ cases usually wound up being found in trash bags scattered at city dumps. Your least favorite experience was finding a couple who’d disappeared only to be found crushed inside their car in a junkyard. Eventually, with so much loss and not enough wins, the entire station began to fall into a gloom of always being one step behind.

All you’d come to know about this Kingpin, Kim Namjoon, and his Devils’ over the years were that there were seven of them. One of the seven being the Kingpin himself, while the other six served a purpose. A well oiled machine with all of them holding specific jobs and nicknames. It took months and months for you to find out the name of the Kingpin himself. And in those months of searching that dragged on into years, the bodies and carnage of robbed banks, penthouse scuffles, and plays for power continued to haunt you.

After all this time you finally had one of the bastards.

The thought rang heavy in your mind as you hopped into your boots. Your fingers frantically struggled to tie up the laces. Even though there were more important things to worry about, you couldn’t help but glance one last time at your bed.

Jungkook hadn’t come home last night.

Ever since you’d met him, Jungkook appeared to be just as busy as you were. Both of you receive calls at odd hours that sometimes force you to excuse yourself from breakfast or dinner. Or the late night phone calls that had you leaving the bed with hurried kisses and promises to be back as soon as possible.

What you knew most about his work was that a majority of it required him to do a lot of night work. Your relationship was still relatively new - with your one-year anniversary coming up in just a couple weeks. It should’ve sent off alarms how quickly everything seemed to happen between you, but from the moment you’d met him Jungkook had you completely enamored.

You were never one for one-night stands. Even when your day was pure nightmare fuel, you’d never allow yourself the temptation of losing yourself in a total stranger. No, instead you found yourself losing yourself to the bottle. The night you’d met Jungkook had been a complete accident. The earlier hours of the day had left you wanting the comfort of your bed and a personal pint of Half Baked Ben & Jerry’s. The only reason you’d agreed to go out was because your friend had pleaded; reminding you it was her birthday.

The day ended up being one of the worst you’d experienced in a while. Your shift started with the basic petty crimes until you’d received one of the many calls you were learning to hate. Namjoon’s Devils’ had left a trail of carnage so widespread inside a building it encapsulated almost five floors. It wasn’t just a knife fight that happened in those halls. It was a shitty Andy Warhol painting of bullets trapped in grungy wallpaper. The carpet a fucked up Picasso of blood-stains that were still so fresh when you’d arrived with the others it was still wet; squishing under every footstep. Forensics was not pleased when they’d arrived.

After walking through that madhouse anyone would’ve deserved a drink. You especially. You were trying to do just that when your wait at the bar began to turn from a simple ten minute wait to nearing thirty. Your fingers began to tap out an inpatient tune, like annoying elevator music while you prayed the bartender would notice you soon. Your tunnel vision caused you to stop paying attention to everything around you. You were so damn fixated on getting that drink you hadn’t noticed the body that slid up to the left you. It wasn’t until you got the feeling someone was staring that you finally looked around to see if you could find out who. Your eyes were not disappointed.

One arm rested coolly against the bar. Not for actual support but for style. The pose allowed him to lean his body towards you just enough that it wouldn’t be invasive, but let him stay close. When you turned to finally give him your attention, like he desperately seemed to want, it took what self-control you had left to keep your jaw from falling.

His hair was long; the front barely grazing the middle of his cheeks while the back went further. His hair was a literal mullet. It should’ve looked ridiculous, but Jungkook was far from that. He was breathtaking.

You weren’t ashamed to admit it then or even now. The minute you’d locked eyes with him you realized it wasn’t a coincidence he came to stand beside you. You knew you should look away. You’d been staring at him too long now for it to be considered a fleeting glance. But your eyes were enjoying the sinful way the suit hugged against his body. When your eyes finally made their way back up the fine lines of his suit, you were greeted by a knowing smirk that, for a split second, made you forget how to breathe.

You weren’t entirely sure how you could pretend you weren’t affected by him in the slightest. His face was all sharp angles that were showcased perfectly by the curve of his jaw, and barely softened by doe shaped eyes. But even that softness was eaten by an eyebrow piercing that accentuated his brow that was currently raised in question. The smirk that lifted his lips matched the heat in his eyes as he shamelessly let you watch his eyes roam over your body.

You tried to focus on anything else in the space between you and somehow found yourself noticing a brush of a mole underneath his bottom lip. Its placement felt ludicrous due to its cuteness. Here this guy was giving you, “Fuck me,” eyes that were countered by soft touches that were scattered all over his face. It left him teetering between mind blowingly gorgeous and boyishly handsome all at once.

The expensive fabric of his charcoal gray suit strained against the muscles in his arms as he raised it up to flag down the bartender. Your eyes took in the length of his fingers and your body shivered as you imagined them sliding up your dress. Your cheeks heated with a blush you hoped he didn’t notice as you imagined those same fingers making their way between your thighs. Your mindly shamelessly began to wonder if was the kind of man that liked to tease - to prolong every ounce of pleasure - or did he just take what he wanted?

