T R I C K O R T R E A T

𝐉𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐄 ⚜

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒. jester!Gojo x lady!Reader, historical AU – medieval, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, banter, eventual smut [MDNI], dubcon, loss of vírginity, ôrgasm denial, overstimúlation, edgīng, glove used as makeshift gag, böndage, Gojo talks you through it, fíngering, cûnnilíngus, finger sucking, cúm swallowing, sqûírting, exhibítionísm, voyeûrísm, crëampîe, table séx, library séx, couch séx, pantry séx, balcony séx, ridíng, máting press, sorta fwb, arranged marriage, angst (w/ implied happy ending), forbidden love, etc etc

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. 16.2k

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄. thank you for 4k cuties!! accept this as a gift, sorta, idk, this was actually a request; also, this was my first time writing for Gojo, and . . . NEVER again, i tell you. i shan't write for this man EVER again *wipes tears* i'm way more used to writing the big bad wolf Sukuna // available on ao3 // dividers by @/aquazero

Jesters could do many things.

They could dance and sing and laugh. They could read through your deepest fears, your desires, your wants, and exploit them—all in the name of fun. They could write poems, tell tales, play songs; but beneath all their cunning smiles, hidden under their costume and glory, all jesters were but men. Pigs of mud; scum of the earth. Mortals; males; humans.

All jesters were men—plain, stupid men—but not Gojo Satoru.

Not your Gojo Satoru.

No, he was different: he was a piece of shit. In the beginning, at least.

Now, originally, he was a slave—captured from the raidings of a nearby kingdom and thrown into the dungeons. It was unfortunate, really, and you pitied him. But not everyone did. At first, many royal advisors of the king’s court opted for throwing the young boy into a brothel, because they took one good look at his sea-blue eyes, and decided he would be extremely successful for the kingdom as an escort.¹ But, luckily, the king saw wit and potential in the kid, and, instead of throwing him into a brothel, threw him right into the royal court, where he served, from then on, as a jester.

¹ Prostitute.

He was only fourteen when he earned his role as a professional entertainer, and only, still, fourteen when he escaped eternal damnation as a slave.

‘Twas the lives of boys like him, Gojo was just lucky enough to be a pretty boy.

Not like that was relevant, anyway. Because, although he was four years your junior, he still managed to cause twice as much trouble compared to the average toddler. He was a jester, sure, but he was more than just mockery and tomfoolery. He played pranks even during the most serious occasions, and teased the ladies of the royal court endlessly.

Crude, deviant jokes.

Twisted mind games.

Insults vile enough to bring tears down the victim’s eyes.

He did it all, with little to no remorse. Actually, scratch that, no remorse—none, at all.

Gojo Satoru was a mischievous kid, probably the most mischievous jester of the kingdom. He joked around and teased just about everyone, but he directed most of his obscenities towards you. All six years he had been at the castle, the castle where you resided at as a lady, he was nothing but a menace to you. A bully, if you could even say that.

He pulled your hair, laughed in your face at your evident frustration, occasionally stepped on the trains of your dresses, stole food from your plates, and often dared to interrupt your conversations with other ladies you had befriended at the castle. You did not like Gojo, not one bit.

The only time you had ever felt an emotion lacking loathing towards the now twenty-year-old was when you became acquainted at his first appearance in the royal court. When he was brought in before the king, who sat solemnly on his throne, Gojo did not want to live. His parents had been murdered, house had been ransacked, and old life destroyed. You could not blame him. But the king offered him a new life, a life as a jester.

Gojo was fourteen years old; he was alone, cold, hungry, and he decided to start anew.

Perhaps the reason Gojo was so skilled at being an entertainer was because the only way the boy had ever learned how to cope with his misfortunes was with humor. He masked his sorrows every day he sang and danced and joked with the royal court, and maybe—maybe the reason why he poked fun at you the most often was . . . because you were the only one who noticed.

He was a talented man, but his talents were directed towards rather foolish acts. He wrote and played ballads dedicated to poking and making fun of you. He plucked his instruments as annoyingly and horridly as humanly possible just to rile you up and see you either storm out the room in rage or struggle to hold yourself back from slapping his smug smile right off his impossibly handsome face. Besides music, he also wrote poems: poems full of love and poems full of hate (more often than not, pointed to you).

There was not a word in the language you spoke that could describe how much you loathed hearing Gojo’s irritatingly smooth voice or the sound of his lute.²

² An instrument.

You were practically seething right now, as you were sharing gossip with the other ladies over your usage of embroidery as a pastime, because the only gossip you could hear was the horrible plucking of strings in the other room. It seemed you were the only one bothered by the noise. Damned was that silver-haired oaf, you silently cursed to yourself, fingers twitching whilst you interlaced your thread.

“Agnes, dear, you know, I hear there shall be a festival during the spring times,” began a red-haired woman, otherwise known as Bridgette. She was a built woman, and was taller than most of your fellow ladies. She married, became widowed, and was now alone, though she was still jolly. You wondered if your future would be the same. “In the villages, of course.”

“Oh?” Agnes asked, coughing. “Do tell.”

The eldest woman of the room, Bridgette, began relaying all the information she possessed from overhearing maidservants in their respective corridors to Lady Agnes, a raven-haired, arguably sickly thin woman. Agnes was perhaps one of your closest friends at the castle, and you had known of her since the two of you were but adolescents. She liked spring festivals, because the smell of florals always brought the color back to her pale, sunken face.

“It will be a delight, I’m sure. After all, all festivals are delights. Say, Eleanor,” added Bridgette, as she turned her rosy-cheeked face to the blonde woman sitting just beside you, “have you heard any more about the ball from any of the chevaliers³?”

³ Knights.

“Oh, I—yes . . . I remember, the ball, the one next week?” asked Eleanor. She was a meek, lithe woman; wife to a knight. A quiet, stuttering creature she was, but, nevertheless, you admired her for her humorously contradicting elegance and modesty.

“The day after the morrow,” you said, clarifying, having decided to distract yourself from the awful playing of the lute next door by conversing amongst the rest of the ladies.

“The day after the morrow . . .” Eleanor repeated, before her face lit up. “Oh! yes, I see. The ball after the morrow . . . Oh, well, in that case—Bridgette, I do have some news.”

The ladies seated around the wooden table instantly leaned more into the conversation, their embroidery and weaving having come to either a stop or a slow in order to focus on the words which would leave Lady Eleanor’s lips. Even Agnes, the least social of the ladies, seemed intrigued by the highly anticipated ball which would surely bring a variety of guests flocking from each kingdom.

“Well, bless me!” exclaimed Bridgette, her hand on her bosom. “Color me intrigued.”

Eleanor cleared her throat. “Plenty of the knights and calvary will be there, as they always are. I hear some merchants are also attending, in pursuit of business and the sellings of oh-so splendid dresses. Sires, lords, nobles, sirs. There will be many royals, I’m sure, but—”

“Princes?” interrupted Bridgette. “What about princes?”

Eleanor blushed, embarrassed from being cut off. “A-plenty,” was what she ultimately replied with.

“Oh! my word. There will be just so many princes to dance with! Think of the conversations one could have with a foreigner. Think of how different their customs are. How attractive they could be compared to the hounds that, here, we call men.” 

Lady Bridgette went on and on with her exclamations, her excitement showing itself as her face continued to redden impossibly with each sentence she spoke.

Even someone as unsociable as Agnes blushed a bit, and you, too, also seemed to grin a little at the idea of men, other than Gojo, pestering you for change. But, speaking of the man, at the bringing of attention towards the amount of single men that would be attending the ball, the playing and strumming of the lute had come to an abrupt stop. 

There were no more incorrect notes, no more out-of-tune strings, and no more laughter echoing throughout the halls. Perhaps the jester had finally decided to leave you alone.

Perhaps.

“Perhaps” was the key-word here, because, at the moment you even suggested such a ridiculous idea, of course, the playing had to resume. The lute was picked up, and, once more, Gojo continued his horrible music, but, this time, much more quicker-paced and, as if to add some flair, in a staccato fashion.

It would be useless to say you were not left alone for the rest of the evening, because it came with no surprise. None, at all.

***

The day of the ball arrived much earlier than you felt it, but that was no coincidence, for, with the seemingly increased amounts of times Gojo bothered you throughout the waiting time, you were just about ready for, quite literally, anything else.

The hall was filled with bustling crowds of men and women. Candelabras were lit, servants walked with trays of assorted treats, guests lined the walls, and princes and nobles rushed in through the gates and doors like a great wave. The king had ordered for such a grand ball in celebration of his recent victories on the battlefield, and there was no denying the grandeur of the spectacle.

Ladies dressed in their best attires, men buttoned their coats to the top, and knights slung ribbons and swords at their waists.

You weren’t always one for affairs that served their purpose as opportunities to meddle, (such as balls), but you couldn’t resist the event of seeing so many new faces, especially since you were approaching the time to be wed. Well, it didn’t matter, really; in the instance that you failed to find a beau, the king would surely bring in a favor for you, whether you wished for it yourself, or not.

On the other hand, it seemed princes weren’t the only men attending the ball, which, in this case, was as unfortunate as fortunes could get. Because, lo and behold, Gojo, clad in a purple motley,⁴ was present at the hall where the ball was to take place.

⁴ Costume of a jester.

How foolish you were to think that, for once in your life, you could be free of the moronic man-child. But, of course! you could never. You two resided in the same royal court, after all; it could only be expected that the notorious jester would be in attendance alongside more agreeable guests.

The silver-haired man took full strides until he was just one pace away from you, leaning down into a deep bow as he kissed the back of your palm, his eyes staring up at you all the while, almost hypnotic, they seemed.

You did not smile, opting for scoffing instead, though you did not immediately pull your hand away from his. “Go bother someone else, Gojo.”

“Feisty, I like it.”

“This is not a joking matter, I mean it. I’m here to have fun, as are other people. Which, speaking of, I’m sure there are plenty of women who would be more than willing to throw themselves into your arms as we speak.”

Gojo did not respond for a moment, but you did not take it as an opportunity to exit the scene. Perhaps you should have, when he said, with an unfamiliar tone, “And you?”

“. . .Pardon?”

“Are you a woman who’s willing to throw herself into my arms?”

“I am a woman who is busy, Gojo. Enjoy the ball.” 

Your words were spoken like a parent tired of scolding a child an indefinite number of times, but Gojo did not let them cut deep into his heart, and before you could pick up the train of your gown and walk away, he took your hand once more, stopping you.

“A dance,” he implored, looking into your eyes. “One dance with my fair lady.”

You almost laughed at the poor attempt for a joke, your lips curving upwards into a smile. “My hand has already been promised to another man.”

“Promised . . . for a dance,” he repeated, as if reassuring himself of something. “—Correct? Nothing more?”

You let your fingers gradually slip from Gojo’s grasps. “You really are a silly man, aren’t you? Oh, well, I guess it cannot be helped.” You grinned, laughing to yourself at the strange exchange that had just taken place, before walking elsewhere.

It was true. Your hand was promised to another. Another man. A prince. He had asked for a dance with you as soon as his eyes met yours just moments before, and, who were you to decline him? After all, there was no one else you could’ve imagined as a more agreeable partner, for the first round, at least.

He was of a foreign land to the North, was what you learned during conversation you held during your waltz together. Of the name Rilian Atkinson, the prince was a tanned, lean man. With brown hair that sat under his gleaming coronet,⁵ there was no mistaking of his patronymic name and title.

⁵ A simple version of a crown, worn due to its lesser weight.

He spoke nothing short of how royalty would, and you found your cheeks warming numerous times whenever he made a joke you could not understand, seeing as a lady such as you was not at-level with someone so high in rank and respect. You could only feign soft laughter and forced smiles. But, luckily, when it came to keeping up a reputation, you were not particularly bad at playing the part of a respectable lady of court, and you were almost certain you had Prince Rilian fooled by a false image.

Now, don’t start getting the wrong ideas. 

You were fond of the man, you learned—during waltzing with him, and his hands were softer than most, so you held no hostility. His manners were inarguably adept; he was proper, acted with more respect than anything else, and was, perhaps, the only man in a while that had you wanting to excuse yourself, taking consecutive trips to the nearest mirrors in order to fix your jewelry or touch up your hair.

It was almost embarrassing, come to think of it. The way he managed to make you laugh despite your not understanding any of his jokes, because, funny enough, his mannerisms and tone were enough to make you want to praise him for his complex, sophisticated humor, and, above all, you felt ashamed of yourself had you done otherwise.

He twirled you, he turned you, he dipped you; all with such ease and skill—he was the most enjoyable dance partner you had ever had.

Despite your pleasures during the first round of the waltz, there were others who were . . . not so fortunate. 

Gojo, for instance, had been leaning against a pillar in the corner, a frown on his face and his arms crossed over his chest throughout his sulking and seething. Maybe he was upset because you declined him, maybe he disliked the way you looked over his offer so casually, but, in any way, he refused to dance with any other women, and ignored the ladies that approached him whilst the troubadours⁶ performed.

⁶ Poet-musicians.

He often scoffed to himself, complaining about how he could write much better love songs than the hired entertainers, which was a silly thought, because the only reason he was free to dance instead of play music, was because he opted out of entertaining at this specific ball in hopes of being able to dance with a certain . . . someone.

Gojo was not woeful for long, though—albeit it felt that way to him—because, by the time he felt he had harnessed the wrath of a thousand suns, it was then time to change partners.

You were en route to chat up some ladies about your dance with a prince, when, quite out of the blue, the silver-haired jester had stepped in your way, interrupting your train of thought and forcing your steps to come to a halt as he stood before you, eyes gleaming and smile plastered.

He did not need to say another word more before your expression moved into a bothered one, contrasting the moony eyes you had been wearing prior to his approach. 

“Are you going to attempt and ask me to dance a second time?”

“Are you going to say ‘No’ a second time?” he bit back.

Yes, you would have declined him again, but God’s graces were not on your side at the moment, for you felt like a punished sinner when the king, too, had begun to approach you and Gojo with a drunk look on his old, worn face.

Your lips were open to offer rejection towards the jester, but the king was much swifter in his speaking. “Jester. Lady.” He nodded, acknowledging you both in greeting with the cocking of his head. “It seems a rare pair has made its way onto the ballroom floor,” he laughed, a harmonious sound.

Your cheeks grew warm at his assumption. His Majesty was certainly getting the wrong idea at the sight of his most youthful lady, and his most mischievous jester, gathered together during a rather conspicuous setting. Oh, God, upon your word! this wasn’t what it looked like. The opposite, really.

“Well, most certainly, Your Majesty,” replied Gojo, playing along. He shot a grin your way, obviously aware of your distress, but paid no further mind. “You wouldn’t believe the lengths I had to go to in order to get a lady as beautiful as her—” (He gestured to you) “—to dance with a lowly jester such as I.”

The king laughed. “Many love poems were written, I assume?” he joked.

“Your Majesty is as insightful as always.”

The furrow of your brows grew deeper and deeper, the crease in your forehead making its public debut. Could Gojo get any more dishonest? you scoffed, but couldn’t find it in yourself to deny his claims. After all, the king had been rooting for the two of you since Gojo became a young man, and you couldn’t, just, defy His Majesty, per se . . .

“Ha! I’m glad to hear it, Satoru. Much charm you have, to aim for a lady.” The king patted the jester on the back.

“I’ve only learned from the best,” said Gojo, which earned another hearty laugh from the older man, attracting the eyes of the many guests around you three.

They talked like father-and-son. In a way, you thought it to be almost wholesome.

“Well, young lovebirds, since it seems you two are just about ready to dance, I’ll be on my way,” began the king, looking between you and the taller man in purple. “Don’t let Gojo cause any trouble, yeah?” His Majesty added, joking, as he turned to face you before making his exit, walking towards his wife and other company of the like.

You stood silent, stunned at the exchange. You had not uttered a single syllable throughout that, and you could not fathom the fact that Gojo had just manipulated his way into gaining your hand for a round of dancing. Surely, he was only here to ruin your evening. That was the only purpose he served.

“You heard the man,” said Gojo, as he turned to you with an expression lacking empathy. “Shall we?”

You gave Gojo your hand, begrudgingly—or, was it that he took your hand? you did not know. 

“Shall we?” you repeated, shivering at the cold of Gojo’s palm. “If it was in my favor, we shan’t. But, alas, it is not. And I have no choice but to dance with an oaf such as you.”

Gojo led you to the center of the room, where there was more open space, and began a slow pace for a waltz as he stepped and stepped to the side.

There was practically smoke coming out from your ears as Gojo twirled you, and you could barely pay attention to where you were moving your feet from how agitating the sound of Gojo’s voice was to your ears. Your eyes met the ground and stayed there; you could not face the jester without wanting to rip his head off his neck (err, well, you wanted to do that, anyway).

“An oaf such as I?” he repeated, feigning offense. “My lady, you are as cruel as they come—pretending to hate me and all. I’ll give you a little advice, it’s a lot more fun pretending to love me.” He grinned, adding a small, “Pretend or not,” under his breath.

“You think I’m pretending to hate you? Oh, please. Were you dropped on the head as a baby?” You finally relented to meet Gojo’s eyes, as you laughed tauntingly in his face.

“Perhaps. But, dropped on the head or not, it wouldn’t change the fact I have never danced with a lady more beautiful than—” 

You did not let him continue, and stared at him humorously. “Now, you’re just fooling around.”

He leaned down to meet your level, sea-blue eyes staring back at you with intent as he spoke—his voice loose and sultry. It made your head spin.

“Is that what you wish for, my lady?”

***

You had been sitting at a desk, alone, for only five minutes—five minutes—before the silver-haired jester, as mischievous as always, strolled into the room, seemingly having predicted your whereabouts (or, maybe, he had memorized the variety of locations you visited on a weekly basis).

The ball where you two danced together had occurred, by now, a week ago, and it rarely entered your train of thought; but, still, it sent shivers up your spine every time you thought about it. You couldn’t shake off the feeling that that ball wouldn’t be the last dance you shared with the man—he was vermin enough normally, but at a public space such as a ball? where anyone could spot you two? Even death would be more pleasant for you.