You were more than aware of how the black shirt underneath, just like the jacket, showcased a sculpted chest. He radiated sex appeal and power and you wanted nothing more than to be engulfed.

With the flick of his fingers the bartender appeared like magic. His question of, “What would you like?” sounded desperate to please as he waited for Jungkook’s instruction. Jungkook himself didn’t glance once in his direction. His attention was wholly focused on you.

“Give the lady whatever she’d like.”

Now that you had the attention of the bartender you couldn’t seem to remember what you’d wanted to order. You weren’t even sure if you wanted a drink anymore. Not when he was standing there looking at your mouth like he planned to either fuck it or kiss it.

“Does that include you?”

You expected there to be a hint of shock. Or maybe he’d take offense to your boldness. What you’d ended up receiving in return was that devilish smirk he wore like a second skin. It spread like wildfire farther up his face; lighting up his eyes to look like the big bad wolf as they roamed hungrily over your body. A silent prayer formed on your lips that he would close that distance and touch you. Your house could’ve been made of fucking cement and you would’ve held your door open to allow him to sink his teeth in your skin.

“Sorry. I’m no longer on the menu.”

You did your best to hide your disappointment at his dismissal by giving the bartender your attention.

“I’ll take a rum and coke.”

You refused to turn back to him. To let yourself be flustered farther by some ridiculously good-looking man who’d basically told you he was taken. God, but he didn’t make it easy. It didn’t matter if you’d decided not to look at him. You could feel his eyes staring daggers into you, itching along your spin, while you slid a twenty in exchange for your drink across the bar. Were you imagining things or did he get closer?

When you moved to step away from the bar, you finally gave him your attention. A glass raised half way to thank him for the drink.

“Thanks for the help.”

You tipped your glass and started to make your way back to your friend's booth. In the short amount of time you’d been standing at the bar wasting time just to get one drink the place had filled up. Instead of it being a straight shot back to the booth, you found yourself asking people to excuse you with your precious drink held above your head. If you spilled it there was a strong indication there’d be some cursing and, possibly, a few tears.

Your imagination began to wander into naughty places as you made your way across the floor. You didn’t like being grabbed when you danced on the floor, but you imagined what it would be like if it was him you felt. His hand at your waist, stopping you from moving farther from him, with his body shamelessly pressed tightly against you. The hand he’d secured at your waist being used to move your hips in unison with him to the next DJ requested song.

The tension between you two wasn’t something you’d imagined. You’d plainly stated your interest and he seemed receptive, but…

You couldn’t stop yourself from glancing back over your shoulder. Just like at the bar you’d felt his eyes follow you without mercy as you made your weak attempt to cross the floor.The dancing bodies around you should’ve provided you ample cover. Or that’s what you believed, but when you glanced over your shoulder you found those intense doe eyes fixated on you. His lean frame was still pressed into the exact spot you’d left him at the bar. Even from where you stood, you easily mapped out the teasing curve of his lips.

In that instant you really did feel like Little Red trapped under the insatiable gaze of a predator who threatened to swallow you whole. Even though your heart began to thunder wildly in your chest you couldn’t deny that it was all from the thrill of being hunted. For a moment, you forgot to worry about your drink and the high possibility of it spilling. You were rooted there to the floor, pulse hammering, and waiting.

“Hey Y/N!” You could barely register her words, but when Eun Hyun touched your arm it jolted you back to reality. “You good?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”

“Did you get lost? Or has something caught the attention of that cop brain of yours?”

Her voice dripped heavy with teasing as she scanned the bouncing heads around you. She knew, somewhere in the sea of bodies, someone in there had turned you into a walking puddle. You gave her your best care-free smile and slid your arm around her waist. Your hips knocking against hers playfully to direct her back towards the table.

“I’m off duty tonight.”

You practically had to yell the words in her ear. If it wasn’t for the music being ear shatteringly loud, you would’ve worried about her eardrum. Your response sent her head back to rest against your shoulder and gazing over in your direction. Her laughter caused her eyes to crease into half moons.

The rest of the night you spent surrounded by Eun Hyun and her friends. You didn’t find yourself trying to find your mystery bar guy or wondered if he was somewhere watching you from a shadowed booth. You flung yourself into the girls night; your body gyrating and dancing to the throbbing bass of the music. Your mouth greedily knocking back every drink and every shot offered up by the next round from the bar. This was your night to unwind and you planned to take advantage of every minute.

When it was time for everyone to head home - and you being you - you hailed a cab for each of the girls. Eun Hyun decided at the last minute that instead of riding with you, she’d catch a ride with another girlfriend. The two of them believed that their girls' night didn’t have to end there at the bar, but somewhere still open that allowed them to be full of sin. They asked if you wanted to join, but you knew you couldn’t. As much as you loved living in the illusion of freedom, in the back of your mind, you knew the dark underbelly that was your home would be calling you bright and early. You didn’t need a massive hangover to join you during a homicide investigation.

Once the last of the girls’ was securely inside a cab you started waving for your own. You were usually a cautious person - came with the territory - so why you weren’t at that moment always surprised you. You’d thought about the second time you’d run into each other a lot. Why Jungkook never peaked your radar. The answer was a simple one: you never saw him coming.

You’d just stepped off the curb to open the back door of the cab when a suited arm beat you to it.

“Excuse me-“

The rest of your words died off the moment you looked up. He was just there. His arm holding the taxi idle, and keeping you captive between him and its backseat. Besides a coy glint of a challenge inside big doe eyes, you weren’t sure what game he was getting at. There was one thing you knew for certain. Years of intuition telling you the prize he was after was you.

“Get in.”

His voice was heady in its demand. The roughness of his words coated your skin in a heavy desire that left your body eager to follow orders. Too bad your legs seemed to turn to jelly by the way he stepped inside your space; his body easily overtaking your orbit. Eclipsing yours until you realized too late you were holding your breath waiting with anticipation for his next move. His dominance was on display in every inch of him. Particularly, in the way he moved. It could've been mistaken for confidence - he certainly wasn’t lacking in the department - but it was more than that. Jungkook commanded the universe to observe him and take awe of being in his presence.

A modern day Narcissus with all the power of Zeus.

Your body wanted to obey. Drunk you, however, wanted to be difficult. The stubborn side of you flared to the surface and made its own demand. “I didn’t realize we were sharing,” you replied, your words purred from your lips.

His response came in the form of actions. His hand that had held open the taxi’s door was now holding onto your arm and ushering you inside the cab. The hard length of his frame followed closely behind you to make sure you were getting in. If you turned to get out of the way you would just run smack into his chest.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?!”

You moved your body across the backseat until you were on the opposite side. Your back pressed firmly against the door. You turned to face him, watching as his frame followed in behind you and closed the door all in one smooth motion. His hand came down to pat a few times on the drivers chair as he directed him to an address that was definitely not yours.

A small part of you wanted to blurt out that you were a detective. See if it was enough to make his bravado wilt and followed up with messy attempts at an apology. The other part of you, one you later blamed on being drunk, just wanted to see what the rest of the night held in store. The hold Jungkook had previously had on your arm was now gone, but the heat from his touch remained.

The taxi lurched forward. It’s pace quickly sped up while the driver became comfortable with the information given from his gps. The middle-aged man gave you both a brief glance from his rear-view mirror. His thoughts deciding already the two of you were nothing but strangers heading home for a midnight fuck. He wasn’t far off, except-

You weren’t sure what you expected when you glanced back at the man beside you. A hundred possibilities with a hundred different ways to address them flew through your mind. Every single one of them dying before they were ever born on your lips when you found deep honeyed eyes seeing - not looking - in your direction.

“It’s a bit cocky to assume I want to go home with you.”

Your voice didn’t betray that your heart leapt into your throat. Your pulse sparks pure lightning through your veins, struggling, to keep a trepid tongue from running over your lips. His eyes flashed with a wickedness that was matched only by his smile. A curl of lips that you desperately wanted to feel pressed between your folds.

“You asked if I was on the menu, remember?”

“Asking if someone is included with a drink doesn’t automatically mean, ‘fuck me.’”

The drivers’ eyes peeled back up to glance in the rear view. It was subtle, but there.

Your harsh choice of words earned you a quirked eyebrow. His piercing glinted briefly by passing streetlights making him look ethereal. Sinful. This time your tongue did dart out to wet your lips and his eyes hungrily followed.

“No, it doesn’t. Looking for me while you should be enjoying your friends does come off that way, though.”

Your body went rigid with embarrassment. He’d noticed you as your eyes eagerly searched every face in the crowd. You’d searched, hoping, you’d find him, and yet you never once saw him. You’d even said a tiny prayer to the universe that maybe you'd run into him on the way back to the bar or pressed against his body on the dance floor. All these moments…

But he took notice of your desire and planned to use it to his full advantage.

“Come here.”

The demand was back. His voice practically dripped it along your skin. A silken promise to bring you to your knees and keep you there. You were eager to see if his words matched his actions. Without making him have to ask twice, you slide over to him. Your body filling up what little space you’d made until you were a breathe away.

The darkness of his eyes lightened for a moment. His pleasure at you obeying orders sent a spark through him. His hand came up a moment later with his index tracing the edges of your jaw until it cupped right below your chin. He used your obedience to his advantage and tipped your chin up to look up.

His eyes roamed the expanse of your face. A lazy thumb moved along the edge of your lip. The action was simple, and yet your breath was caught in your lungs. Hypnotized and waiting, eagerly, for his next move.