“I always thought these things were ridiculous,” began Gojo, childishly, as he walked over to where you sat just to poke and jab at your hennin.⁷ He stood behind you, his lean, tall figure casting a shadow over the book you had been reading just moments before his presence found itself interrupting.

⁷ A headdress worn by women of nobility—best known for its cone shape.

You rolled your eyes, a scowl on your powdered face, but you did not stop the man’s curious, pestering hands. “It’s not like your cap and bells⁸ are any better.”

⁸ A fool’s cap; the bells were intended for informing people of the jester’s entrance.

“Pfft, now that is where you are wrong, my dearest lady—they are way better.”

You sighed, eyes casting downwards as you crossed your arms over your gown’s bodice, leaning against the back of your chair. “Gojo, what are you doing here?”

“Hanging out. With my friend.”

“Even you know better than I do that we are far from friends.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be that way, my lady. Sure, we’re friends,” he grinned, wiggling his eyebrows. “Pals, even! am I right, or am I right.” He laughed, the sound of it bouncing around the walls of the study. “Who am I kidding—We’re best buds!”

His voice sounded insane, but his merry words were even more deranged. You wondered if, by any chance, “Has the jester found himself drunk this evening?”

“Drunk?” he repeated, entering your line of view. He approached the desk from opposite to where you sat, his face leaning down to peer into your eyes as his palms pressed against the dark wood of the table, as if he were interrogating you. “Me? Me, drunk?”

The blue of his eyes was so bright at this moment that it would’ve blinded you, had it not entirely creeped you out, instead.

“That’s what I said, yes.” While you may have found it difficult not to waver beneath his intense stare, you did not find it impossible . . . Okay, maybe just a little bit.

“You think I am . . . drunk?”

You blinked, nearly breaking under Gojo’s deep gaze. It seemed his eyes would never leave yours. “You are acting strange. Why would I not?”

Gojo pulled back, and a sigh of relief left your lips at his backing away after being mere centimeters from your face. 

“I don’t understand women,” he began, voice smooth and clear as he spoke. A deck of cards had appeared in his hands, seemingly out of thin air, and he shuffled them, performing arm-spreads and cardistry with no difficulty, at all.

“I really don’t. I don’t understand why, every time I speak to you, you pull away, and act like I’m crazy, or joking, or . . . or drunk!” He raised his hands up in exasperation—the cards discarded, fluttering and falling to the ground in heaps, as if feathers.

“You’re a jester, aren’t you? I have no reason to take your words as you mean them. Why, you’re a boy, Gojo. Hardly a man, if I ever knew one.”

The jester raised a brow at the sound of your voice, before snapping his fingers. Another deck of cards suddenly appeared between his digits, identical to the fallen ones. Now, any ordinary civilian would’ve called it magic, but you knew how good Gojo was with his hands and card tricks and such, and thought almost nothing of it. 

“You wouldn’t think that if you saw me without my motley.⁴”

⁴ Costume of a jester.

The jester spoke so seriously, as if he were mad at you, but you only found humor in his argument.

“Without your motley . . . ?” you repeated, unable to decide whether he was referencing the act of undressing, or the act of being in normal (non-jester) apparel.

“My lady, I am a man. Twenty years of age, I dare say. Beneath my cap and bells, behind my poems and songs, I am not a child. You cannot tell when you look at my face?”

You smiled, setting down your literature. “You are quite defensive of your manhood, I see.”

“Would my lady rather I display it?”

“Your lady would rather her jester sit down and deal in cards already, instead of standing there like a fool.”

If Gojo had come in the study to interrupt your reading and disturb your evening, the least he could do was keep you entertained. And, besides, seeing him perform all his flashy card tricks reminded you of the last time you played, which was far behind in the past.

“Like a fool?” Gojo laughed, seating himself in a chair across from you, before resting his feet on the table and crossing his legs—one over the other. You frowned at his lack of propriety. “It is what I do best.”

“And what you do worst is keep me waiting!” you whisper-shouted, leaning your upper-half over the desk. “Shall I wait for you to shuffle, or are you incapable of that, as well?”

“My lady is so impatient today,” Gojo teased, feigning a yawn as he interlaced his fingers behind his head, leaning backwards. “But, if you want to shuffle . . .” he continued, a strange glint in his eyes, “come and get it.”

The cards were between his index- and middle-finger; he wiggled them, before your eyes but behind his head, in an almost derogatory manner, as if daring you to seize the cards. And dared you did.

Huffing, you sat up from your chair, the legs scraping the floor as you went, before marching over to where Gojo sat, his demeanor composed and cool as he awaited the gracing of your presence. There was a strangeness in the air about him as he finally let his legs drop from the desk, but you ignored the conscience gnawing at you.

Gojo wore a lopsided grin on his face, eyes shining wildly, and you swore, if he wasn’t so highly regarded by the king, you would’ve slapped him right then and there, but, either way, you probably wouldn’t have, because you had other priorities, like retrieving the deck of piquet⁹ the jester was currently holding for ransom.

⁹ A two-player card game.

Standing just centimeters before him, the gown of your dress brushing up against his legs, you tried and tried to reach upwards and grab the cards from Gojo’s hand, but he kept dodging you, either switching the hand with which he held the deck, or moving the cards further behind him.

You did not meet his eyes, for you know they would be full of mockery, but you could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, nonetheless. From embarrassment and frustration, or from being so close to the jester, you did not know.

“Gojo! Ugh, you . . . Give me that!”

You made one last, final attempt. 

Stretching your arm out as far as you could, you reached over for the deck, again, and, to your surprise, and to all your efforts, you got it! But you also fell over, because your other hand was not holding onto anything until it was too late, and you landed in Gojo’s lap. And, while you were now holding onto something, it probably wasn’t your best move.

You were now sitting on Gojo’s lap, cards in one hand, Gojo’s collar in the other. Huh.

“I—”

You couldn’t think of what to say. And, apparently, neither could Gojo. While your eyes stayed upon the starched fabric being clenched between your fingers, Gojo’s eyes met the side of your face, the side you were not concealing by sitting at a slight angle.

“So desperate to get up close and personal, aren’t you?” He spoke up first, the hand that caught you coming up to rest on the small of your back.

“I fell. I simply fell. It was nothing short of an accident—you must be mistaken to think otherwise.”

“My lady, you don’t have to be embarrassed. I’m sure the king will understand your attraction to an oaf such as I.”

You scoffed at his allusions, releasing his collar (something you should have done much, much earlier), before turning away from Gojo’s watchful gaze, a huff slipping past your lips.

“Don’t be stupid.”

The position which the two of you held was scandalous, if anything. Your legs were beside Gojo’s, straddling him as the lengths of your dress fanned out beneath you, covering his lower half with ease. It was a scene straight from a sonnet¹⁰, except he was not your knight in shining armor, for he was your fool, instead.

¹⁰ A fourteen-line poem.

“Stupid?” he repeated. “That’s an interesting way to describe a man enamored.”

“What—?”

He cut you off. “I mean, you could’ve at least called me ‘besotted.’”

It did not take much strength for Gojo to turn you back around, his arms maneuvering you, seating you on his lap at an angle so that you could not avoid his eyes ever again. Your front was pressed right up against his chest, cards long forgotten about and hands perched upon his shoulders.

“. . .” You could not form a sentence as long as you held eye contact with the jester beneath you. You couldn’t even remember what occured for the two of you to end up in such a predicament.

Your cheeks flamed, and your blinks came in either pairs or trios.

“Do you want to kiss me?” began Gojo, abruptly, his tone casual (almost humorous), crystal-blue eyes boring into yours. “Or should I just go for it?”

You blinked, having not yet registered his words, but it didn’t matter—his question, your answer (or lack of); neither of those mattered, because he kissed you, anyways. Or was it you who first leaned in? All the same, either way.

Cool, ice-cold lips met yours in a chaste kiss, and you slowly snaked your arms around Gojo’s neck as you kissed back, shyly, almost hesitantly. You had never kissed anyone before. Hell, sitting in a man’s lap was frightening enough, but kissing? You prayed for God’s forgiveness seemingly simultaneously.

You didn’t expect Gojo’s lips to taste so . . . sweet, like a pastry. Err, well, it wasn’t like you ever imagined what they would taste like, ahem . . .

But it was like—like you were suddenly possessed by an entity. Before either of you knew it, simple short, innocent kisses turned heated, zealous, as if there were something more.

It was raw, it was full of feeling, and it was from the heart. Perhaps all the tension and frustration in the air had turned you both into insatiable animals, too far gone for mere kisses to soothe your aches and desires.

“Nngh . . .”

“Hahh—”

“Fuck. Pardon me, my lady, for I am no better than a man.” Gojo’s words acted as a warning, one you did not take.

You sighed into his kisses, eyes closed and squeezed tight. “Are you apologizing?”

“Do you . . . mmm . . . want me to?”

You whimpered as Gojo sucked on your bottom lip, hands running down your back, playing with the ribbons of your dress. “I think—I think you know what I want.”

“What a smart girl.”

More kisses, more kisses, more kisses. Your lips were swollen and bitten and nipped from his assaults, but it felt so . . . good, you had never known a similar feeling.

“Gojo—”

“Mm, don’t call me that,” he spoke, in a shamelessly sensual tone. He sounded so pathetic, like he was begging, albeit he knew full well you would listen to whatever he asked any other way. “No more. God, no more.”

His words slipped out between every kiss you two shared. It was sloppy, and clumsy; to say it made you feel warm inside was an understatement.

You pushed at his chest, repeatedly, whilst the two of you claimed each other’s lips, but he only let you go so you could catch your breath. He was going to get his fill in the end, anyway.

Gojo looked down at you from where you sat on his lap, hair a mess and dress disheveled. You had never looked so beautiful in his eyes, and he was sure to let you know that when he peppered kisses on every inch of skin left revealed by the neckline of your gown.

His lips trailed upwards towards your clavicle, tickling your skin as he went, and you slapped a hand over your mouth at the sounds that his kisses alone managed to pull out of you. It was embarrassing.

“Don’t call me by that name.” Kiss. “I implore you, my lady.” Kiss. “It’s—” Kiss. “—degrading.” Kiss.

“Your name? it’s, nnghh, degrading?”

His arms tightened around your waist, but he did not stop his kisses. You were like a dove trapped in a cage, bound within Gojo’s grasps. “That you would call me by my surname—is degrading.”

“I, ahhnn . . . don’t understand.”

Gojo looked up at you, before rising to his full height, loosening his grip on your middle, and, as he did so, putting a temporary pause on his making of love-bites upon your skin.

“Call me a fool, my lady—all you want, and I won’t protest. But call me Satoru. Your Satoru. Your Gojo, your jester, your oaf, your Satoru, and yours alone.”

You would’ve swooned from his declarations right then and there, had it not been for his tone of voice, which contradicted the sweetness of his words to a high degree.

Anyway, it wasn’t like Gojo was expecting you to fall so soon after deliberately going to great lengths to argue, ignore, and hate him all these past years. But, that was okay! All’s well that ends well. Or, at least, until Gojo decided to lift you up by the waist, standing up from his seat and setting you on the surface of the table which you occupied before he entered the room.

You shuddered from the amount of control he had over you, cowering before him. Even so, his laugh was a melodious ballad; too bad it wasn’t any less cruel-sounding.

“Don’t tell me my dear lady is shy,” he purred, lips against your ear as he spoke, before tilting your chin upwards to meet his eyes.

“I—You . . . Just when did you give yourself away before marriage?”

“Ehh, can’t remember. Let’s just say,” began Gojo, in a languid tone, “the maidservants here have really taught me a thing or two. And I’m not talking about playing cards.” He wiggled a singular card between his fingers, dauntingly, in front of your eyes, before bringing it closer to your lips.

You wondered whether he would make you bite down on it, because you suspected a moron like him would do such, but just a millimeter before it made contact with your swollen lips, Gojo let the piquet⁹ card slip from his grasps and fall to the floor. Instead of the card, it was Gojo’s index- and middle-finger that ended up between your teeth.

⁹ A two-player card game.

Gojo had this look on his face as he stared down at you; it was ravenous, almost, and your cheeks warmed as you looked up at him from beneath your lashes—eyes doe and wide.

“Come on, pretty,” he cooed. “Don’t make me wait. I know what you’re thinking.”

You swallowed, hard, before taking his fingers between your lips, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked on the digits. You couldn’t fathom the ache that it brought to your core when you heard the squelching of saliva and spit, the paint of your lips smudging all over as Gojo’s fingers reached deep within your mouth.

A breathy moan slipped past your kiss-bitten lips, and you failed to suppress the dazed, far-gone expression on your face as your eyes crossed, rolling into the back of your head. Oh, God, this was terrible, terrible! you thought, though you did nothing to prevent it.

“You can try and pretend you hate me all you want, but your body knows better, doesn’t it?”

“Mnngh . . .”

Gojo laughed. “Your body knows better? Ha! who am I kidding—I know better.”

You sucked continuously on Gojo’s fingers, their length long enough to make you gag as they hit the back of your throat, knocking out all the wind in you. There were tears pricking at your eyes, and you struggled to whimper out a coherent response.

“Awwh, I almost feel bad.” Gojo leaned down to meet your level. “Mouth too full to call me a mere boy now, is it? Gonna take back what you said, pretty girl? or should I have you choke some more?”

“Nnghh . . . Hahh.”

Your nails clawed at the wood beneath you, white knuckles clenching and unclenching repeatedly. Goodness, you had never hated jesters so much.

Perhaps Gojo was also a mind reader, as well, because not even a second after you finished that thought, he gave the roof of your mouth a small tap, and gestured for you to release his fingers. Which was what you did.

A string of saliva connected the tips of his fingers to your lips, parted ever so slightly, when he removed his digits from your mouth. You couldn’t look anywhere but his fingers; they seemed to draw you in, even as Gojo ended the trail of saliva in one short movement, before bringing his hand down your bodice, fingertips brushing against the fabric of your dress.

You shivered, even as your body warmed.

Watch, watch, watch. You could do nothing but watch Gojo. You did not know what he was going to do, you did not know what you were going to do, you just knew you wanted whatever it was Gojo was planning. Fuck, maybe the jester wasn’t the only one besotted.

“You’re awfully silent about this, my lady.”

“Whatever can I say?”

Gojo laughed, lifting the bottom edges of your dress to your knees, revealing bare skin to cool air. “I was expecting you to stop me.”

You met Gojo’s eyes when he looked down at you. “Nothing I say could stop you.”

“Because I know you don’t want me to stop.”

The jester leaned down to meet your eye-level as he spoke, before closing the distance between you two just as he had done earlier, lips meeting yours in a fervent, heated kiss, whilst his dominant hand, his right one, toyed with the lace of your dress teasingly, before trailing up your thigh. His hand was cool to the touch, leaving goosebumps rising on your skin and the hair on your neck standing up.

Thinking back, you had always imagined him to be the warm-blooded type, but no, Gojo was as cold as the snow which rivaled the silver of his hair. Which was strange, considering how warm he made you feel from the taste of his lips and the touches of his hands.

His mouth was on yours, one hand gripping the flesh of your hip and the other trailing up between your legs, right where you felt the most warmth.

“Do you . . . mmph . . . ever wonder where I get all my ideas for my poems and ballads?” he questioned, between kisses.

“Never.”

“Funny.”

You sighed into the kiss, succumbing to Gojo’s caresses and the ticklish sensations you felt from his fingertips brushing against your undergarments.

“I don’t see you laughing,” you quipped, holding the sides of Gojo’s face between your hands as you pulled away from the kiss, staring at him earnestly.

“You don’t see a lot of things.”

And then his lips were back on yours.

But that wasn’t what took your breath away. Well, it was part of it. Only part of it.

While the silver jester had been occupying your mouth with his own, his hand had been trailing up your thighs, thumbing your clit through the thin, lame excuse of panties you had on, all the while. He had been applying pressure to, and toying with the puffy lips of your aching cunt, which dripped and soaked profusely through the material of your undergarment. To say it was crude was an understatement.

You only noticed his advances on your lower half when Gojo pinched your clit, eliciting a loud, scandalous cry to be ripped out from between your kiss-bitten lips.

It was rough, and harsh, but still, nonetheless, gave you more pleasure than it did pain.

“Nngh, ahh . . . !”

You may have mewled then, but you writhed and whimpered even more when he finally pushed your panties to the side, slipping two fingers into your cunt with ease, seeing as your slick was useful enough as a lubricant. You never forgot the sound it made, the squelching of your wetness, Gojo’s fingers reaching past your rings of resistance and curling deep within your cunt.

It was so strange.

Gojo kissed you even harder now that he had two fingers deep inside your pussy, shushing your cries and moans as you squirmed around, uncomfortable.

His index- and middle-finger, the two digits that had previously been in your mouth, the ones you had been sucking on, were now moving inside your cunt, curling and scissoring your insides like nothing you had ever felt before.

When the jester finally pulled his mouth off of yours, he let you rest your head on his shoulder, whispering into your ear with that unmistakably smooth voice of his as you mewled and moaned, never being set free from his fingers, still buried deep inside your cunt.

“This . . . is called fingering. You like it, don’t you, my lady? God, if only you could feel how tight your little walls are.” He talked you through his movements and assaults on your poor, little pussy. It was invigorating as much as it was aggravating. “Fuck, ‘m never letting you go after this.”

You choked on your sobs, clawing at Gojo’s back. “S-Satoru . . . I—nngh!”

“Where’s all that attitude you had earlier, pretty girl? Not so frustrated now that you have two fingers up your cute pussy, huh?”

You could only let out a moan in response.

There was a coil building up in your stomach; you felt warm all over and your eyes squeezed shut as Gojo’s fingers curled with expertise, his pace quickening with each second that passed. They were long, and large, could barely fit a third in your cunt even if he tried—courtesy of the size difference between you two.