He must have noticed the heat in your eyes. The way you swallowed heavier around words of pleading that left your body wanton and trembling to be touched. A smirk ticked the corners of his mouth as he brought his lips closer to yours. Close enough he could’ve breathed you to him if he wanted. Instead, Jungkook faltered half way. Eyes dancing with mischief as his whispered words of, “Good girl,” painted themselves against your lips.

You bit the side of your cheek. A weak attempt to fight the convulsion to respond like a brat. You wanted to nudge him, something - anything - to make him take back his words. Even though his voice caressed along your skin, making it ache to sin.

His thumb was tracing slowly against your lips. His eyes holding yours hostage; demanding you to meet him with the same intensity. This was how Jungkook chose to watch you unravel at his touch. It would stay like this with every touch of his hands or when his cock was buried deep inside you. He came to life as you unraveled underneath him. Devouring every last hitch in your breathing with a hungry mouth and coaxing hands.

This is how he chose to watch you that night, in the backseat of that cab, as your breath caught in your throat. Your body curving to press closer to him with your thighs parting just enough to give him access. A smirk tilted the corner of his mouth as his head tilted closer to you.

“You’re such a good girl for me.”

Jungkook’s breath caressed the words along your lips just before he claimed your mouth with his. The kiss only meant to silence you as his fingers moved past the thin lace covering your pussy. His fingers pushing past your folds and plunging deep inside you.

Your body responded instantly to his touch. Your body arched to be closer; chest pressed up against him as your hand found a perch at the nape of his neck. You wanted to stay quiet. You were in the backseat of a cab for fucks sake, but Jungkook wasn’t giving you an option for dignity.

His fingers set to work on guiding themselves deeper inside you. Each thrust from his wrist sent a moan panting against his lips. Your hips shamelessly working in time with each thrust from his wrists. The palm of his hand cupped your pussy as he added another finger, stretching you wider for him.

A squelching noise was beginning to fill the small cab. Jungkook’s hand now coated and slick with your juices as you rode the high he was sending you on.

You weren’t like this. You were a detective. A woman who didn’t consider being fingered in the backseat of a cab a good time. Your common sense was raging at you to pull away from his kiss. To pull on his wrist and remove his fingers from between your legs, but the feral part of you told common sense to fuck off.

A secret part of you loved the way he unraveled you in that backseat. His tongue diving between your lips to caress across yours. The kiss at first was nothing but intensity: fierce and no doubt leaving your lips swollen. But as Jungkook continued to bring you close and closer to your orgasm it began to change. His lips still refused to let yours go. Your moans and gasps were forced to be pressed against his mouth as you panted for air. The kiss grew into its own sensual being. No longer was it fast and brutal. His tongue now moved languidly over yours, as if tasting every inch of you he could find.

You no longer cared that the cabbie was probably watching. Well aware that Jungkook’s fingers changed tactics and were now curving up into your g-spot. Your hands were frantically trying to remove his clothes; desperate to get home so you could have him inside you. You didn’t have to pull away from Jungkook’s lips to know he was smiling.

He couldn’t hold you to him any longer when the pleasure spread into your belly and blossomed in a burst of stars. You came for him - moaning prayers of ‘oh fuck,” - and head bumping against the window. You came while Jungkook continued to work your orgasm until your legs quivered uncontrollably. His pupils blown out with lust while he watched you come undone at his touch.

You couldn’t remember getting out of the cab at his apartment. You could only remember once you were inside, bodies were colliding against the wall of the hallway in a frenzy to remove clothes. Something broke on your ascent to the bedroom and you almost tripped trying to take off your heels.

All you did remember was the feeling of Jungkook on top of you. The tip of his cock pressing against your opening before he fully sheathed himself inside you. Your pussy struggling to accommodate his length and the sweet pain of his cock stretching you, working your cunt to take every last inch of him. Jungkook fucked you hard enough you felt him in your crevice. Your body trembling as pain and pleasure meddled together until it was sending you over the brink. Even when you got on top, hips working him with each thrust, Jungkook still took control. His hands on your waist going at the pace he wanted, and it was always too deep - too much - and left you screaming out his name in worship.

When you woke up you weren’t surprised by the massive headache you’d obtained from drinking half the bar. Jungkook silently laying beside you, deep in sleep, had been a huge surprise.You weren’t good at the whole next morning, ‘where do we go from here?’ sort of thing.

You were steeling yourself for the awkward moments when he woke up. For when you would tell him it was a one time thing and no relationship was going to happen. Ever. Of course, it wasn’t what happened at all. The moment Jungkook woke up his, “Good morning,” came in the form of a grunt. His body rolling you over and pushing himself inside.

You weren’t sure how a relationship happened. At first, you pretended it was strictly for the sex. A way to blow off steam from long work hours and the horrors of finding the Devils’ leftovers. But somehow his staying over only until morning turned into staying for breakfast. It traveled from breakfast in the house to breakfast at diners and dinners at restaurants. Eventually, Jungkook stopped leaving all together from your apartment, because it was now one you shared.

There were times you tried to deny that you could afford to fall in love, especially with him. While you were sure over the course of months you’d told him small and big things about yourself, Jungkook remained a mystery. The moments when he told you about his day or himself were rare and raw. As if he were afraid to come apart at the seams of the man he’d built only to be seen as weak.

Glancing over at Jungkook’s empty side of the bed, you tried to keep the dread from growing. You tried to shove it down as you climbed inside the elevator, your fingers pressing for the lobby. Jungkook never told you exactly what he did for a living. You just knew it kept him up at odd hours and sometimes - rarely - he would be kept out at night.

You weren’t going to allow yourself to be consumed with worry that he wasn’t home. Your Chief called with big news and with any luck, it was one of your leads that led to this arrest. All the worry that began to brew inside you quickly dissipated and excitement took its place.

Two years. Two long - nightmarish - years and finally you had something tangible. You had one of the bastards who helped terrorize this city and every resident inside it. The thought you could finally get some reasoning for the carnage Namjoon and his men had caused made you practically giddy.

The drive down to the station was done in a daze. You were positive no red lights were run, but you couldn’t say with certainty you didn’t speed. You dashed up to the back door of the precinct and squeezed past an officer who was on his way out.

He mumbled a hello, but you couldn’t respond. Your mind was focused on reaching the third floor where the man was being held. Your legs quickly found the staircase and took each one two at a time. Your body jolted forward as you came to the third-floor landing, and you broke into a jog.

The Chief was standing near the end of the corridor. His hands crossed with a Manila folder with everything that the department was able to gather on whoever was inside. When he caught sight of you, he pushed himself off of the wall taking lumbering steps in your direction. A hand already extending out the file for you to grab from him the minute you were within arm's reach.

“Finally. I thought with something like this you would’ve gotten here faster.”

“Hello to you too, Chief,” you snapped back. You weren’t too worried about him. Your attention was on the folder now in your hands. Your thumb running along the edge to help flip it open. “Can you debrief me on what we know for now?”

His large body made it hard to walk side-by-side in the hallway, forcing you to walk a little behind him.

“It’s all there in front of you: read it,” he huffed.

“It’s difficult to walk and read at the same time. Stop being an ass and just tell me.”

“Fine. We caught him in the act so to speak. He’d just finished paying a jeweler who we suspected was helping launder diamonds for Namjoon out of the country. Not sure exactly what happened, but from what we gathered at the scene, whatever's been going on between Namjoon and the jeweler must have been one hell of a disagreement.” The two of you stopped in front of the interrogation room at the very end of the hall. Your body was tingling with the desire to go inside. “When we showed up the jeweler and his works were already dead, and he was leaving with the suitcase through the back door. Surprised the hair out of the newbie when he met him at the door.”

The big man let out a chuckle that sounded more like a cough: throaty and from the chest. Chief was really in a good mood, you noticed.

“You say he, sir. We got a name?”

“Sure, as fuck do: Jeon Jungkook. Namjoon’s enforcer and right-hand man.”

You were vaguely aware that his mouth was still moving. He was talking, making words, and yet you heard none of it. The sickening feeling you felt earlier looking at the empty side of his bed came back. This time you physically had to fight your body from being sick. The urge to release the late dinner you had before bed was creeping dangerously close to the surface.

You were struggling to focus on his frame. Barely able to register the Chief was looking at you with worry. His lips formed words you were sure asking if you were okay but you waved him off. With the file still in your hand, you placed your hands on your hips. The movement forcing your dark trench coat to flare out around you like a cap.

In. Out. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

He was talking to you still; throwing questions at you on repeat and the only questions you wanted answers too lied within the room to your right. You didn’t give him warning that you were leaving. You just walked up to the interrogation room door, your hand reaching out for the handle.

Whether you were ready for what greeted you on the other side of the door - you weren’t sure. You made a silent prayer to anyone listening for it not to be him on the other side of the door. You would’ve given anything for it to be anyone else. Anything.

With a shaky hand you turned the knob of the door and stepped inside.

Your back was against the headboard of the bed. All the pillows that had been lost to the floor during sex were now back. Each one hugging to your shape as Jungkook tried to invade the pillow cocoon you’d made by resting his head in your lap.

He’d let out another frustrated sigh and you couldn’t keep the smile off your face. Jungkook hated your pillow obsession.

“I swear, I come home only to find another pillow added to the bed.”

“Or, hear me out, you just think you see another one.”

“I’ve actually started counting,” he admitted. His eyes edged up to look up at you through his lashes. Your fingers that’d been playing in his sweaty hair came to a halt. Just so you could do your best to hold his stare - looking as innocent as possible. “Today when I left the house we had ten pillows and now we have eleven. How does that happen?”

“Magic.”

You smiled brightly down at him before placing a kiss down on his forehead. You went to move back up when Jungkook stopped you. His body lifting up from your lap to meet you halfway to press his lips to yours. It was a chaste kiss. Chaste compared to how you usually kissed and as brief as it was your body reacted to him instantly.