He was knuckles deep inside of you; each time you looked down to meet where he entered and exited repeatedly through your pussy had you squeezing your thighs together, forcing (unbeknownst to you) his fingers to reach even greater depths within you.

“Hahh, ‘Toru—! . . . It feels . . .”

You whined like a puppy. It was degrading how submissive he had made you within the course of twenty minutes or so.

“D’you want to cum? Is that it? Wanna cum on your jester’s fingers, sweet girl?” he cooed, mockingly.

Crying out, nodding profusely, you wrapped your arms around Gojo’s neck, pressing the two of you impossibly closer as your sobs turned to hiccups and the coil in your lower belly tightened unbearably.

Perhaps it was the additional friction from your hardened nipples pressing against Gojo’s chest that brought you over the edge as you came with a final cry and your juices released onto Gojo’s hands, his fingers dripping with your cum as he kept his fingers inside of you even after you came, continuing to curl and scissor without remorse.

“A-ahh . . . nngh . . .”

Your first orgasm hit you like a chaise and four. His name left your lips like a prayer, eyes rolling into the back of your head, thighs shaking.

“I really hope you don’t think we’re done here, my lady,” said Gojo, hot breath fanning against your ear.

“Satoru . . . What—What do you mean?”

“My lady, what I mean is I’m going to fuck you now.”

Those words were what made you open your eyes, looking up at the jester. “You’re going to, what?”

Gojo leaned down to meet your level, your faces too close to differentiate where your breath ended and where his started. “I’m going to show you just how mistaken you were to call me a mere boy.”

And that he did.

The silver-haired jester had you on your back within seconds, the cold wooden surface of the desk sending shivers down your spine as Gojo took his sweet, sweet time spreading your legs before him, as if preparing a feast.

You never imagined yourself losing your virginity so early on, and you were almost certain all your ancestors would be looking down at you for not waiting till marriage, but would it really count if it was only casual?

“I’m surprised we’ve gotten this far,” Gojo said, letting out a breathy laugh as he looked down at you. Hair splayed all over the desk in disarray, gown disheveled, ribbons undone, your cunt dripping with ache and want. It sent blood rushing down to his dick.

“Why are you surprised, jester?”

He wore a lopsided grin on his face, looking all smug and satisfied with himself. “Thought you hated me a little more to refuse my cock, is all.”

“Who says I still don’t hate you?”

“Her.”

And then that motherfucker spat on your cunt.

When Gojo decided he would be able to fit at least the tip of his cock in you, he hoisted your legs up, slipping them over his shoulders and pushing his cock into your cunt in one short thrust, (though it didn’t feel very short) . . .

He was both long and thick, girthy, with veins that twitched and sent bolts of pleasure shooting through you.

The head of his cock was big, and thick, sure, but the rest of it was even bigger. Slapping a hand over your mouth, you tried (and failed) to suppress the pornographic noises that left your lips left and right.

“Ahh, ‘Toru! Not so . . . Not so rough, nngh . . .” You whined, throwing your head back against the table beneath you, though you weren’t complaining.

“Well, would you look at that,” began the jester, as he slowed his thrusts down to look at where your pussy swallowed his cock to the base, thumb moving down to spread your puffy lips even further apart. “Biiiig stretch.”

Your gummy walls clenched down on his cock, and you clawed at the desk, nails leaving permanent marks upon the wood.

“Nngh, a-ahh! Gojo, you’re—!”

You saw stars when the head of Gojo’s cock kissed your cervix, reaching even deeper within you than his fingers had.

The silver-haired jester leaned down, his body overshadowing yours as he held both of your hands down beside each side of your head, interlacing your fingers together as he moved to whisper in your ear. “I thought I told you not to call me that. Does my lady not know how to listen?”

“No, S-Satoru, nngh! I didn’t mean to—I didn’t mean to—! Ahh . . . !”

You weren’t the only whose body had an evident reaction when Gojo began his thrusts with a rougher, more ruthless pace. Even the jester was one to groan in your ear, laying all of his weight on top of you as he forced your body to fold in half, thighs and legs infinitely spread out as your slippers, true to their name, began to slip off your feet with the way your body shook and writhed and jerked with every thrust, hitting the carpeted floor with a soft thud.

Back arching, tits pressing up against Gojo’s chest, your throat soon grew dry and parched as you continued to moan like some lousy prostitute.

“This is . . . hahh, called a mating press,” said Gojo, as his hips pistoned against the flesh of your ass, cock bottoming out just to re-enter with a table-rocking thrust. “God. Dirty, little cunt’s fucking swallowing my cock alive, huh. Must really enjoy it from this position, my lady.”

“S-Satoru! ‘tis so d-deep . . . I—I can’t, nngh.”

You wondered whether you would need to visit an apothecary from the way Gojo was just relentlessly battering and rearranging your insides. Upon your word, you could feel him in your guts.

Gojo grunted and groaned in your ear, cock continuing to slam into your poor pussy with abandon. It seemed he couldn’t keep his composure, either, despite seeming so put together. Perhaps he had been waiting too long for this moment.

Opening your eyes and tilting your head downwards ever so slightly, you could see the way his cock was almost twice the size of your entrance, yet all the wetness and slick that had gathered there earlier was enough to enable Gojo to thrust in and out of you with ease.

Everything about the man was just so . . . big. He was tall, lean, and his cock was no different. Despite his fingers having loosened you, it was still a miracle he managed to make it fit—the size of his cock was almost monstrous, and was, indubitably, able to be considered as a weapon, if anything.

The stretch was delicious, but burned like hell.

Pounding into you, rutting against your used cunt, Gojo held himself above you as he, himself, whimpered as if he were the one taking a cock two times too big. No, make that three.

“Hahh . . . Cunt’s squeezing me like a damn vice,” he groaned. “God, still so fuckin’ tight.”

“Mmph, n-nghh, ahh—!”

“Never letting you hide this pussy from me ever again. Fuck, I . . . Hahh, gonna make you take it at least twice a day, now.”

You mewled and whined, tits bouncing and spilling from the top of your dress, courtesy of the combined erraticness and harshness of his thrusts.

“Gotta—nngh, make you used to this cock . . . Fuck—!”

You came hard when Gojo’s cock kissed your cervix for the umpteenth time, the coil in your lower belly unraveling as your cunt weeped white tears, dripping down your thighs as Gojo’s release followed suit only moments later. His cock pumped you full of warm, white seed, filling your womb excessively as the rest gushed out from between your puffy, swollen lips, sliding down the curve of your ass before staining the fabric of your gown.

Stuffed to the hilt, filled to the brim.

“O-ohh . . . Hahh, nngh—!”

“Is this enough for displaying my manhood?” asked Gojo, quoting you, a sly smile on his face as he ran a hand through his tousled hair.

God, you hated him.

For interrupting your evening, for ruining your dress, and for only giving you seconds to collect your breath before his cock was, once again, hard as a rock and thrusting into you from a different angle. 

It was as if his first orgasm was completely non-existent; I mean, you could barely speak from how dry your throat was, (never mind moan), and this man was already up and running, fucking his excess cum back into you?

Preposterous.

***

You and Gojo had been having . . . an affair, for a while, now.

Had it been three weeks, or three months, or, even, three years, you did not know. Neither of you knew.

Gojo had ruined you ever since that night in the study. Your innocent dynamic consisting of mere banter and bullying had developed into a relationship of endless hostility, so much so, that after an unbearable amount of tension ensuing, it evolved into a sort of . . . acquaintance. Okay, that wasn’t the right word for it, but it sounds better compared to “affair,” right?

In essence, the both of you had grown closer. Well, that was inevitable. Because the jester now knew what you looked like under your gowns, and you knew whether the carpets matched the drapes or not, but, all the same.

Gojo was like a deviant; he was insatiable.

You two had begun to sneak around together. Sex was daily, once or twice a day, but you two also—what did Gojo call it?—hung out. Sort of. But it was still mainly sex.

Most often, it was due to tensions bursting during nasty arguments, which would end up with both of you locking yourselves in a common room, making inappropriate usage of the couches and lounge. Gojo would bend you over an armrest, or sit you on his lap, bouncing you on his cock as he used the skirt of your dress to conceal where your bodies became one.

Then, came the gardens. 

You sometimes gave excuses to your fellow ladies in order to take a breather, using taking a walk through the gardens as a way to meet up with Gojo during the day. If anyone spotted the two of you together outside, it would only look as if you were chatting or linking arms. But then, whenever you two found an open opportunity, you would seize it and embrace, making out under the glaring sun and the shade of oak trees, hidden away from any lurking eyes.

It was kind of odd, to be honest, but you had found, after Gojo took your innocence, that you were addicted to whatever feeling he gave you. Whether it be lust, or want, or desire—they’re all different, believe me. You wanted, Gojo gave; Gojo wanted, you gave. It was how the two of you worked. But it was always casual, never serious.

Just like when the two of you fooled around under tables during supper, giving each other soft touches and pinches and rubs, completely unbeknownst to anyone else sitting around you two, (albeit you couldn’t say the rush of exhibitionism didn’t send a shock to your core). It was always for fun. Always for fun.

Likewise, your newly found “enemies-turned-friends with benefits” dynamic never prevented Gojo from being the devil he was. In fact, it made him worse.

That son of a bitch just loved to make completely unrefined, vulgar jokes. In front of others, he made sexual innuendos, hinting to one of the ladies of the royal court possibly entertaining secret relationships with an unknown other. Though he was careful to never let any further clarifications slip, he always brought up the topic at least once every public gathering, which usually led to surrounding nobles beginning to even question the idea, which was ridiculous in itself.

Even behind closed doors, the silver-haired jester was still the same. But, you couldn’t decide whether that was for the worst or not . . . Every time you thought you were finally able to strike up a civil, appropriate conversation with the man, Gojo always ruined it by twisting your words and making highly crass allusions, which was, perhaps, what you disliked the most (mainly because you always understood his references, which, more often than not, brought heat to your cheeks).

And, from the way everything was beginning to unravel, it seemed today would be no different.

You had been sitting at a desk (a different desk, not the one you lost your virginity on); you were writing—a letter to your cousin, and Gojo had been silently sitting across from you, like an obedient child.

The jester was sat with his elbows on the table, hands interlaced as he rested his face in the middle of where his fingers connected. He was “admiring” you, as he had said earlier, and promised, because you made him promise, to not disrupt your writing like he had all those previous occurrences whenever the two of you spent quiet time, like this, together.

Gojo was silent, but not silent for long, and you sighed when you caught sight of a grin forming on his lips.

“However long do you plan on writing to your . . . who was it, again? cousin.”

“I believe that is of no importance to you, jester,” you replied. “I didn’t invite you to watch me write, after all.”

Gojo’s eyes watched your every move, from the way you held your quill, to the way you paused whenever you were stuck on what word to use (in those cases, he would give you suggestions), and even to the way you looped your Y’s and G’s and J’s. He prided himself on, supposedly, knowing you so well. And, if you weren’t so used to his strange, almost childish behavior, you would’ve deemed him frightening.

“When was it a crime to accompany a maiden?” he laughed, wiggling his brows, tone humorous. “Eh, doesn’t matter. It’s not like I came here to watch you write, anyway—I’m only here to watch you.”

“. . .Satoru, don’t be creepy.”

You chastised him like an adult would a child; those were the moments that reminded you of the comparison between your ages. But it also reminded you of how much closer the two of you had gotten; you could speak to each other so freely now.

“Scolding me, . . . huh. You gonna start taking the reins, too, now, my lady? If it’s in the bedroom, I can’t say I’m opposed to the idea.” You couldn’t count the amount of times Gojo had laughed this afternoon. “God, I’m getting excited just thinking about it.”

You spoke without taking your eyes off your letter. “You’re so crude sometimes.”

“You like me this way.”

Dipping your quill into its inkwell,¹¹ you looked up, just to see blue eyes boring into yours. You did not respond.

¹¹ A small jar containing ink.

“Not even denying it anymore, my lady?” he pressed.

“You wouldn’t believe it if I tried.”

“Because I know you would be lying,” he said, in a sing-song tone as he leaned in, face only inches away from yours. “Isn’t that right?”

“No,” you began, putting away your quill and rolling up your parchment; “in fact, you’ve never been more incorrect in your life.” You sat up as you spoke, and moved to leave the room, never meeting Gojo’s eyes, albeit you knew they trailed after your figure.

“Yeah?”

He sat up immediately after you, the sound of his steps following yours as you made your exit, out into the hallway in search of a carrier pigeon.¹² Gojo made notice to avoid stepping on your gown, whistling as he walked behind you, like a dog following its owner.

¹² A breed of pigeon domesticated for delivering messages over long distances.

“That is what I said. Now, if you’ll please excuse me,” you continued, turning around for a brief moment to address Gojo, “I’ll be on my way.”

The jester did not let you go far before he caught up; now, you two were walking side-by-side. Gojo was a fast walker, which came naturally due to his tall stature, but it was evident he forced himself to slow his pace down in order to match yours.

“My lady is so rude,” he teased. “Leaving me behind, all by my lonesome?”

“. . .”

“Am I worth so little to you? Who do you think I am?”

You stopped, turning to face Gojo. “Who?” you repeated. “Do you mean, do? Because I don’t—I don’t think of you, Gojo.”

“Oh, come on. I know my lady’s thought of me at least once.” He grinned. “I mean, look at this face.” (He jabbed a thumb at himself) “How can you see this, and not stay up late at night, thinking about it.”

You gave him a side-glance. “You’re so pompous, ‘Toru.”

He grinned at hearing you use his first name, never mind his nickname, in such an open hallway, which highly increased the risk of anyone overhearing your usage of familiarities. 

Leaning down to whisper in your ear as you two began to walk again, he said, in that smooth voice of his, “Am I wrong, though? I’m sure you would be lying if you told me you didn’t think about me during your most private, intimate moments. You probably sit on your bed, nightgown all bunched up at your waist, with your fingers buried in your tight, little cunt as you try to recreate what only I can give you; but it’s never as good as the real deal. I’m right, aren’t I?”

You froze, face burning as your hands balled into fists at your side, and Gojo snickered. He always had a knack for riling you up.

“Upon my word, you—you bastard! What is . . . Ugh, what, in heaven’s name, is your problem!”

You shoved at Gojo’s chest, weakly, before storming off, down the hallway, a crease on your forehead.

You really, really couldn’t understand why Gojo was like this. Why he just loved to tease you all the time, why he liked to belittle you, call you names. Although it upset you, this was only a minor argument in comparison to your many feuds. He was as bad as the rest of them.

The sound of your footsteps reverberated throughout the servants’ corridor (which you and Gojo frequented in efforts to conceal your meetings), and you could tell the jester was right at your feet when you decided to whirl around, the skirt of your gown flowing as you turned to face Gojo.

“Don’t, Gojo. Don’t follow me.” You looked up at him with intent; you did not yield when a light flickered in his eyes, as he stared back down at you.

“C’mon, pretty girl, it was just a joke . . . or an assumption,” he muttered that last part, beneath his breath; and you rolled your eyes, tightening your grip on the letter in your left hand. “You’re not really mad at me, are you?”

“Yes, I am mad! Why can’t you see that your words affect people?”

You took a step backwards, clutching your pearls (A/N: lmfao), but Gojo took two forwards.

Raising his arms up in surrender, Gojo continued to take a step or two every time you moved, matching you. 

“Don’t be that way, my lady. You know I’m only ever kidding.” His smile was hypnotic, voice spellbinding, and you nearly broke.

But the moment you knew you were fucked was when you felt your back hit the wall behind you, and Gojo seemed to know, too, because he laughed in your face.

“Nowhere else to run, my lady?”

You two stood only centimeters apart, the tip of Gojo’s nose nearly touching yours as he leaned down to your level, eyes staring you down.

You shuddered, feeling hot breath fan against your skin. “Fuck you.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You thought he was going to kiss you—you two were really close, after all—but, he didn’t. Gojo reached behind you, hand turning the doorknob of a pantry (one you had not even noticed during your little dispute), before pushing the both of you in, making sure to avoid any lurking eyes. You squirmed and pushed back, but Gojo was stronger. He locked the door of the pantry within record timing, before turning to face you.

You were stumbling over yourself when Gojo first pushed you in, but you were now backed up against one of the four walls of the pantry, finding purchase with your palms on the wall behind you, chest heaving as you gave the jester a grave look.

“Gojo, I’m going to give you ten seconds to get me out of here before I kill your court-fool ass.”

The jester walked forward, closing the distance between you two. Tilting your chin upward with his index-finger, he met your glare with calm sea-blue eyes as he asked, all cool and composed, “You’ve been such a brat today—what’s got your panties in such a twist?”

There was a hint of a laugh in his tone, and you snapped, “Gojo!” — just about having had it with the man.

“Me? Hm, well, I can’t say I don’t plan on it.”

You couldn’t remember when you had dropped your letter, but it certainly still wasn’t in your hands by the time Gojo had kissed you. Rough, raw; Gojo had you backed up against the wall as he ran his hands down the bodice of your gown, his mouth on yours, breaths turning ragged.

You weren’t going to let Gojo get away with anything, but it wasn’t like kissing him was a crime, per se. You were just . . . relieving your temper, for a bit.

“Does this—mmrph—mean I’m off the hook now, my lady?” he murmured, against your lips.

“. . .Not even close.”

“This attitude of yours is seriously getting to be a problem,” said Gojo, between each kiss he gave you. “Oughta loosen up a bit before that scowl turns permanent, darling.”

You kissed him with teeth, your hands giving a purposeful tug to his silver hair after yanking off his cap and bells,⁸ which fell to the cobblestone floor of the pantry with a resounding thud.

⁸ A fool’s cap; the bells were intended for informing people of the jester’s entrance.

“I’d advise you to stop speaking, jester,” you chided, pulling away for a moment’s breath or two. Gojo rested his forehead on yours, looking down at you as you spoke. “—Before you lose your head.”

Gojo scoffed, humoring you. “You love my face too much for that.”

“I love your silence just as much.”