You’d learned early on in your relationship it didn’t matter if you were having a bad day. If you were angry at the world, him, or frustrated with work. Jungkook was able to combat your sadness with just his presence alone. In moments where he smiled so big it crinkled his nose and the times you’d find him dancing shirtless in the kitchen while making breakfast. Even through the soft moments you shared, Jungkook chose to remain an enigma.

Jungkook released his hold on your lips to fall back into your lap. He turned until a cheek rested on your thigh giving him a good enough view to look out your bedroom window. The dying light of the day painting the window seal in hazy oranges and reds.

“This feels like magic.”

He spoke softly into the soft skin of your thigh. Jungkook brought a lazy hand to your calf and began to lightly move his fingers up and down. Your face became hot and you weren’t sure why you were trying to hide it when he wasn’t even looking. He was too busy, lost in the darkness of his own thoughts to know you were watching him and the way the sunset lit up every inch of his features. You traced the flowers on his sleeve in an attempt to calm the frenzy of your heart.

“What flower is this?”

The minute your words left your lips, you wished you could take them back. Jungkook turned away from the window to briefly glance at his arm. Already knowing exactly what flower you meant.

“It’s my birth flower. A tiger flower.”

“It’s a beautiful flower.”

“It is, but I didn’t get it for that. I got it for its meaning.”

You waited for him to continue. The room swelled with silence as you resumed running your fingers through his hair, but Jungkook’s attention was turned back towards the window.

“What’s it mean?”

He didn’t respond right away. The only way you knew he heard you was the soft tilt of his head. His eyes glancing at you from the side. You weren’t trying to pressure him. You just wanted him to know you were willing to wait and listen.

“It means, ‘Love me.’”

Each word hit you in the chest making you think, for just a moment, your heart was breaking. Jungkook’s voice told you more than he probably meant too.

Your fingers completely stopped their movement through his hair and moved down to take hold of his chin. Gently, you tilted his head up by his chin and waited for his eyes to meet yours before you spoke.

“If it counts for anything, I love you, Jungkook.”

Stepping inside the room you were greeted with the immediate sight of him. He hadn’t turned to look at you yet. His hands held together on the cool steel table. His wrists bound with cuffs that were attached to the metal ring at the edge closest to him.

He was dressed neatly in all black. From his long jacket that sat draped along the back of his chair to the high turtleneck that decorated his torso. In the breakdown of what had been taken in for evidence, you noticed they’d listed black leather gloves that he was currently missing.

You found your bearings and finally took that final step forward. Your feet carrying you around the table to the only chair available inside the room. It was then that Jungkook’s eyes flicked through the slights in his hair and you were finally able to see the light splatter of blood that was speckled across his cheek.

That was when it hit home that this was real. This moment, inside this very room, where your axis was tipping and your world was violently shifting. He didn’t have the decency to look away; to be ashamed.

No. A part of you always knew that the darkness that you assumed haunted Jungkook wasn’t out of sadness. An inkling of something much more sinister lurked underneath his surface, but you overlooked it. Pretended it wasn’t there all because you broke your own rules. You didn’t keep your guard up and if you had, Jungkook had silently removed every wall you’d been able to build.

Jungkook acknowledged your presence with a smirk and all that anguish you felt at his betrayal was instantly replaced with rage.

“There’s my good girl.”

“Don’t call me that.”

You hated the way he used your pet name. You hated it more with the way your body betrayed you with your core aching to be touched. Jungkook usually called you that when he had your legs spread out on your kitchen counter; eating your pussy for breakfast. Or bent over the couch with him buried to the hilt inside you, pounding at a brutal pace, with a belt around your throat and his hand controlling the pressure.

Jungkook’s response at your request was a sickening chuckle. You wanted to vault over the table between you. Grab a hold of him and shake him, scream in his face, demanding why? What was the purpose of all those months? Did he know who you were that night at the bar? Was this nothing but a game to him?

The smug look on his face made you want to go feral. The betrayal and hurt were warring inside your gut fighting for dominance. Each one knocking the air from your lungs like a punch. Jungkook leaned forward placing his elbows on the table and used them to get to the middle. His eyes were wild as he searched your face. No doubt reading the split second it took for you to hide the emotions you felt.

“Why? Do you not want them to know that we’ve been fucking? How I came home to you almost every night after I committed crimes you could never catch me for.”

And there it was. The truth you were dreading.

How many times had he come home to the bed you shared after he murdered someone? After threatening someone’s life or burning down a business? Came home to help you make dinner and he’d just taken laundered money or helped run one of Namjoon’s brothels.

You dropped his folder with a thud on the table. You had to fold your arms across your middle just so you didn’t actually reach over the table and strangle him. He would love that. See you lose control just to prove his point.

“You seem to be focusing on the wrong things, Jungkook. You seem a bit bitter that you got caught.”