“I would say the same to you, but . . .” Gojo’s voice trailed off as one of his hands wandered down your arm, removing your glove with ease as you shuddered beneath him. “I like hearing your pretty cries, too.”

There was a split-second from between your insults and jabs at the man, to the transition of said-man parting your lips with little to no care, shoving a glove into your mouth as a makeshift gag.

You whimpered and cursed, thrashing around as Gojo held your arms pinned to the wall by your elbows, keeping them lowered; but all your protests came out muffled, and the jester could only laugh at your disposition.

“Mmm, mm—mmph!”

“It won’t be as bad if you stop fighting it, my lady. Have faith in your jester, won’t you?” Gojo looked like a saint as he spoke, but even God knew he was closer to the Devil, himself, than anything.

Using your gown’s girdle belt as bondage for your wrists, Gojo soon had you completely at his mercy.

“Mmph . . . Mmm, mm, mmph—!”

He didn’t listen, didn’t even try to.

Then, the jester did something he had never done before, ever—he knelt down in front of you. On his knees, he looked as handsome as ever, but, you knew, his almost princely smile was only for show.

You squirmed and wriggled around in your restraints and gag, but none of that stopped Gojo from lifting up your gown, throwing a leg of yours over his shoulder as he licked a stripe up your inner thigh. His tongue was warm, wet, and you shivered.

Looking up at your figure from where he knelt, eyes meeting yours from beneath white lashes, Gojo asked, with that unforgettable voice of his, “Scared?”

The front of your gown was totally out of place, lifted and bunched up at your waist, nearly enveloping Gojo as he kissed the skin revealed to him. The jester, ever the playful one, hooked a thumb around the waistband of your panties, before tugging them downwards, cold air hitting the wetness of your core almost immediately.

You blinked. Once, twice, thrice.

“What a pretty sight, huh. Shame I’m the only one who gets to enjoy it.”

Gojo laid a kiss on your clit; you shuddered, twitching, and then he slipped his tongue between your folds, tasting the growing sweetness of your cunt with every second that passed.

If your wrists weren’t restrained behind your back, you would’ve slapped a hand over your mouth, but the glove was working just fine muffling the lewdness of your sounds—thank God, the jester had finally used his intellect for something.

Tongue probing deeper and deeper, lips attached to your clit, sucking, there wasn’t a spot Gojo left unattended to. But, upon your word, since when was his tongue this long!

The whole of it was sensational. You were shaking within twenty seconds of his mouth’s assault, and if you weren’t so out-of-tune from his tongue licking stripes up your cunt, plunging and pumping deep inside of you, sucking on your pussy as your slick dripped and dripped down his chin, perhaps you would have noticed the sharpness of his teeth that just so happened to graze, ever so slightly, at your puffy, swollen lips.

“Still mad at me?” he asked, mouth full of pussy. “Where’d all that attitude go, Miss Untouchable.”

That bastard, you cursed, sliding down the wall as you kicked and cried out, thighs clenching around Gojo’s face as he continued to eat you out with not a care of the world.

You couldn’t count the amount of times you had thrown your head back against the cobblestone wall, muffled mewls and moans leaving your lips from behind the glove shoved in your mouth. Why on earth did this feel so good? you wondered, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“A-Ahh . . . Mm, nngh!”

Your hips bucked forwards, forcing the tip of Gojo’s nose to end up further buried between your folds. You nearly screamed from how cold his skin was; the contrast between it and his tongue was almost unbelievable.

Never had you ever wanted to pull on the jester’s hair more than you did now.

But you couldn’t.

Your lower stomach grew hotter and hotter, and tears pricked at your eyes whilst Gojo’s tongue only dove deeper and deeper. There was a knot forming in your belly, and you squirmed endlessly, spit and saliva and drool soaking the glove stuffed in your mouth without a second thought.

“You want to cum, don’t you?” Gojo’s sea-blue eyes flitted upwards from where he kneeled between your legs, his voice as sensual as ever.

You nodded profusely, eyes blinking back tears as you tugged at your restraints.

Gojo licked a stripe up your clit, laying a kiss at the end of it, and you almost came right then and there, the feel of his tongue simply too much for you to handle any longer, but Gojo’s grip on your thighs tightened, forbidding your release, and you whimpered.

“Only good girls get to cum on my tongue. Have you been a good girl?” he cooed, mockingly. “Nah.”

Your orgasm was so close, yet so far. You pressed your thighs together, seeking any friction to bring you past your high, but Gojo’s hand kept your legs spread, cunt dripping with ache and want.

“Mmmph! Hahh, n-nngh—ahh . . .”

Gojo wasn’t lapping at your cunt anymore. He had completely put his mouth on halt, and was instead using his thumb to apply small amounts of pressure to your clit. Emphasis on “small.” Your lips were puffy and swollen—Gojo could tell it physically hurt you to have your orgasm denied, but he only laughed.

His thumb gave you small slips of bliss, but they were never enough to fully bring you over the edge. It was frustrating enough to be tied up, but to be forbade from cumming? You needed a break.

Your legs were shaking so much you could have been mistaken for an innocent fawn. Gojo continued to thumb at your clit without an ounce of mercy; it drove you insane. And, by insane, I mean, “digging-your-nails-into-your-skin,” insane.

The last straw was when Gojo reached up to remove the glove from your mouth, throwing it onto the floor with a plop! sound. You were so distracted you didn’t even realize you could then speak, but when you did, you didn’t hold back.

“Satoru, I swear, to all things heavenly, I will kill you once I’m out of here.” Your chest heaved as you took in breaths of air, thighs still quivering. “You’ve been nothing but the biggest jerk I have ever fancied.”

“Dunno. Have I? Or, are you just mad I’m finally doing something about your little . . . attitude.”

Slick dripped from Gojo’s chin as he spoke, looking up at you, and you almost forgot why you were mad in the first place.

“Don’t be coy, I know you’re—o-oh! Nngh, mm . . .”

You went cross-eyed when Gojo finally attached his lips to your clit again, sucking at your sweet spots with a newly-founded intent.

Gojo’s tongue plunged into depths deep within your cunt once again, curling and curling, and you could feel the coil in your stomach tighten, ever the more closer to an orgasm. Then, there came the squelching of your cunt, the lewd sounds escaping your lips following suit, and your wetness coating Gojo’s face with a glossy, sheen layer.

You only realized how good of an idea the use of a glove as a makeshift gag was when you finally came on the silver-haired jester’s tongue with a loud cry, back sliding down the cobblestone wall.

“A-Ahh . . . Hahh, ‘Toru—! Nnngh, mm, ahhn . . .”

Tongue lapping at the juices and hot liquid that your cunt weeped, Gojo didn’t let a single drop go to waste as he kept his mouth on your clit all the while. He was indulging all your sweetest, most sensitive spots even after you came—the stimulation soon becoming too much to handle as you grinded against Gojo’s face, riding out your high with heavy sighs and heavy breathing.

You were so sensitive you could’ve cried. Gojo flicked the puffiness of your lips with his tongue, and before you knew it, he was stealing yet another orgasm out of you, only a few minutes after the first one.

“I can’t help myself, beautiful,” he murmured, lips still attached to your clit. “Just tastes so good . . .”

More sucking, kissing, licking; Gojo absolutely ravaged you, as if he were eating a full-course meal after a month-long campaign¹³ with a cavalry—and then came your third orgasm, or, so you assumed; it was . . . different.

¹³ A military operation in the objective of a specific thing, or, in this case, a knights’ operation.

It wasn’t cum, no, it was something more clear, and sheen. The sensation was different, too—you could tell. It ripped obscene vulgarities from your throat. It was . . .

“Well, would you look at that?” Gojo laughed, leaning back to admire his handiwork. “Made my lady squirt. About time, actually. Was beginning to doubt myself for a moment there.”

“Nngh . . . ‘T-Toru—I . . . !”

You had been wriggling for a while, now, and only a few moments after you reached bliss, was when the girdle belt finally fell from your wrists, releasing you from your binds. The sound of it hitting the floor was deafening, and a light bulb finally switched on in your brain—you remembered. You remembered now, and because of that, you needed to leave.

Gojo let the skirt of your gown fall back down as he stood back up, making sure to tuck your dirtied panties into a back pocket of his as he rose to his full height.

“Gonna curse me out now, my lady? Take off my head?” he teased, offering a shit-eating grin.

You patted your gown, smoothing it down in efforts to alleviate your disheveled appearance as much as you could.

“Don’t act smart.”

“You don’t like smart men?”

Since when was his voice this tempting . . .

You avoided his eyes as you spoke, otherwise you would have broken. “I like . . . when you leave me alone.”

And then you hurried away. Out of the pantry, out of the servants’ corridor—you left with wobbly legs, but left, nonetheless. The jester was still standing at the doorway of the pantry when you turned around for a quick glance.

“My lady, you dropped your letter on the floor,” Gojo added, from behind you, calling your name. Damn, he was inviting even if he didn’t mean to be.

Gojo’s voice was loud, and could have, possibly, been heard throughout the servant corridors. But you did not turn back, didn’t even stop to consider the idea. It was nothing, you told yourself, you could just write another letter. Parchment was parchment, after all.

You had already lost a glove, a girdle belt, your panties, and your dignity. Paper? was nothing.

***

In all honesty, you didn’t want to put an end to the affair you and Gojo possessed; you just . . . you were getting married. You were betrothed to a man (a man whom you had never met), and your marriage had already been arranged by the king and his advisors. It would be nothing short of scandalous—not to mention, unchaste. You were committing adultery, after all. 

An affair was one thing, but infidelity?

You had some morals left, at least.

Now, refraining from extramarital activity was hard enough, but avoiding the jester? Nearly impossible.

You refused to look him in the eye after that incident, because of how awkward it was (but mainly because you knew you would fold). You, just, couldn’t bear the thought of some other feeling besides unvirtuous lust rising within yourself—normally, you would’ve labeled your relationship with Gojo as “just for fun,” but now that you were engaged to another man? (And not by choice, nonetheless.) It made you wonder whether you really did think of Gojo without sparks of animosity.

Admitting you . . . loved him? Admitting he paid you more attention than any other man? and, that, you enjoyed his attention? No. Impossible.

He was a jester, after all; he was supposed to give the ladies attention! Or, that’s what you told yourself whenever you began to suspect his love poems weren’t only for entertainment.

You were forced (rather, you forced yourself) to take different routes around the castle if it meant you could avoid Gojo. At supper, you waited for the jester to seat himself before you sat down at whatever chair was farthest from his (you made sure he was unable to kick your feet from beneath the table). And, at times where it seemed impossible to take different routes, you either shut yourself in your bedchambers, or took to reading in hidden nooks inside the library.

On an evening during your second week of your pseudo vow to celibacy, you were outside on your balcony, combing through your hair beneath the moonlight’s gaze.

It was dark out—most nobles had already gone to bed and knights were deployed into hallways to keep watch of the castle, but you enjoyed the quietness that tarried late in the evenings, and didn’t usually slip under the covers until the clocks had struck midnight.

Wind from the East whirled past your face, and, dressed in only a flimsy, light negligee, it was only natural that you shivered. Alongside the company of the moon and wind, there also came the noises of animals, scurrying around underneath the balcony, playing with their mates, snoring; the list went on and on.

All in all, you were never truly alone, even if you felt you were.

The wind howled once more, and you heard the crunching of leaves and another, more distinct, strange noise coming from down below. You didn’t like looking downwards—some could say you had a sort of fear of heights, especially with how high up your balcony was—but, the sounds of tonight seemed to be . . . louder than usual.

Overcome with curiosity, you peered over the balcony railing, with your hairbrush in-hand, to get a good look at what animals were still awake at this time.

You cooed when you saw a pair of rabbits play-fighting, their scuts¹⁴ wagging. “Awh!”

¹⁴ Tails belonging to rabbits.

“Cute, am I right?”

At the sound of someone else’s voice, especially when you should’ve been alone, you immediately dropped your hairbrush, a thud! playing out as the tool landed on the floor of your balcony.

You turned around instinctively, clutching your pearls at the sight of the jester standing only a few paces away, at the opposite end of the balcony. 

Before you put a pause to your little affair, Gojo only ever met you here, on the balcony, if it meant climbing up the vines on the brick walls of the castle, because it would mean hell if anyone caught sight of him slipping through the doors of your bedchambers; and, judging by his disheveled appearance, he had done just that.

“Expecting me, my lady?”

“Goodness! Gojo—Gojo, do you have any idea how late it is?” you exclaimed, a hand over your beating heart as you took several steps closer, standing on your tiptoes as you cradled Gojo’s face in your hands, examining the cuts and scars he had acquired from suffering through the pricking of thorns.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop calling me that?” he quipped, though his tone held no real malice—he looked down at you as you held his face, and appeared almost relieved at the physical contact after two agonizingly long weeks without it.

You looked up, peering into the blue of his eyes. “What . . . in heaven’s name, are you—?”

“Doing here?” He cut you off, finishing your sentence for you as he deadpanned. “I could ask you the same thing. Admit it, you’ve been avoiding me. The past weeks you’ve always been with either the ladies, burying yourself in mountains of books, or . . . or here!—locking yourself up in your bedchambers. I haven’t been able to speak a single word to you.”

“I . . .”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, in a matter-of-fact fashion. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

“. . .”

You didn’t know what to do; the only thing you were certain of, was that you absolutely refused to answer him—at least, not yet. So, you did the one thing you were good at.

Throwing away your pride, (and since Gojo’s face was already in your hands), you stood up on your tiptoes once again and kissed him.

Kissed him like you meant it, like he meant it. Kissed him with however little spirit you had left in you, with however much emotion you held towards that man. You kissed him, earnestly, lips pressing against his in a chaste kiss that, obviously, turned heated only seconds later.

But, in full honesty, with this you finally realized how much you had really missed the jester—not just his kisses, the addictive, sweet taste of his lips, or the way his hands flew down to your hips within moments; but, you missed him. You missed Gojo: Gojo Satoru.

He filled plenty of aches you never knew you had, and, when he kissed you back without even a second’s hesitation, you almost wanted to kill yourself for how stupid you were to have had the audacity to actually deprive this man of the one good thing he loved during his entertaining of the royal court.

“Abstinence,” he asked, looking down at you once you pulled away, “really? That’s what you’re doing to punish me?”

“Gojo, I—Satoru, that’s . . . not what I’m doing. Please, believe me, I’m . . .” Stammering over your words, you blinked several times, refusing eye contact with the man.

Before your hands could drop from his face back down to your sides, Gojo caught your wrists just as they trailed down his chest, holding you closer to himself as he whispered in your ear, nipping playfully at your earlobe.

“You’re, what? Uninterested in jesters all of a sudden? Found a prince for yourself? Celibate, even?” He laughed, albeit the sound of it was nothing but dry. “Now’s a pretty bad time for that, wouldn’t you say so?”

Now was a bad time for that, you thought to yourself.

Biting your lip with your face turned to the side, you swallowed the lump in your throat, resting your palms on Gojo’s chest.

“Satoru, I’m . . . engaged, now. We can’t . . .” You struggled to even utter the syllables of the word ‘engaged.’ “We can’t continue seeing each other without it being wrong.”

Gojo didn’t even look surprised when you revealed your hand was promised to another man. I mean, with the quiet time he had had on his hands as of late, he probably went through a couple of possible explanations for your sudden vow of silence towards anything that had to do with him and himself.

“Will you look at me?” he sighed, tone lowered to a pathetic plea.

“That wouldn’t—wouldn’t change anything,” was what you answered with, turning your head to look up at Gojo’s eyes. It was funny; they seemed to shine less under the moonlight, considering one would ordinarily assume otherwise.

“You seem to not understand me, my lady.” Gojo picked up a lock of your hair, bringing it to his lips to kiss—his white lashes fluttering. “I don’t want you to stand here and tell me you won’t go along with the marriage. I want you to stand here and tell me you will go with marrying another.”

“W-What—?”

“But only whilst you look me in the eyes, my lady.” Gojo let your hair drop from his hand as he moved to hold your cheek, instead. “Look me in the eyes, and tell me you’ll marry him—he, who has won your heart.”

You looked away, your voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t, Satoru.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Because, it would be a lie . . . It’s not he who has won my heart . . .”

“Then, who?”

You turned back, facing Gojo, but you did not answer his question. “Satoru, I’m—I’m afraid.”

“You’re afraid,” he repeated, as if telling you. “You’re afraid because our affair; you and me; us—it’s wrong. Simply wrong, you know that, and, yet, you don’t want it to end, do you?”

Gojo leaned down as he spoke, but when you tried pushing his face away, he barely budged.

“I’m a woman betrothed, Satoru. It’s immoral.”

“My lady, you’re not wrong. You are a woman betrothed, but I am a jester who has fallen for an engaged woman. Have you no pity for me?” The question seemed almost humorous, in a way, but you didn’t laugh.

You shook your head. “None.”

“What do you have for me, then?”

You sighed, giving in to your heart, and your eyes softened as you gazed upwards at the silver-haired jester.

“Must I say it?”

Gojo grinned, the mischief returning to his eyes. “You can show it,” he said.

And then you threw your arms around his neck, pulled him down, and kissed him, until your mind went stupid, insane, absolutely dumb; because that was how it always was with kissing Gojo Satoru—he made you sick for love. He made you ache for it, for him, for anything, at all, that had to do with the certain six-foot-something fool of a man.

That was the night you confessed your requited love towards Gojo for the first time (even if it was nonverbal). That was the night your lover took you on the balcony for the first time—or, well, it wasn’t the first time, but it was the first time you two were, actually, making love—spending a night together; together-together.

That night was a blur.

One moment you two were embracing, reveling in what the both of you had been missing out on for the past fortnight; the next, well, Gojo had you bent over the balcony railing; and, after that, you were being backed up against the doors of your bedroom which led out towards the balcony.

Clothes had already been shed en route—your lame excuse for a nightgown lay shredded on the balcony floor, alongside Gojo’s motley⁴ and his cap and bells,⁸ which were both in a similar, if not equal, state (hey, you could be impatient, too).

⁴ Costume of a jester.

⁸ A fool’s cap; the bells were intended for informing people of the jester’s entrance.

The night was long, but that didn’t mean you stopped before sunrise, no. You two went on even after the break of dawn, and, when you did (eventually) lay down to sleep and awake, you were with sore muscles and a different kind of ache between your legs. But your heart soared, and your head spun—all but for one jester.

You were afraid of love, and you were promised to another man. But Gojo, your Gojo, made it all better; and that was how the two of you came to be lovers.

***

The two of you had already been in a secret relationship together—hell, one could even argue it had never even stopped. But, it was different now that you knew your little affair had developed into something . . . more, per se. It was thrilling, knowing that, even with all the show you two had to put on in front of crowds: arguing, banter, cursing; your nights would all end the same, with Gojo sliding under your covers when it came time to sleep.

However, not everything had changed.

The both of you still rendezvoused in hidden corridors and servant hallways—plenty of times, even. Hiding under oak trees was also still a thing, given the amount of shade and quiet provided.

And, anywho, there were also new additions to the dynamic of your relationship with Gojo. Instances where you two were this close to getting caught in scandalous, compromising situations soon grew . . . quite frequent, really. Gojo liked to hide under the skirts of your gowns whenever someone entered the room you two occupied, and he found it even more fun when it meant he could keep you entertained down there while you spoke with your unwanted company up there.

If it wasn’t becoming apparent, Gojo couldn’t have cared less if someone was in the room—he would’ve kept toying with your clit or reaching knuckles-deep inside of your cunt, anyway.

He also didn’t care much about going out on a limb just for some . . . fun. The two of you played a variety of risky games together, games that could end up with the whole royal court finding out about your affair, but it was fun, nonetheless. Like, trying to find each other within crowds at masquerade balls, for example; it was an event which had all guests covering their faces, so approaching someone by mistake was quite a sight to see. The time of Carnival¹⁵ came with a lot of entertainments, but masks were definitely one of them.

¹⁵ A time of feasting and celebration before Lent.

However, aside from all your risqué escapades, you and Gojo also showed your intimacy in subtle ways. You had never noticed it prior, but even before your affair went into full-bloom, Gojo had made a habit of matching his everyday costumes to your everyday gowns. He matched the color of your fabrics, and, if possible, matched the patterns, too. He did this with every color—every color except for white, because you never wore white.

You had told him once, perhaps during one of those nights the two of you spent watching the stars, that you held a strange sort of detestation towards the color. You didn’t know why, truthfully, you just . . . you weren’t a fan of blank, empty canvases.

Gojo had no problem with that, really. It was much easier to pick colorful flowers than it was to find white ones. Oh, yeah, before I can forget, the jester had a particular pastime of picking you bouquets—only ever the most beautiful and fragrant flowers, of course. 

In his own words, “It would be a crime worthy of punishment to give my lady anything less than the best.” Yeah, he was a dork—a dork who played footsies with you during supper; but he was your dork, nonetheless.

Well, he was, up until the day your arranged marriage was supposed to take place.

Gojo didn’t like talking about it, and for the fortnight that had passed after you both confessed to each other, he had not brought up the subject of it once. Whenever you did, he began to talk of something else. Whenever someone was bringing it up during a public gathering, Gojo would drag you away from the crowd, off to another pantry or library.

It wasn’t Prince Rilian you were marrying: it was actually a lord; still, Gojo hated whichever man it was. 

He liked to say, joking (or not), “It’s a shame he couldn’t find his own woman. Had to arrange a marriage like a pussy. You wouldn’t marry someone like that, would you? A bitch-boy who had no game?” And then he would laugh. “Nah, you’re more into real men.”

You were. He was right. But, who were you, a lady and her lover, otherwise known as the jester of the royal court, to defy the king and his advisors? . . . No one. And that’s exactly why, on the day of your wedding, Gojo had climbed up your balcony just as he had done before, a countless number of times.

Gojo had heard you were taking a few minutes to yourself, alone, on your balcony, before the ceremony; and wasn’t even a second hesitant about trying, attempting, to persuade you into eloping. He was a jester: he was supposed to be irrational, but this was, perhance, his most unbelievable joke yet.

“Well, you’re dressed up today. What’s the occasion?”

Gojo was standing two paces behind from where you stood, hands perched on the balcony’s railing.

You didn’t turn around when you heard the sound of his footsteps approaching, but you were forced to, when he spun you around.

“Please, don’t joke about this,” you pleaded, eyes sorrowful as Gojo held you.

“Oh, trust me. I do not find anything about this funny—especially not the part where you forgot to tell me you were getting married today.”

You turned away from Gojo’s eyes, your veil trailing far behind you. “I can assure you, . . . I didn’t know the date was already officially set until hours ago.” You wanted to whisper, I thought we had more time, but you didn’t.

Gojo stared at you like a child admiring the stars, lifting your veil to examine your painted face—it made him sad, the way he knew how much you hated the color white, and how empty it was, just like your eventual false vows to a man you barely knew. 

Blushing brides were supposed to be blushing, Gojo thought; not on the verge of tears.

“Will you think of me when you stand at that altar?” he began, a silence following before he continued. “Will you wish it were my name you were vowing your life to?”

“G-Gojo,” you stammered, “please—”

“So we’re back to a title basis? I’m just ‘Gojo’ to you, again?”

“I didn’t want this, I . . .”

“I wouldn’t be in the crowds, my lady, if you were wondering. You won’t see my face and you won’t hear my voice objecting.”

“But—”

“But you don’t want to get married,” said Gojo, cutting you off, “I know. So run away. Run away with me.”

“Satoru, I . . . It’s not as easy as you think it is.”

Gojo took your gloved hand in his, and kissed it. He kissed the left hand, on the ring finger. “I don’t think it’s easy. I just think it’s right. Don’t you agree? So, please, my lady, don’t make vows you do not mean.”

Sure, jesters could do many things. Jesters could be many things. But this one—this one just happened to be the love of your life.

© 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐳'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | [☕️] | [ao3]

𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬: 🏐 ; 🍓; 🌻 ; 🐊 ; 🎀 ; 🧶 ; 🐢 ; 🦋; 🩵 ; 🍒; ☆ ; 👛 ; 🦝 ;

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝: 𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭 1𝐬𝐭 2023 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐮𝐩𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝: 9th may 2024 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞 ; 𝐛𝐜

𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰, 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐧𝐢. 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐢𝐨 𝐢'𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞: 💻

𝔯𝔲𝔩𝔢𝔰

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐃𝐒:

𝐨𝐭8

kinktober 2023 (28/31 done)

9mitm (6/8 done)

first time with skz (6/8 done)

𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧

beginnings. -> established relationship

unholy. (+ scb) -> binchan threesome

moonlight. -> established relationship, car sex

virgin!bang chan. -> requested

the innocence is gone. -> virgin!chan, first time

milk and honey. -> bff2l

heaven and back. (+ lf) -> stoner!chanlix, bff2l

thoughts -> 01 , 02 , riding dom!chan ;

small penis humiliation with chan. ;

chan taking care of you when you’re sick. (f)

𝐥𝐞𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰

goodnight. -> established relationship

ikigai. -> husband!au

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐛𝐢𝐧

late night confessions. -> roommates!au, f2l

unholy. (+ bc) -> binchan threesome

how seo changbin saved christmas. -> established relationship

binnie month -> collab to celebrate changbin’s birthday

thoughts: hard -> 01 ; soft -> dad!changbin ;

𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐣𝐢𝐧

dirty little secret. -> established relationship, getting caught

the taste of lust. -> semi-public sex, studio sex

thoughts -> 01 ;

of sunscreen and versace sunglasses. -> bff2l, semi-public sex, getting together

𝐡𝐚𝐧

red-handed. -> fwb, getting caught

high on you. -> w dealer jisung

sub!jisung.

reward. (+ lf) -> throuple

𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐱

bad romance. -> college!au, bad boy felix

blizzard. -> virgin!reader, first time

obsession. -> yandere!felix

reward. (+ hjs) -> throuple

you take a long time to cum. -> new relationship

heaven and back. (+ bc) -> stoner!chanlix, bff2l

it’s a promise.

breeding kink with felix.

𝐬𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐦𝐢𝐧

the one that got away. (coming soon) -> exes2lovers

riding mean dom seungmin. -> requested

𝐢.𝐧.

coming soon…

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

-> 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬! "𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧", 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝.

Fell Sans X Reader: Never Leave on a Bad Note

Warning: short angsty headcannon

-------------

• Pappy and Fell have gotten into a fight

• This is normal but this ones seems to be worse than the others

• Sans stormed off to his room and didn't come out until the afternoon of the next day

• You thought it would be better to let sans cool off

• Sans and pappy get into another fight and sans ended up leaving the house

• He didn't return till the next day

• You tried to confront him about it but he ignored you

• No matter what you did for him, he ignored you

• When you confronted him about this he yelled at you

• Saying you were being nothing but a nuisance

• After that he left the house again, leaving you there shocked

• When sans returned you weren't there

• He thought you were out doing something so he thought nothing of it

• He thought something of it when you didn't return home the next day

• He asked pappy were you went

• He said you left after he yelled at you

• Sans decided to go out and look for you

• He couldn't find you do he went to alphys for help

• Alphys told him you went to Asgore

• That you wanted to break the barrier

• This scared Sans and he telported to the judgement hall

• From there he ran into the throne room

• There was a big door open and it was glowing

• It was the barrier

• When Sans enter through the door he finds you and Asgore

• Well more like Asgore trying to extract your soul so he could combine it with the others

• Sans shouted your name, you turned your head

• You smiled at him, with a tear streaked face

• Your body fell to the ground

• Sans ran up to you, your body was becoming cold, your soul was leaving your body

• Sans asked why, why you did it, all while crying

• You explained how you didn't want to be a nuisance anymore but you wanted your death to have some value

• Sans said you weren't a nuisance, he was just mad

• You smiled at him once more

• Bring your head up you press your lips to his teeth

• Your body falls limp

• That day the barrier was broken

• The monsters were set free

𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 '𝟐𝟒 - 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐬

a/n: welcome to my little reading corner! This post is my love letter to the fics and authors that stole my sleep, left me clutching my heart, or made me shed tears. These are the stories that left their mark on me last year. New or older, re-reads or first times. I hope you’ll find something here that speaks to you as deeply as it did to me. And if you have a recs to share or a favourite trope to gush about, my comment section is always open or jump here to tell me! Let’s keep celebrating the beautiful chaos of what this fandom can bring. Love you fairies. PS: I cannot wait to dive into the projects I have started on my own ♥

𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 @sailoryooons Namjoon x female reader; werewolf au - absolutely astonishing, amazing rendition of the trope, kept me in the world from beginning till the end, an unmissable gem; i've found it difficult to find good namjoon!werewolf content on this app for a long time and this just embodies everything and even more that I was hoping for.

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐛𝐲 @personasintro min yoongi x reader; zombie apocalypse au - I actually revisited this fic and it was just as perfect as when I read it the first time, heck, if I wasn't sucker for Min Yoongi then, this made me crush on that man even more.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐛𝐲 @solecize jungkook x reader; friends to lovers, inspired by stardew valley - beautiful, beautiful and beautiful, cutest fic ever, i was rooting for them so much and I just might go and re-read this now as this was so touching to read.

𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐋 & 𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐛𝐲 @lostberet min yoongi x female reader; racer boyfriend; smut - HOT, HOT, HOT, did I say HOT?

𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐍’ 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐊! 𝐛𝐲 @lovieku fuckboy!jungkook x female reader; fwb - I actually re-read this today, or yesterday, whenever, depends on when I post this, and the way the narrative flows is so captivating, and I love me some miss grande inspired content, naturally fell in love with this fic

𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐲 @hollyhomburg polyamory bts x reader; omegaverse au, mafia au; dom-sub dynamics - like what do you mean that I cannot marry this fic, tsk, i want to, i need to, so many sleepless night because i just wanted know what happens next; to confess, i did avoid this fic, and now i can tell that this is just the kind that you avoid and avoid and then you're completely soft and fluffy for it. such complex themes being incorporated into the narrative in a way that's going to tight your aorta enough for you to cry and cry and then it will release and you'll feel the dopamine and excitement flowing through your body. bravo.

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 & 𝐋𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐲 @ktownshizzle dad yoongi x teacher female reader - when i say that this fic slapped me you won't believe why, but it did. Cutest, emotional, and just so captivating to read. ps: capybara capybara capybara capybara capybaraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

𝐚𝐦𝐲𝐠𝐝𝐚𝐥𝐚 𝐛𝐲 @chaoticpuff17 yandere yoongi x named mc; mafia au - Becca the queen has always a way to characterize the shit out of her yandere male characters and MIN YOONGI is something here! I perceive this masterpiece as a good reinvention of fics with named MCs coz we gradually forgot about that it seems. Becca to the whitehouse pls!

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐛𝐲 @angelicyoongie yandere ot7 x female reader; soulmate au - as someone whose academia expertise became the study of narratology, I propose this to be a new submission to the field because this narrative structure is illegally good. Excellently crafted, scenes are gradually built upon from chapter one till the very end, and the end makes your heartbeat faster and in unison the oc (ain't gonna spoil).

𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐲 @97kuu jungkook x reader; smut, friends to lovers au - car sex became underrated trope and we should all learn and f*cking worship this smut area, pleaaaseee, I love car sex smut, I need to read about it more often and this fic is just chef's kiss.

𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐛𝐲 @hueseok jungkook x reader; inspired by purple hearts - since the movie came out I was waiting who will jump to do a fic with the boys inspired by it and this one did not disappoint. Remarkable, amazing rendition, and I wish I could read it again and again for the first time.

𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐲 @chaoticpuff17 yandere namjoon x female reader; mafia au, forced marriage - words will never be enough to talk about how this fic has my brain occupied for years. it holds a special place in my heart, as this was the first ever bts mafia fic i've ever read. hence, i am doing annual re-read. sometimes even several times a read. covid times were rough and i'm glad we all had something to hold space for at the time. this fic it is for me, a sanctuary, albeit its themes, and subsequently its sequel 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧

until we meet again fairies. love, p.

insecurity pt. IV (final) // bc texts

Title: Insecurity pt IV (final) Genre: fake texts, friends to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort Pairing: idol bsf!Chan x fem!reader

Summary: You've been friends with Chan almost as long as you've been in love with him, and you'd do anything to look out for him. Unfortunately, sometimes his fierce protectiveness over his members leaves you wondering about your place and level of importance in his life.

Warnings: Chan going insane

notes: again, thank you @ramadiiiisme for the lovely brainstorming and ideas for this entire series you're the best <3

SS: 16

(ignore timestamps)

< prev part

a note to all concerned: your dad's gonna be okay don't worry <3

tag list : @amarecerasus @kumariiai @diekleinesuesse @captainchrisstan @0omillo0 @katexstay @younggwingss @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @feetoffthemalfoy @seungminsapuppy @stilldontknowhoiam @hanadulsetaad @idiotmaterial @micr0c0soms @luvv1anime @imeverycliche @luvv1anime @starygw3n @depressedarlling @riri53 @bangchansgirlsblog @skzstannie @sellomaybe @lailac13 @my-neurodivergent-world @4ng3l-ch1ld @ellelabelle @velvetmoonlght @whokno-ows @ravengxbss

Friend-Of-A-Friend ⸺ Chapter Two

author's note ⸺ Hello all! Tysm on all the love and support you've given me on just the teaser!! I have begun the series taglist as well (at end of fic) and if you'd like to be added, please comment so I can add you :) pairing ⸺ Suguru Geto x Reader content ⸺ platonic-bestie!gojo, corporate-worker!reader, slight tension, studying mentioned, modern au, reader uses female pronouns, this is an 18+ series - mdni divider credit: @/toastray ୨୧ art credit: @/juziluohai

previous chapter ୨୧ series masterlist ୨୧ simplygojo masterlist ୨୧ next chapter

Morning meetings were always the worst.

Your eyes flicked between the PowerPoint presentation on your laptop and the clock in the bottom corner of the screen. 10:17 AM. Barely past mid-morning, and already your inbox was overflowing, a steady stream of tasks waiting to be tackled. 

Your manager was droning on about Q2 projections, but you weren’t really listening—your mind was elsewhere.

More specifically, back to Geto’s message.

You had responded, the plans had been loosely set in motion, but ever since then… nothing. 

No follow-up text. No details. No confirmation. It wasn’t like you were expecting Geto to flood your notifications—he didn’t seem like the type—but still, there was an odd weight to the silence. Like something unsaid was hanging in the air, waiting.

Your phone, face down on your desk, was an itch you couldn’t scratch. Every so often, between emails and reports, you found yourself flipping it over, just to check. 

No new messages. No notifications. Just the same boring reality of your corporate grind.

You sighed, refocusing on your laptop screen. 

Work first, overanalyzing later.

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

By the time the workday finally dragged itself to a close, you were exhausted.

The kind of exhaustion that settled behind your eyes, heavy and dull. 

You trudged back to your apartment, shedding your coat as soon as you stepped through the door, kicking off your shoes like they were the final obstacle standing between you and sweet relief.

Your phone buzzed as you collapsed onto the couch. For a fleeting second, your stomach twisted in anticipation—only for it to immediately unravel when you saw the name on the screen.

Gojo.

You exhaled through your nose, a half-smile tugging at your lips as you answered.

“What, do y’have a sixth sense for when I get home?”

“Obviously,” Gojo said, his voice light with amusement. “I told you, I’m always watching.”

“Gross.”

“You’re gross.”

This was routine by now—Gojo calling you at random times throughout the week, sometimes to tell you about his day, sometimes just to be annoying. You never really minded.

“So,” he drawled, “how’s the thrilling life of a corporate drone? Please, tell me in excruciating detail about your latest battle with Excel.”

“Oh, you know, just living the dream,” you said, stretching your legs out. “Emails. Meetings. Staring at spreadsheets until my vision blurs.”

“Riveting.”