The eerie smile dropped off his face as he snarled, “They got lucky.”

“Or you were just cocky,” you shot back. “And that cockiness cost you.”

“I wouldn’t be talking about cock-y anything right now, sweetheart.”

“How about we cut the shit and get straight to it, hmm? You aren’t going anywhere, Jungkook. You’ve been apprehended and you will never, ever, see the light of day again.”

The smug smile returned as his head cocked to the side. Clearly, you were more amusing than anything else to him.

“You’re soooo angry that I was under your nose this whole time. You had suspicions, but you chose to ignore them.”

You tried to swallow past your heart that was now clamoring in your throat. The scream that had been building was threatening to break free. You were struggling to remain emotionless. From the look on Jungkook’s face, you were failing miserably. You knew what he was going to say and you didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want something you’d told him in the moment to be used against you like the fool you felt you were.

“We both know why you ignored them, y/n. It’s because you lo-“

“If you finish that sentence I promise you I’ll punch your teeth down your throat.”

His reply came in the form of a wide toothy grin that lit his entire face up. The idea excited him and made him look psychotically attractive with the dried blood on his cheeks.

“You won’t get the chance even if I did.”

“What are you talking about?” You snapped.

He just answered you with that wicked smile. You were getting tired of the games. Your thoughts working on how to get past all the personal to the real matter at hand. You were considering how to work around it when the alarms in the room began to go off.

The alarm was shrill and pulsing. The sound hammered over and over inside your skull until you were sure it was going to explode. You glanced back at the two-way mirror and then to the door. You expected at any minute for someone to come barreling in to ask about what Jungkook said or to tell you the alarm was a false alarm. You were willing to bet it was until you started hearing shouting further down the hall. The sounds of running feet and jingling keys crept through the door.

You wanted to call and ask what was going on, but you hadn’t grabbed a radio and when the shouting got louder you found yourself back on your feet.

“Did you really think Namjoon and the other Devils’ wouldn’t come for me?”

Jungkook spoke to you like he was scolding a child. Your mouth snapped open, ready to retaliate, when the sound of an explosion sounded all around you. The alarms in the building were blaring like crazy. The next explosion sounded in the building and your arms shot up protectively to cover your head and neck.

The sounds of screams were now pounding in your ears. Matching the scrambling boots and shouts to find cover. You dropped your arms down from your head and looked around. Outside was pure chaos, but nothing had touched inside the interrogation room yet. Which only meant one thing.

“They don’t know which room you’re in.”

Your words were soft. Spoken mostly as a verbal thought. The realization of it had you scrambling out of your chair. Your hands digging for the cuff keys Chief had dropped inside your pocket before you entered.

You had resolved to never get this close to him again. You wanted to pretend that being so near would cause your skin to crawl, but it was too soon. Everything is still fresh and open. Jungkook may have betrayed you in more ways than your brain could possibly fathom at this point. But the only thing your body felt, being this close to him, was desire.

“What are you doing?”

Jungkook was staring up at you with amusement. His gaze set on your face and no doubt finding the humor in the way your jaw clenched at having to press this close up against him.

“If they don’t know what room that means I have a chance to take you somewhere else. Somewhere safe.”

“You’re freeing me?” One eyebrow curled up towards his hairline. The amusement was still heavy in his tone, but underneath was he…hopeful?

A snort of laughter was your only reply as you continued to work on the chain that held his cuffs in place.

“No, Jungkook, I'm not freeing you. I’m making sure you end up where you belong.”

“And where is that, exactly?” He snapped.

The amusement had fallen from him and was replaced with the look of someone deadly. Someone you didn’t know. The change was swift and almost had you taking a step back from him. This was the real Jungkook. The enforcer, Chief called him. Looking at him you couldn’t agree with a more fitting title for the fierce man that looked up at you.

“In prison.”

You weren’t sure how you found the courage to reply or to meet the fury in his eyes. The second your words registered you watched a spark ignite in his eyes and a snarl bare his teeth. This time your body did give a jolt in surprise. You went to move back from him, but Jungkook’s hands were on your arms gripping you right. Refusing to let go.

“No. I belong with you and you belong with me.”

You were shaking your head struggling to free yourself from having to hear him. His words cut deep and dug into your soul. How stupid of him to not realize it didn’t matter how you felt. How he felt. You knew who he was now and nothing could change that. Nothing should be able to change that.

“No,” you gasped.

You didn’t know when you started crying. All you knew was that your eyes were stinging with unshed tears. As much as you fought to hold them in, you knew it was just a matter of time before you lost.

“Yes! You know it as much as I do. All these months we’ve been together. Deep down, in your gut, you knew all along who I was.”

“That’s impossible! I’m not fuckin psychic!”

“No. You’re a detective and a good one at that. You’re not dumb, y/n.” You were shaking your head vigorously like it would be enough to drown out every word he spoke. The grip on your arms felt constricting and yet, you didn’t pull away. “We belong together. You know it.”