“You know it.”

He chuckled. “Well, you got a busy week ahead, or what?”

The question was casual, barely even a thought, but before you could think better of it, you answered honestly.

“Not really. Just work. Oh, uh—actually, I’m meeting up with Geto sometime this week.”

Silence.

“…Gojo?”

A sharp inhale on the other end. Then, suddenly—

“This guy’s working in the shadows.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“Oh my god.” His tone was deadly serious, but you could practically hear the grin behind it. “I had no idea…He’s been playing the long game. Years of silence, and now—bam. He’s got you exactly where he wants you.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“I knew it. I knew he was too smooth, too strategic—”

“Gojo, stop.”

“—waiting, biding his time, and then when I least expect it, he makes his move.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “This is why I don’t tell you things. There are no moves being made.”

Gojo laughed, full and delighted, like this was the funniest thing to happen all week. You could imagine him now—probably stretched out on his couch—taking up too much space, grinning like an idiot.

“In all seriousness, though,” he said, still sounding far too amused, “what’s up with that? Since when do you and Geto make plans?”

You hesitated, your fingers tightening around your phone. “I don’t know. He just texted me out of nowhere. Said he was 'working in my area now' and wanted to catch up.”

A pause. Barely a second, but you caught it.

Then—Gojo sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. “Oof. Wow.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Nah, nothing. It’s just—you ever watch a nature documentary?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“You know, like, those ones where the predator stalks its prey for ages before it finally pounces?”

“…Gojo.”

He let out a long, dramatic sigh. “It’s just crazy. I always thought Geto was a patient guy, but this? This is another level. He’s been lurking in the tall grass for years, and now that the timing is right? Bam. He strikes.”

You groaned. “Oh my god.”

“No, no, I respect it,” he continued, completely ignoring you. “It’s a slow-burn strategy. Like, why rush when you can let the tension marinate, y’know?”

“There’s no tension. Or—ew—marinating. Why are you like this? ”

“Mm.” He made a noncommittal noise. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Because I dunno,” he mused, “feels like a little tension. Maybe a tiny bit. A smidge. A sprinkle.”

“Gojo.”

“There was definitely a little spark back in university,” he said, far too casually.

You scoffed. “Huh? No, there wasn’t. We barely even spoke.”

Gojo let out an incredulous laugh. “Were we even in the same room? You two had vibes.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“I’m an eyewitness, actually,” he corrected, as if that made it any better. “And what I ‘eye-witnessed’ was undeniable tension.”

“You 'eye-witnessed' nothing.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “This is why I don’t tell you things.”

“I think it’s great, honestly,” he continued, undeterred. 

“You guys should totally bond. Maybe do one of those, I dunno, deep and meaningful heart-to-hearts. Oh! Maybe a romantic little dinner. Candlelight. Soft music. He reaches across the table to hold your hand—”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“No, wait! Wait, what are you wearing?”

You froze. “What the fuck?”

“For the meetup, duh.” He sounded way too amused. “Gotta dress for the occasion.”

You groaned so loudly it was nearly a scream, and Gojo lost it, laughing so hard you heard something clatter in the background.

“God, you make this too easy,” he wheezed.

“You’re the worst.”

You were going to regret telling him about this forever.

Before you could dwell on it too much, Gojo spoke again. “Well, I, for one, fully support this development. As long as you keep me updated.”

You snorted. “Yeah, because that’ll happen.”

“Hey! I have a right to know if my best friend is being seduced by my other best friend.”

“No one is being seduced—god are you even capable of shutting your mouth?”

“Just saying,” he said lightly, and you could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “If you show up to our next reunion looking all starry-eyed, I’ll know exactly who to blame.”

You scoffed. “And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll know Suguru’s lost his touch.”

You groaned, pushing your face into a pillow as Gojo laughed through the speaker. He was ridiculous. 

You ended the call with an exasperated sigh, tossing your phone onto the other side of the couch like it had personally wronged you.

Silence settled over your apartment, but your mind was anything but quiet.

Gojo was just messing with you—he always did. But still, his words lingered, replaying in your head like a song you couldn’t shake.

“Feels like a little tension”—“There was definitely a little spark back in university”

Ridiculous.

There was no tension. Not back then. Not now.

…Right?

You scoffed aloud, as if that would somehow erase the warmth you felt spread across your cheeks.

Good thing Gojo hadn’t FaceTimed you—he’d never let you live it down.

The man had a sixth sense for embarrassment, and your flushed face would’ve been prime ammunition.

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

*2 Years Prior: Campus Library — 11:46pm*

The study room was too small for the three of you—Gojo made sure of that. He sprawled in his chair, long limbs kicked out beneath the table, tapping a pencil against his textbook like he was drumming a countdown to his own inevitable failure. 

The midterm was tomorrow, and judging by his groaning, he had barely started reviewing.

"I don't get why we even need to know this crap," Gojo whined, head rolling back against the chair. "I could fail this test and still be smarter than half the students here."

Across from him, Geto turned a page in his notebook, pen gliding smoothly over his notes. "Then fail," he murmured, voice steady, unbothered. "See how that works out for you."

Gojo huffed, but Geto wasn’t paying much attention to him anymore.

His gaze had flickered across the table a few times now, to you.

Your elbow rested against the desk, cheek propped in your palm, eyes flicking between your notes and the thick textbook at your side. The tip of your pen hovered between your lips, an unconscious habit that surfaced whenever you were deep in thought. A line appeared between your brows—concentration. Frustration.

Geto let his pen roll between his fingers, movements slow, measured. 

The numbers on your page hadn’t changed in minutes. His eyes traced the faint tap of your index finger repeatedly tapped your cheek, the subtle way your grip on the pen tightened and loosened, like your thoughts were trying to work themselves out through movement.

He tapped his own pen lightly against the table near your textbook, breaking your trance. "You’re stuck on that problem."

Your head lifted, blinking. "Huh?"

The side of his mouth curled, almost imperceptibly. "You’ve been staring at the same equation for five minutes."

A quiet pause. Then you huffed, setting your pen down and leaning back slightly in your chair. "It's impossible. I’ve tried solving it three different ways, and none of them work."

Geto exhaled, shifting his chair closer. The scrape of wood against tile was barely noticeable beneath Gojo's continued dramatics. "Here. Let me see."

His arm brushed against yours—barely, just enough for him to notice the warmth of your skin through your sleeve. You smelled like warm vanilla and old books, a mix of whatever candle you always burned in your dorm and the ever-present scent of study sessions in the library. 

After a moment, your brows lifted, expectant, seemingly waiting for an explanation.

His gaze flickered to your lips, still caught between your teeth, before dropping to the numbers scrawled across the paper. With a smooth movement, he picked up your pen, turning it between his fingers once before tapping against the right equation. 

“Here,” he murmured, the weight of his voice settling between you. “You skipped a step.”

Your breath hitched—so faint he almost missed it. Almost.

He kept his voice level as he pointed to the equation. "Your mistake is here. You're missing a step between these two lines."

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. "Seriously? Ugh, that’s so stupid. I should’ve caught that."

"You're tired." He said it plainly, matter-of-fact. "That’s all."

Another pause. You tilted your head slightly, watching him  –  Like you wanted to say something.

Then Gojo launched a crumpled paper ball at Geto’s head.

"Hey! If you two are done whispering sweet nothings over math problems, can someone help me before I actually fail this test?"

Gojo’s paper ball bounced off Geto’s head and landed on the desk with an unceremonious plop.

Geto barely reacted, only sighing through his nose like he’d already resigned himself to Gojo’s antics long before this moment. He passed you the highlighter you had been reaching for, his fingers grazing yours—just barely, just long enough that it wasn’t entirely accidental.

You hesitated, lips parting slightly, but whatever thought had been forming was cut short when Gojo's loud voice interrupted you.

"*Phew,* Finally! I was starting to think you two were gonna start privatizing your study notes.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting in your seat. “Have you ever made your own notes? Ever? Once?”

Gojo scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t need to. You are both so lovely I don't need them.”

Shaking your head, you refocused on your notes, tapping your pencil against the paper before absently bringing it between your lips again. It was muscle memory at this point—something you did when you were getting deep in thought, when you were stuck.

Geto noticed immediately.

His gaze flickered down, almost involuntarily, catching on the slight indentation the pencil made against your lower lip. 

For just a second, his fingers stilled where they had been idly rolling his pen, the movement betraying the momentary shift in his focus.

He looked away, back at his own notes—but too late. You had caught the lapse, the flicker of hesitation, and the way his fingers flexed slightly against the spiral binding of his notebook before resuming their casual twirl.

But it appeared as if you hadn’t realized the reason behind his hesitation.

Geto cleared his throat, voice still effortlessly smooth but quieter now. “Fine. Let’s make sure you don’t completely bomb this.”

Gojo immediately perked up. “Thank god. I was losing hope, honestly.”

Neither of you responded.

Geto twirled his pen between his fingers again—slow, thoughtful. His eyes drifted back to you, studying, considering. Then—his voice, quiet yet deliberate—

“You do that a lot y'know”

Your brows knitted slightly. “Do what?”

“The pencil,” he said, tilting his chin toward you. “You chew on it when you’re focused.”

You blinked, seeming caught off guard. 

Gojo snorted. “Wow, Suguru. Riveting observation.”

But Geto wasn’t paying attention to him. His eyes didn’t even flinch—He was still watching you, something unreadable flickering behind his dark eyes, like he was committing the detail to memory.

“Didn’t realize you paid that much attention,” you muttered, sounding unaffected by his gaze.

“Yeah?” His lips curved, the ghost of a smirk. “Guess I just notice things.”

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

Back in the present, you exhaled sharply, shaking off Gojo’s previous teasing as you always did after your phone calls.

Your phone sat beside you, its dark screen reflecting your face—lips pressed together, brows drawn, eyes still distant, lingering somewhere between then and now.

You scoffed under your breath. A little spark? Yeah, okay.

If Gojo had been trying to get under your skin, he’d succeeded. But not in the way he probably thought.

You thought about it some more—what he had said on the phone—there had been no spark—not the way he meant, anyway. 

It was just... familiarity. That quiet, unspoken understanding that came with years of late-night study sessions, shared snacks from vending machines, and the kind of silence that never felt uncomfortable. Geto’s attentiveness and willingness to help was just who he is, it did not mean anything more than that.

If there had ever been anything more, wouldn’t you have noticed?

Your gaze dropped to the phone resting in your lap, thumb grazing the edge of the screen before you realized you had already picked it up. With a quiet sigh, you leaned back against the couch, unlocking it without a second thought.

The message thread with Geto blinked up at you.

His last message was still there. Still waiting. Still unanswered.

"Geto: I know a place. I’ll send you the details later this week."

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating for only a second.

Then, finally—

You: So, when’s this catch-up happening?

The message sent before you could overthink it.

With a yawn, you pushed yourself off the couch, stretching your arms overhead before trudging toward your bedroom. The day had been long, and the weight of it was finally settling over you, making your limbs heavy.

Flicking off the light, you slid under the covers, the warmth of your blankets pulling you in almost instantly. You sank into the mattress, letting out a slow breath as your eyes fluttered shut.

Sleep came quickly, tugging at the edges of your consciousness.

Then—just as you were about to slip under completely—

Your phone buzzed against the nightstand.

Your eyes cracked open, pulse skipping despite yourself.

For a moment, you didn’t move. Didn’t reach for it.

But eventually, you did.

a/n — I hope you guys like this. as always lmk your thoughts <3 taglist ⸺ @killak9mi; @nikilig; @pinkhoneydrop; @armfloaties; @sat-hoe-ru; @you-transfix-me; @kaqua; @rriwyu; @erenspersonalwh0re; @dishs0pe **please note: if your name is striked out, that means I was unable to tag you, please check your settings if you'd like to be tagged**

masterlist

bold is nsfw, scenarios is italicized, normal is head-cannons and sfw. <3 click here for rules.

Heroes/Sidekicks

Aizawa

Chubby Reader HCs 

Mirio

Busty S/O

Slim Thicc S/O HCs

“Tell all those other guys/girls you don’t need them ‘cause you got me.”

Tamaki

coming soon

Yamada “Present Mic” Hizashi

Happy Birthday

Students

Awase

“I think I’ve been holding myself back from falling in love with you all over again.”

Your Saviour

Giving Oral HCs

Bakugou

👑 TEAM BAKUGOU 👑

Bakugou Katsuki A-Z (NSFW)

Bed Rest

Being Called Daddy HCs

Blue Balls

Boasting About Bakugou Over the Phone HCs

Bottom (female) Bottom (male)

Busty S/O HCs

Caught

Consider This Thirst Quenched

Crying Kink HCs

Cuddling w/ Neko!S/O HCs

Wolf!Bakugou HCs (Domestic AU)

Daddy 

Fem!Muslim S/O HCs

Get Groovin’

Giving Oral HCs

Helping Fem!Reader Get With Her Girl Crush HCs

His Little Omega

Hugs From Bakugou

“I’m not Jealous”

Jealousy’s In the Air

Mineta Hitting on S/O HCs

Omega!Bakugou HCs

Sassy S/O HCs

Pups

Receiving Bear Hugs From Reader

Riding Bakugou for the First Time

Scared to Love S/O

“Shit sorry, am I going to fast?”

Show Me

Sleeping w/ S/O HCs

Slim Thicc S/O HCs

Somnophilia HCs

Study Buddies

Squirting for the First Time

There for You, part two

Time to Love, part two

Wipe That Smirk From Your Face

Woke, part two

Iida

Dick Size HCs

Proper Punishment

Thicc Reader HCs

Relationship HCs

Kaibara

Cock Blocked By Pupper Scenario

Sassy S/O HCs

Kaminari

“You saved my nudes?”,  part two

Low Self-Esteem S/O HCs

Warn Me Next Time

Kirishima

Being Called Daddy HCs

Called Red Riot During Sex HCs

Daddy

Dick Size HCs

Hot Days

Kinky Fem!S/O HCs

Kiri Taking Care of Stressed Fem!S/O HCs

Sassy S/O HCs

Low Self-Esteem S/O HCs

“Why do they make this look so easy in all those porn movies?! This hurts like fuck!”

Midoriya

Busty S/O HCs

Dick Size HCs

GG (Villain AU)

Only Because I Love You

Scared to Love S/O

Monoma

We’re In Public

Sen

Cock Blocked By Pupper

Just Checkin’

Mineta Hitting on S/O

You Want to What?

Shindou

Cock Blocked By Pupper

Chubby S/O HCs

Low Self-Esteem S/O HCs

We’re Just Getting Started

Shinsou

Scared to Love S/O

Sit Still

Shiozaki

Is This What You Wanted?

TetsuTetsu

Next Time

Todoroki

Todoroki Shouto A-Z (NSFW)

Caught

Clingy S/O

Dick Size HCs

Fem!Muslim S/O HCs

“Give Me Attention”

Mineta Hitting on S/O HCs

Relationship HCs

Tsubaraba

First Date

Sassy S/O HCs

Villains

Dabi

Consider This Thirst Quenched 

Deepthroating HCs

Dick Size HCs

I’ll Give You Plenty

Somnophilia HCs

Giran

Hero Kink HCs

Relationship HCs

Sugar Daddy HCs

Chisaki “Overhaul” Kai

Dick Size HCs

Relationship HCs

Relationship NSFW HCs 

Get Well Soon, I Guess

Toga

Giving Fem!S/O Oral for the First Time

Secrets

Sleeping Beauty

Bubaigawara “Twice” Jin

See You Again

Shigaraki “Shigaraki Tenko” Tomura

Somnophilia HCs

Civilians

Todoroki Natsuo

Relationship HCs

Vigilantes 

coming soon,,, maybe.

~ Series Masterlist ~

~ Drabble List ~

~ Writing Playlist ~

Beneath His Love | Jungkook Two-Shot AU (Part 2)

pairing: jungkook x reader genre: dark romance, psychological thriller, soft yandere

summary: Jeon Jungkook was once just a foreign high school friend until he disappeared without a word after graduation. Years later, he came back, not just to reconnect, but to claim a place in your life as your lover. To everyone else, your relationship is something out of a fairytale, the kind others envy. And for a while, you believed it too until the mask he wore began to slip, revealing a side of him you never saw coming.

warnings: emotional and psychological manipulation, control and possessiveness, obsession, anxiety and mild distress, isolation and coercion, themes of entrapment, smut wc: 20k

parts: (1) | (2)

Your friends haven't noticed yet because they're facing the other way.

“Y/N,” he calls, his voice cutting through the night.

Your friends turn.

“You weren’t answering your phone again.” His tone is eerily neutral. “We have to go home. Now.”

You step forward instinctively, but Mina blocks you.

“No,” she says firmly. “She’s not going with you.”

Jungkook’s gaze flicks to her, his brow arching, lips pressing into a tight line. He stares at her for a long moment before turning back to you.

“Y/N?”

Henry, oblivious to the growing tension, chimes in. “Man, Y/N might stay the night. Chloe booked a room for us since she’s leaving Monday.”

But you wish he hadn’t said that.

Jungkook shifts his gaze to Henry, his jaw tightening. He doesn’t say anything right away, just studies him.

“Henry, right?” Jungkook’s voice is smooth as he twitch is lips. “I haven’t formally met you. I only ever see you when I’m picking Y/N up.” He tilts his head slightly, eyes locked onto him. “How have you been? Last time I heard a news from you is when you were smuggling cocaine into campus during high school.”

Your stomach drops.

Henry’s eyes widen. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Oh,” Jungkook smirks. “They didn’t know? How is that possible, considering they’re your friends?”

“Jungkook, let’s go.” You reach for him, desperate to diffuse whatever the hell this is.

But Mina steps in again, eyes burning.

“Y/N, you’re staying,” she says. “We already talked about this.”

You ignore Mina and head straight for Jungkook, needing to escape the tension pressing down on you. The longer you stay, the harder it gets to breathe.

Your friends react. Voices overlapping behind you but you don’t look back. Your focus is locked on Jungkook, searching his face, trying to figure out what he’s thinking.