The rage at his words, or yourself for allowing him to talk and for you to listen, was building up. You were going to scream. It felt like you were going to open your mouth to do so when another explosion went off.

This one was closer than the others. Close enough that it shattered the glass off the two-way mirror and sent it flying like shrapnel into the room. You were still stunned by the explosion, your body stuck in shock, but Jungkook was already moving.

A hand reached out to grab the edge of the interrogation table. He flipped it over with ease and grabbed you just as another explosion sounded. He didn’t grab you quick enough. You didn’t have to touch your head right away to know it was bleeding. You’d felt the debris of something - a chunk of concrete, plywood, or glass - hit the backside of your head. Your vision was now doubled and cloudy. The words being said around you sounded like they were speaking through cotton balls.

Vaguely, you became aware that there were other men in the room now. All of them dressed in black with decorated hockey masks that sat on top of ski masks. One of them was bending down, bolt cutters in his hands, and made quick work of Jungkook’s cuffs just as Namjoon entered the room.

He walked through the hole the explosion created, framed by billowing smoke and flames. Namjoon appeared completely untouched. Exactly like the Devil himself.

You tried to go for your side arm but someone stopped you. A boot kicking you back that was met with a savage snarl as Jungkook launched himself at your attacker. The darkness around your vision was winning. No matter what you told yourself, you weren’t going to be able to fight passing out. Your eyes fluttered over to the sight of Jungkook. His fist had wrapped his handcuffs around his knuckles and was smashing repeatedly into the mask of the man who’d kicked you.

“That’s enough, Jungkook.” Namjoon’s baritone was rich and deep. It didn’t surprise you that it went with one of the most notorious mob king’s that ever resided in this city. “We need to leave. Now. We’ll talk about your lack of tact when we get home.”

“I’m not leaving without her.”

Namjoon turned to him. His eyes followed as Jungkook threw down the bloodstained cuffs and moved towards you. You wanted to say something - tried to say something - but all that came out was mumble words and a whimper.

“You know you can’t bring her, Jungkook.”

“I’ll say this one more time, Joon. I’m not leaving here. Not without her.”

Irritation rippled across Namjoon’s features and his jaw clenched tight. You could tell he was thinking with his eyes roaming down to look you over. Finally noticing the state that you were in. His tongue rolled around in his cheek before he looked back at Jungkook. His frustration only made his forehead crease further.

“Fuck it. Hurry up and grab her.”

Jungkook didn’t even wait for Namjoon to finish his sentence. He pushed the tossed over table farther away making it easier for him to move down and scoop you up into his arms. The sudden movement caused your world to spin and it wouldn’t stop. Squinting your eyes you nestled your forehead against his shoulder trying to make your head stop spinning. It wasn’t working.

A whimper escaped you as Jungkook started moving forward. The crumbling department was only something you were able to imagine as you refused to look. No matter how hard you shut your eyes, however, it wouldn’t stop the sounds of men yelling for backup and others in pain. The pops of bullets leaving the chambers and the clamoring of feet to escape.

“I’ve got you, my love,” Jungkook hummed against your cheek. “I’ve always got you.”

If you were stronger you would’ve clamored out of his arms and moved away. You would spit curses at him and inform him that he was delusional. You would never be his any longer, but before the blackness overtook you a tiny voice reminded you that you were a liar.

You would always be his.

---

worth fighting for | masterlist

pairing: jungkook | reader (female) | ft. yoongi

genre/warning: royalty au, historical au // fluff, angst, humour, slowburn / tw: some actions scenes, mentions of blood and wound, swearing, alcohol consumption

series word count: 59,962

story summary: fresh out of the perils of war, jungkook didn’t think that his task as the newly appointed general would be to look after you.

playlist: ♬

chapter index: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 9.5 « new! » | in progress

ask tag/more info: fic: worth fighting for 

note: let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list. otherwise, happy reading!

chapter previews

Keep reading

---

dear stranger

lucky you, getting stuck in an elevator, your worst nightmare come to life. lucky you, getting stuck with a stranger.

24, between strangers with jk, cuddle prompt requested by anon.

pairing: ex-firefighter!jk x reader

genre: fluff.

word count: 3k 

warnings: reader has an intense fear of elevators and is very panicky. it’s a traumatic experience for her. also firefighter jk deserves its own warning lmao

masterlist

© dear stranger is copyright jeonstudios 2020. this fic can not be modified, re-posted, or translated without my permission.

author’s note: so this was supposed to be a drabble… lmao i have a problem. also i know i always say that it’s shit, but believe me, this time it really is. i have read through this one (1) time and we all know by now that i’m illiterate so don’t come for me. (maybe i’ll go back and edit or maybe i’ll forget all about it lol)

When you were younger, elevators scared the living shit out of you. You remember watching… a movie? An episode of some show? It doesn’t really matter because it’s not something you ever want to see again. 

Keep reading