Without hesitation, you reach for his hand, ready to pull him away with you. But before you can, his grip tightens, stopping you in your tracks.

You glance up, and that’s when you see it. He’s smiling.

“It’s okay, love,” he says smoothly, pulling you closer, his eyes flickering toward your friends. “You can stay the night.”

Your stomach twists. “No, we can go now—”

“You can stay,” he repeats, his voice calm, too calm. “It’s Chloe’s last night. I get it now. Go ahead, have fun. I’ll wait for you at home tomorrow.”

“But—”

You hesitate, trying to explain, to tell him there’s no need, that you’ll just leave with him. But before you can get the words out, he cuts you off.

“You will stay.” He said firmly. The smile doesn’t waver, but you know better. You know he doesn’t like this.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.”

He leans in, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. Before you can say anything else, he turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Your friends didn’t like what happened. They didn’t like how the situation turned out. But if they thought they were the only ones pissed about it, they were dead wrong. Because out of everyone who hated what just happened, no one despised it more than you.

Shame burned through you. The way you broke down in front of them, the way Jungkook showed up and, without a second thought, you fell right into line. How easily you let him take control. And worst of all, you ruined Chloe’s night.

Pathetic.

You fucking hated every second of it, and the last thing you wanted was to face them now. If the earth could open up and swallow you whole, you’d gladly let it.

But they didn’t let you go.

They didn’t let you walk away, didn’t let you brush this off and deal with it alone. Were they disappointed? Yeah. But they didn’t leave. They stayed.

And as much as you wanted to leave because of Jungkook, because you knew he wouldn’t like this, you realized something else. Maybe it was a good thing he “let” you stay. Because you needed this. More than you even knew.

You’d been so wrapped up in him, so caught in the push and pull of his world, that you forgot what it felt like to just be with your friends. The people who had always been there, long before he ever stepped into the picture.

It hit you then, how much of yourself you’d been losing. How, somewhere along the way, your world had started revolving around him.

But tonight, even just for a little while, you were free.

The party was still on-going, but your friends were done. Without much debate, they decided to head back to the hotel Chloe had booked. You felt bad and offered to stay, but they weren’t having it. They just wanted to get out of there and honestly, so did you.

You already knew what was coming once you got to the hotel. This wasn’t just about tonight. They wanted to know everything. About Jungkook, about the way your life had changed since you started dating him.

And the moment you started talking, it all clicked.

You knew he was controlling. Deep down, you always knew. But you’d convinced yourself it wasn’t that bad. That it was just love. Just care. But standing here, hearing your own words spill out, you realized how much of yourself you’d let slip through his fingers.

Every choice, big or small, it had all been him. And you? You just went along with it.

Chloe, sitting cross-legged on the bed, hugs a pillow to her chest. Her voice is gentle, but there’s frustration laced in it.

“We get that you love him,” she says, watching you carefully. “But you know you’re being manipulated. So why aren’t you doing anything about it?”

“Because she’s blinded by love, Chloe. That explains everything,” Mina says, taking a swig of the beer they snuck out from the club.

“It’s not just that.” Henry leans forward, grabbing a bottle from the table. “She’s not just ignoring the red flags, she’s doing whatever he wants because she doesn’t want to start a fight. It’s easier to just go along with it than deal with the fallout. It’s not always because she’s blinded by love, but she’s being manipulated.”

Mina shoots him a look. “Wow, you talk like you weren’t smuggling cocaine in high school.”

Henry groans, flipping her off. “For the last time, I was broke, okay? I needed cash, and it was a quick way to make money.”

Mina snorts. “Yeah, yeah. I just can’t believe you were out there selling coke to Jungkook of all people.”

You lean back against the bed, half-listening to them bicker, half-lost in thought. It’s been a while since you’ve hung out like this, probably since before Jungkook.

It’s crazy how much your life has changed since him. The good, the bad… and everything in between.

Chloe, who’s been quiet, finally speaks up. “Babe,” she says gently, turning to you. “I get that you love him. But if being with him is messing with your head, that’s not love. That’s control. And if you keep letting it slide, it’s only gonna get worse.”

She holds your gaze, voice softer now. “Love is supposed to make you happy. Not suffocate you.”

Now that you’re actually aware of what’s going on between you and Jungkook, you have no clue how to deal with it. Do you bring it up? Do you let it slide? Do you even want to address it at all?

Your friends make it sound so simple. Just talk to him, stand your ground, don’t let him control you. Or worse, break up with him. But the moment you even consider doing any of that, your mind shuts down. The thought alone makes you want to retreat. What if it makes things worse? What if he gets distant? What if you regret it?

You’re not the type to challenge Jungkook, not when you know how he reacts. He never outright shuts you down, but his silence, his coldness. It’s enough to make you second-guess yourself. So, most of the time, you just let things slide. It’s easier that way.

Still, a part of you was waiting for him to call or text last night. He didn’t. And now, you’re torn between reaching out first or pretending like it doesn’t bother you. Either way, the weight in your chest hasn’t lifted.

And now, it’s morning. Time to face him. And if you’re being honest, you’re nowhere near ready.

But there’s no avoiding it. No matter how much time you’ve had to think about what to say or how to say it, you’ll never be fully prepared.

Your friends dropped you off at your own apartment, unaware that you had no intention of staying. You didn’t want them to know you were going back to Jungkook. Maybe because you didn’t want to hear their protests. Or maybe because, deep down, you weren’t ready to admit to them or yourself that you still couldn’t walk away.

Stepping inside, you’re greeted by the same apartment, the same furniture, the same neatly arranged belongings. But it doesn’t feel like home anymore. It hasn’t been for a while.

It’s past nine in the morning. You don’t know what time Jungkook expects you back, but you do know he expected you to leave with him last night. That’s enough to make your stomach twist.

You sink into the couch, staring at nothing, lost in the spiral of your own thoughts. Flashes of last night replay in your mind. The way your friends looked at you, their words, their concern. And then, memories of Jungkook resurface the good ones, the ones that make it so damn hard to leave.

The idea of walking away terrifies you.

You love him. More than you probably should. More than what might be good for you. And even if this isn’t sustainable, even if a part of you knows something has to change… you’re not ready.

Not yet.

You lost track of time until his message popped up:

‘I cooked lunch.’

That’s it. No questions, no extra words. Just a statement.

As you walk through the lobby of his apartment building, your pulse quickens, your hands trembling slightly at your sides. You tell yourself to calm down, but the closer you get, the harder it is to breathe. You wish you could put this off a little longer, but you can’t.

Your fingers shake as you punch in his door code. You hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

And then, without thinking, you step inside.

The apartment is filled with natural light, curtains drawn open to welcome the crisp autumn air. It’s colder now, the season shifting.

He’s at his desk in the living room, focused on his laptop. The moment he notices you, his face lights up. He gets up instantly, closing the distance between you in a few strides, wrapping you in a warm hug, pressing soft kisses to your temple.

“You’re finally home. You should eat. I made beer-battered fish.”

His voice is light, casual, like nothing happened last night.

You hesitate for a second before answering. "Okay."

It comes out flat, almost lifeless.

You walk toward the dining table, already set with plates and food, and sit down. You expect him to follow, to sit across from you like usual.

But he doesn’t.

And somehow, that makes you even more nervous.

You’re not hungry. Even if you were, you wouldn’t have the appetite for this. But you force yourself to finish the food he made anyway, each bite sitting heavy in your stomach. It’s not the taste, it’s the way your nerves are twisting into knots, making you feel like you might be sick.

He doesn’t come in while you eat. The silence in the apartment is suffocating, pressing in on you like a weight you can’t shake off.

When you’re done, you get up and head toward the bedroom to change, passing through the living room where he still sits. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t say a word, like you’re not even there.

It’s driving you insane.

A while ago, he seemed fine. Now, he feels like a ticking bomb.

You’d rather he just say something, anything than sit there like this. You know his cold treatment too well; it’s his way of controlling the situation, making you come to him first. But this time, something about it feels different.

You don’t know how. You just know it does.

You’ve already showered, organized your closet, done everything you could think of to keep yourself busy. And yet, the apartment feels empty. Or rather, he feels absent.

Maybe he’s just busy.

But you know better.

Steeling yourself, you step out of the bedroom and head toward the dining area. You don’t even make it halfway before you hear it, his scoff, sharp and pointed.

“So you’re really gonna act like nothing happened, huh?”

There it is.

You turn to see him standing up from his chair, arms crossed, leaning casually against the kitchen’s pass-through window. His expression is unreadable, but his tone drips with sarcasm.

“You’re not even gonna explain last night?” His lips twitch as he watches you, waiting.

You hesitate, then exhale. “Nothing happened. They just wanted me to stay. That’s it.”

You keep it short, simple. The less you say, the better. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

But even now, you can’t believe how hard you’re trying to avoid this.

Jungkook shifts, hands slipping into his pockets as he steps toward you. His face is neutral, unreadable, but his presence alone makes your pulse spike.

When he’s finally in front of you, he leans in just enough, his gaze locked onto yours, dark and unwavering.

Then, in a low whisper, he says—

“Why do you make me feel so stupid?”

“No, I’m not!” you snap, voice shaking with frustration. “That’s really what happened! They found out I wasn’t staying the night because you didn’t let me.” You take a step back, putting distance between you.

His brow arches, his expression unreadable. “So you’re blaming me now?”

“It’s not like that,” you grit out. “I told you I’d come home with you, right? But instead, you made me stay.” Your patience is wearing thin, your hands balling into fists at your sides.

Jungkook scoffs, his jaw tightening. “Because that’s what you wanted to happen.” His voice drop dangerously low. “You didn’t even pick up your fucking phone. You didn’t give a damn that I was losing my mind, calling you hundreds of times, wondering if something happened to you.”

Your breath catches. He’s right. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t because your phone was buried somewhere in your bag. But that doesn’t mean you wanted to ignore him.

Jungkook shakes his head, his gaze piercing through you. “You love doing this, don’t you? Running off, not answering your fucking phone, making me go insane thinking something happened to you.” His voice is like fire, burning through the tension between you.

A sharp pang of guilt twists in your chest. You can’t deny he’s right, but it’s not like you did it on purpose. It was an honest mistake.

“I’m sorry, okay?” you say, exhaling shakily. “I didn’t mean to leave my phone behind. They just—” you pause, searching for the right words, “they cornered me, forced me to stay because they were upset that I kept ditching them.” Your voice softens, hoping to ease the tension. “Of course, I wanted to stay. It’s Chloe’s last night before she leaves.”

But Jungkook doesn’t ease up. If anything, he looks even more pissed. His eyes darken, his lips curling into something bitter.

“Oh, right,” he drawls. “Why don’t you just do what you did before? Go out with them without telling me.”

The accusation hits you like a slap. You blink, momentarily stunned.

He catches it immediately, his smirk sharpening. “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about, Y/N,” he says, voice low and edged with something dangerous. “We both know you do.”

He’s right but it was one time. Just once. And you never did it again.

“And did I ever confront you after you did that?” His voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it. “I didn’t. And now you wanna question why I don’t like you hanging out with them so much?” He lets out a cold laugh, shaking his head. “Because I know you’d pick them over me.”

“What are you saying? That’s not true!” You shake your head, frustration bubbling up as you take a step closer, reaching for him.

But before you can even touch his arm, he moves away. Fast and deliberate.

"You all act like I’m the fucking villain just because I care about you," he spits, his voice shaking with frustration. "But you never question them, do you? You never doubt your precious friends. Henry did illegal shit before, and you didn’t even fucking flinch. I just don’t get it… Why is it so easy for you to doubt me, but you’d defend them in a heartbeat?"

A lump forms in your throat as you watch the single tear slide down his face. Your body instinctively moves, but something inside you hesitates.

And with that, you see yourself all over him.  

"Love, stop—please.” Your hands tremble as they reach for him, but he turns away. “I… I don’t want you to feel that way. I never meant to make you think that.” Your voice breaks, a lump forming in your throat. “You have to believe me.”

You try to reach him hoping he won’t flinch. Your hands find his face, fingers tracing the sharp lines of his jaw as you gently wipe away the tears, your voice softening. “I don’t think you’re wrong. I don’t blame you. Please don’t believe that.”

He stays silent, letting you wipe his tears, his breathing uneven, his jaw tense. His eyes stay downcast, refusing to meet yours. But when he finally looks up, something in them is cold and distant.

His hands come up, gently wrapping around yours as they rest on his cheeks, but instead of leaning into your touch, he slowly peels them away. His warmth disappears as he steps back, putting space between you.

"I think… it’s better if we take a break," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it cuts through the thick air between you.

He holds your gaze for a moment, just long enough for your stomach to sink, for your chest to tighten before he turns on his heel and walks away, leaving you standing there, frozen, the ghost of his touch still lingering on your skin.

You stand there, frozen, the weight of the last five minutes pressing down on you like a tidal wave. It happened too fast, so fast that even now, as the seconds drag on, your mind refuses to catch up.

Where did you go wrong?

All you ever wanted was to be happy, but it feels like happiness always comes at a price. Like the universe waits for you to smile just so it can rip something away. What did you do to deserve this?

Is this love? A love that confines you, that forces you to choose?

Love is supposed to set you free, isn’t it? But instead, you’re trapped, forced to pick between him and your friends, even when you should be able to have both.

He left. No call, no message, no sign of where he is or if he even cares that you’re falling apart.

That day, you cried harder than you ever had before. You wanted it to stop the exhaustion, the ache in your chest, the way your tears wouldn’t stop spilling no matter how much you told yourself to breathe.

Are you really the one at fault? Or are you just trying to convince yourself you are?

Because when you think back, when you trace every argument, every moment that led you here, the path always leads back to you.

Maybe if you had just done what you were supposed to as his girlfriend, this wouldn’t have happened.

Maybe he was only trying to protect you, and you mistook it for control.

Maybe... maybe this is all your fault.

You waited for him that night, but the door never opened.

Alone in his cold, empty apartment, you curled up in bed, the silence pressing down on you like a weight you couldn’t shake. The room felt lifeless without him, just shadows and stale air, a place that wasn’t home without his presence.

When you couldn’t take it anymore, you reached for your phone, fingers trembling as you dialed his number. The ringing felt endless, each unanswered call chipping away at the hope you were holding onto. Message after message went unread, each one met with nothing but silence.

With every call he ignored, your chest grew heavier. With every text he didn’t even bother to open, your tears only fell harder.

Is this what he felt when you didn’t pick up those nights? When your phone sat forgotten in your bag while you laughed with your family and friends, unaware that he was here, alone, drowning in the same silence that’s now swallowing you whole?

The thought broke you.

You sobbed into the pillow, exhaustion creeping in, but no matter how drained you felt, the tears wouldn’t stop.

‘Love, I’m really sorry. I promise to understand you better. Please come back.’

That was the last message you sent before sleep finally took over as your phone slipping from your grasp.

A soft touch brushes your cheek, warm and featherlight. It pulls you from your sleep, but the pounding in your head makes you wish you could slip right back under. Your eyelids feel like they weigh a ton, but when you force them open, the first thing you see is a blurred figure sitting beside you.

Jungkook.

Even though you feel awful, the second you recognize him, you push yourself up, ignoring the ache in your body.

“Kook.” Your voice cracks as tears spill down your cheeks. Without thinking, you throw yourself into his arms, gripping him tightly. “Where have you been? I’m so sorry.” The words tumble out between sobs, raw and desperate.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, he gently pulls away, his expression unreadable as he wipes the tears from your face. His touch is slow, deliberate, his eyes locked onto yours.

You reach up, pressing his hands against your cheeks, needing to feel him, to make sure he’s really here. You have a lot to say, but nothing comes out. His presence alone is overwhelming, so instead, you lean into him again, wrapping your arms around him, seeking comfort in the familiar warmth of his body.

“Did I worry you that much?” His voice is soft, almost teasing, as he pats your back.

You nod, burying your face into his shoulder. “I’m really sorry.” 

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes before leaning in, his lips brushing over yours in a soft, kiss. His kiss is soft at first, teasing, but the second you open up for him, his grip tightens, one hand cupping your face while the other slides down your back, pressing you flush against him. He groans into your mouth, deep and needy.

You could feel the heat radiating off of him and he pressed you back against the bed, his body pinning you in place. Your heart was hammering in your chest, and you couldn't help but arch your head back, giving him even more access to your neck. You let out a small gasp as he began kissing and biting at your collarbone as his mouth continue to explore your body with his mouth. 

His hand slides lower, fingertips grazing the waistband of your shorts, playing with the fabric but not moving further. His lips ghost over yours, teasing, as he watches the way your chest rises and falls beneath him.

Before things could go any further, he pulled away, resting his forehead against yours. You both stayed like that for a moment, caught in the stillness, before you gently guided his body to lie next to you. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close. He let out a soft chuckle, but you weren’t focused on that. Instead, you rested your head on his chest, your fingers finding his, intertwining them tightly as you settled into the comfort of his presence.

And just like that, everything is back to normal. At least on the surface.

You apologized over and over, making sure he knew you never meant to hurt him. You reassured him that he was right, that everything he did was only for your sake. You didn’t push back, and didn’t ask questions. Instead, you accepted the blame like it was yours to carry.

He never said sorry. Not even once. Not even for leaving you alone the entire night.

But you let it slide because, in the end, it was your fault… wasn’t it?

After that, you chose your words carefully, avoiding anything that might set him off again. You never wanted to feel that kind of loneliness again, the kind that settles deep in your bones, creeping through the empty, dark space he left behind.

You had already made him feel that way before. Twice, actually. So who were you to complain?

Yeah, it’s all on me.

You tell yourself that, over and over, until it almost feels true. But somewhere in the back of your mind, a small voice whispers. Is it, though?

Why is it always you taking the blame?

Why does it feel like your feelings don’t matter?

Why is it always you bending, apologizing, making things right?

But before those thoughts can settle, you push them away. It’s easier that way. Easier than starting another fight.

You've come to realize that in this relationship, it's always you who has to bend. And maybe that's fair. After all, every problem you've had somehow traces back to you, doesn’t it?

And just like that, everything is back to normal. Just the way you wanted. You've pushed aside all the doubts, all the nagging thoughts, and focused on the present. You're okay again. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

The next day, you spend the entire day at his place, filing another leave of absence. You would have gone to work, but with his influence in the company, you didn't really have a choice. He wanted you to stay with him, so he made sure of it, calling in on your behalf. It should bother you. It does bother you. But you let it slide. Another argument isn’t worth it.

“Love, I’ve been thinking,” his voice is low, and smooth, as he moves behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. The warmth of his body presses against yours as he pulls you closer. “We haven’t gone on vacation in a while.” His hold tightens slightly as he nuzzles into your neck, his lips nibbling your skin just enough to make you shiver.

You keep your focus on the pan in front of you, stirring the glossy red sauce of the spicy gochujang dish he once taught you to make. 

“And where do you want to go?” you ask, keeping your voice light, as if this is just another conversation. 

“I want to take you to my hometown.” His voice is smooth, as his chin settles on your shoulder. His arms stay firmly wrapped around your waist. “You’ve always wanted to see where I grew up, right?” His breath tickles your skin.

“Lately, things have been… overwhelming,” he continues, his voice softer now. “I think we could use a break. Just the two of us. What do you think?” He tilts his head slightly, eyes watching you closely, waiting.

You don’t hesitate. “Yes, of course. I’d love that.” The words leave your lips before you even process them.

He grins, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “That’s perfect! We’ll leave this Wednesday. Tomorrow, let’s wrap up a few things before we go.” His tone is light and excited.

You froze.

Wednesday? 

You glance at him over your shoulder.

“This Wednesday?” You ask as if you misheard.

He nods, his expression unreadable. “Yeah.” Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Something in his voice shifts ever so slightly as he studies your face. “Why?” He tilts his head, and though his lips curl into a small smile, there’s something else lurking beneath the surface. “You don’t want to go?”

The way he says it, it’s not a question. Not really. It’s a warning. A test.

And you already know the right answer.

“N-no… Of course, I like it. But isn’t this a little… sudden?” You try to sound reasonable, careful not to make it seem like you’re pushing back. “Korea is on the other side of the world, love.”

Jungkook tilts his head, watching you with an unreadable expression before raising a brow. “I don’t see the problem.” His voice is calm and dismissive.

You take a breath. “I have work.”

At that, he smirks, like you just said the funniest thing. “And?” His fingers lazily trace patterns on your arm, his touch light but distracting. “You can file a vacation leave, right? Or…” He pauses, his eyes locking onto yours. “If you still want to work, we can set up a work-from-home arrangement.” He says it so easily. 

His thumb touches your wrist. “You don’t have to worry, love. Even if you resigned tomorrow, you’d still be fine. You have me.” He smiles, pressing a feather-light kiss to your forehead. “I can give you anything you need. Anything you want.”

Your chest tightens, and yet, the words slip from your lips before you can stop them. “Okay.” Because what else are you supposed to say?

“How long are we staying?” You ask, hoping for a solid timeframe, something to hold onto.

Jungkook shrugs, lips curling into a small smile. “I don’t know yet.” His voice is light, almost playful. “But don’t worry, we’ll stay as long as you want.”

Something in your gut tells you the choice isn’t really yours to make.

You’re not expecting anything extraordinary from this trip with Jungkook. To you, it’s just a regular vacation. Your first one together, sure, and your first time traveling so far, but still, just a trip. Something to look forward to, a break from everything.

You tell yourself it’s just that. A getaway.

But what you don’t know is that Jungkook has plans of his own. Plans you wish you had seen coming. Plans that won’t just shift your view of him but will change your life in ways you never imagined.

If only you had realized it sooner, before it slipped beyond your control.

—

Jungkook loves you to the point of obsession. To the point where the thought of losing you tears at him like an ache that never fades. He already has you, but it’s not enough. Not yet. Because if he doesn’t hold on tight, you might slip away.

He tells himself he’s only taking care of you, keeping you safe the way no one else can. But care isn’t enough. He needs all of you. Your body, your mind, and your heart trapped so deeply in him that escape isn’t an option.

You’re fast asleep beside him, your head tilted slightly toward him as the plane hums steadily through the air. Jungkook glances at you, his fingers instinctively adjusting your blanket before brushing away a few stray strands of hair from your face.

His chest tightens just looking at you. His heart beating a little too fast, a little too hard. His fingertips trace the curve of your cheek, lingering for a moment, memorizing the warmth of your skin.

He loves you, so much that it gets under his skin. The thought of you slipping away, of someone else touching you, laughing with you, knowing you the way he does, it makes his blood run hot. It’s possessive, a little unhinged, but he doesn’t care because as long as you're his, everything feels right.

He sat there in the dim glow of the cabin lights, watching you. Just watching. Your head rested against the seat behind him, your slow, steady breaths syncing with the quiet hum of the plane. You looked so peaceful, so his.

Jungkook’s fingers twitched, aching to touch you. Carefully, he reached for your hand, his touch featherlight to avoid waking you. His fingers slipped between yours, securing them. He exhaled slowly, lowering himself beside you, his body finally at ease. With your warmth so close, he allowed his eyes to close.

Seoul welcomed you with open arms.

The city was electric, alive in a way that made your eyes shine. Jungkook had seen Seoul a thousand times, but seeing it through you made it feel new. You marveled at the skyline, the pulse of the streets, the way everything felt both familiar and foreign. He loved that look on your face, pure, unfiltered awe.

He wanted to give you a tour, let you soak in every inch of this place, but exhaustion clung to you after the long flight. He wasn’t about to let you wear yourself out. You had all the time in the world here.

Jungkook’s Seoul penthouse was larger than the one back home. More luxurious. The moment he led you inside, he saw the way your lips parted, your gaze sweeping across the expansive space. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city like a moving painting, streaks of gold and blue reflecting off sleek marble floors. The chandelier overhead cast a warm glow, elegant yet imposing.

Unlike his other penthouse, which leaned toward a more minimalistic style, this one felt fuller, like a place meant to be lived in, not just visited. And now, with you here, it finally felt like home.

Jungkook watched as you moved through the space, your fingertips grazing the polished surfaces, curiosity flickering in your eyes. His stomach tightened. He wanted to freeze this moment, capture the way you looked standing there, fitting so perfectly into his world.

Before he even told you about this trip, he had already made sure everything was perfect. The penthouse, his Seoul home wasn’t just renovated. It was transformed. Every detail was designed to make you feel more at home here than anywhere else. More than the other penthouse. More than the place you called home.

Jungkook didn’t just want you to love this place. He wanted you to feel like you belonged here. That leaving wasn’t even an option.

“Kook, I thought I knew how rich you were, but damn, this is way more than I imagined!” you said, swirling the wine in your glass as you lounged on the couch. The city lights stretched out through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, Seoul alive beneath you.

Jungkook leaned in, taking your free hand in his before pressing a slow kiss to the back of it. But even that wasn’t enough. Sitting beside you wasn’t enough. He wanted more, needed more. Holding your hand was just a weak substitute for what he really craved.

“This is where I lived for six years," he murmured, brushing his lips along your knuckles. “So I wanted it to feel like home.”

Your home.

You tilted your head, watching him with curiosity. “Where are your parents? Do they live separately from you?”

“They’re in Busan,” he answered smoothly, taking a sip of his wine. “That’s my hometown, but I moved here when I started my business.”

You hummed, nodding. Then, the question came.

“Are we going to meet them?”

Jungkook stilled. His lips remained against your skin, but his movements stopped. He tilted his head slightly, a slow grin spreading across his face as he held your gaze.

“Yes,” he said after a moment. “One of these weeks.”

It wasn’t a lie. He had plans for you to meet his family eventually. But not now. Not yet. Right now, he wanted you all to himself, with no distractions, no outside influences. If you met them too soon, they might say things, ask questions, things that could make you think too much.

And he couldn’t have that.

Not when everything was falling into place so perfectly.

His parents were good people. Sweet, jolly, loving. Just like yours. And they loved him, he knew that.

But love didn’t always mean understanding.

Everything changed when they decided to move him away from you after high school. That was their mistake.

His family used to own a food company. It was doing well, until it wasn’t. Bankruptcy hit hard, and they had to pack up and start over in another country, relying on relatives to get back on their feet. Then, years later, some investor showed up, talking big about bringing the company back. His parents ate it up, convinced this was their second chance.

And just like that, they dragged him back to Busan.

For what? A company that was never going to make it? He knew from the start it wouldn’t work, and surprise, surprise. It didn’t.

But that wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst part was being away from you.

That shit messed him up.

The years without you were torture.

They twisted his mind, frayed the edges of his sanity. Every single day without you bothered him, turned his thoughts into something negative, something desperate. He had spent so many nights thinking of you, wanting you, missing you so badly that he almost left everything behind just to find you again.

But, of course, it wasn’t that simple. It wasn’t that easy. He needed a plan.

And now?

Now, everything he had, everything he built, it was all for you.

And he wasn’t going to lose you again.

Your first few days in Seoul were everything you imagined. New places, new experiences, a whole different world to explore. You wanted to do everything at once, squeezing a week’s worth of plans into a single day.

Jungkook found it cute. Exhausting, but cute.

Still, he didn’t like how restless you were. There was no need to rush. You had all the time in the world here with him.

“I saw this huge library in Gangnam,” you said over dinner in Hongdae, eyes practically glowing with excitement. “I think it’d be nice to spend a whole day there, just working and reading. What do you think?”

Jungkook glanced at you, chewing slowly. “You wanna work there for a day, hmm?” His voice was gentle, but his grip on his chopsticks tightened slightly.

He wanted you to enjoy Seoul, but he preferred to pace things out. He had everything planned, not just for the city, but for the rest of South Korea. And you’d explore it all his way.

“Yeah, I just wanna try working outside your apartment for a change. I think that’d be cool,” you said, sipping your drink.

Of course, your job let you work remotely. Because of him.

It wasn’t difficult to pull some strings, to make sure your company gave you that freedom. Jungkook could’ve had you quit altogether if he wanted, but he wasn’t reckless. He knew better than to push too hard, too soon.

He had limits. The kind that kept you from slipping away.

“Okay, you can do that tomorrow.”

As much as he wanted to be with you every second of the day, he couldn’t. He had business to handle too. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t keeping an eye on you.

You weren’t familiar with Seoul yet, and he needed you to be. He wanted you to settle in, to feel at home here the same way you did back in your country because that’s exactly what he planned for. 

Of course, he wasn’t reckless. He wouldn’t just send you off on your own without precautions. He had someone watching, just in case. It wasn’t about control, it was about keeping you safe. People might think he was being overbearing, but they didn’t understand. If you have something precious, you don’t risk losing it. You protect it.

And he already lost you once. That wasn’t happening again.

—

Sitting in a high-rise conference room, discussing market expansion with Seoul’s biggest executives, Jungkook casually checked his phone under the table. His screen lit up with your activity, a habit he never planned to break.

You were at home. That was good. But you’d been on a phone call for almost an hour.

His jaw tightened. Who the hell were you talking to for that long?

He didn’t have full access to your conversations, just enough to know where you were and what you were doing on your phone. Usually, it was nothing out of the ordinary. But this? This was new. And he didn’t like surprises.

Jungkook locked his phone and leaned back in his chair, eyes unreadable as the meeting droned on.

It could be your friends. It could be your family. It could be anyone.

But the fact that he didn’t know was driving him insane.

“We’re positioning ourselves as a premium alternative. Market research shows a gap in high-end offerings for this industry, and we intend to fill that space,” Yoongi, the CEO, said, but Jungkook barely heard him.

His grip tightened on his phone as he stared at your activity log. The timestamp kept ticking up. Forty-five minutes, then fifty, then an hour. Who the hell were you talking to for that long?

Mina? Chloe? Fine. He could tolerate that.

But it could also be Henry.

Fuck him.

Jungkook clenched his jaw. He knew Henry was “just a friend,” but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He didn’t like you talking to any man, let alone being friends with one. If it were up to him, he would’ve cut Henry off years ago.

“Mr. Jeon?”

Jungkook blinked, snapping out of it when he heard his name. He glanced up from his phone, locking the screen before looking at Yoongi.

“Come again?” he asked, voice steady despite the irritation simmering beneath it.

“As I mentioned, we’re positioning ourselves as a high-end alternative. Market research reveals a lack of premium options in this industry, and we plan to capitalize on that opportunity,” yoongi repeated, watching him carefully.

Jungkook exhaled, slipping his phone into his pocket.

“Good,” he said coolly. “But I want clear numbers. Expected ROI, break-even timeline, and contingency plans if the initial launch underperforms. Email them to me by my Monday.”

Yoongi nodded, but Jungkook wasn’t paying attention anymore.

He cut the meeting short without a second thought, pushing back his other appointments. He needed to go home. Now.

The thought of you on the phone for over an hour, laughing, talking, confiding in someone while he was stuck in a boardroom made his blood boil. He couldn’t stand not knowing. He needed to be in control, needed to know every little detail, even the things that weren’t his business. Because when it came to you, everything was his business.

When he stepped into the penthouse, the sight of you greeted him instantly. You were in the receiving area, vacuuming, completely unaware of how restless he’d been.

You’d been here for a week already, and as much as he was letting you do whatever you wanted, he was also watching. Watching what you did, who you talked to, how you spent your time.

“You’re home early. I thought you weren’t coming back until dinner,” you said, smiling as he walked toward you. He pressed a quick kiss against your lips, but his mind was elsewhere.

“Yeah, I am,” he said smoothly, shrugging off his coat. “How are you doing, Y/N?”

You turned off the vacuum, stretching your arms a little. “I’m good. Just cleaning up a bit.”

Jungkook’s eyes flickered around the room until he spotted your phone on the center table.

“What did you do today?” Jungkook asked, watching you closely, waiting, hoping you’d tell him without him having to drag it out of you.

You glanced at him briefly. “Just cleaned up a little and got some work done this morning.”

Not the answer he wanted.

If you were going to tell him about that damn phone call, you would’ve said it by now. But you didn’t.

He couldn’t ask outright, not yet. He knew how easily thoughts could plant themselves in your mind, and he didn’t need you questioning things. He’d find another way to figure it out.

Then you hesitated, inhaling like you had something to say. Your lips parted, but no words came out.

Jungkook leaned against the counter, loosening his tie. “You wanna say something, love?”

You finally spoke. “We’ve been here for a week already, but… we haven’t really done much for a vacation.”

Ah.

You didn’t even need to finish. He already knew where this was going.

“I know you’re really busy with work, but I was just wondering… how long are we planning to stay here?”

Jungkook stared at you for a moment before tilting his head slightly, lips twitching in amusement. “Why? You wanna go home already?”

Your eyes widened, and you shook your head. “Of course not! I was just curious… I mean, we’re here for a vacation, but you work a lot.”

He knew what you meant, but that didn’t mean he liked hearing it.

“Oh? I didn’t realize we weren’t allowed to work during a vacation.” His voice dripped with sarcasm, one brow raised.

“That’s not what I meant,” you huffed. “I just—I was just wondering—”

Jungkook cut you off, nodding as if he was mocking you. “I get it. You want us to go out more instead of me working.”

“N-no, that’s not—”

“It’s okay, Y/N.” His voice was smooth, sharp eyes locked onto you. “I get your point. We’ll do things your way.”

Except you didn’t need to say it. He already knew what was on your mind. But he wasn’t going to let you say it.

True to his word, Jungkook made sure to give you what you wanted.

For the next week, he took you around the city showing you Seoul through his own curated version of it. He noticed the way your mood shifted, heavier than before, and he knew it was because of that conversation.

But he didn’t have to address it.

Because soon enough, you’d forget about it.

Just like right now.

—

You were sipping a hot coffee, eyes locked on the dazzling view from Namsan Tower. The city stretched beneath you, glowing under the deep night sky, and Jungkook knew exactly what you were thinking.

“Wow. Seoul is really beautiful, Kook,” you murmured, your voice full of wonder.

But he wasn’t looking at the view.

He was looking at you.

You were glowing under the soft moonlight, the city lights reflecting in your eyes. He should be admiring the skyline, but you were the only thing worth looking at. He hated how much he loved moments like this, how much he wanted to preserve them.

So, without a word, he pulled his phone from his pocket, aimed the camera at you, and snapped a photo.

You notice Jungkook taking a picture of you, and without hesitation, you step closer, snatching his phone from his hand. A grin spreads across your face as you switch to the front camera.

“Come on, Kook, smile!” you say, glancing at him before snapping a quick selfie. The first shot catches him off guard, his expression unreadable, but you don’t stop there. You take a few more. Three, to be exact until you're satisfied.

Jungook watches you quietly, letting you have your moment.

“Honestly, a picture doesn’t even do justice to how beautiful this city is,” you say, handing his phone back before turning to admire the view again.

His gaze lingers on you for a second longer before he finally looks at the skyline, pretending to take in the same sight you are. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says, voice smooth, controlled.

You glance at him, eyes curious. “Since you’ve lived here most of your life, are you used to seeing this view?”

Jungkook leans against the railing, watching the city lights flicker. “Hmm… I’d say yes, but I still find it beautiful.”

You hum in response, sipping your coffee. “Our city is nice too, but maybe I appreciate this more since it’s my first time here.”

A slow smirk tugs at Jungkook’s lips. Good.

Because you’d be here longer than you expected.

And by the time you realized it… you’d already have fallen in love with it.

You both linger around Namsan Tower a little longer, strolling past the endless sea of love locks. The air is crisp, carrying the quiet hum of the city below. You stop at a small booth selling locks, eyes lighting up as you pick one.

“Kook, let’s do one,” you say, already reaching for a marker. You scribble your initials on the lock, then his, before securing it onto the fence. With a grin, you toss the key away, watching it disappear into the night.

Jungkook watches you, amusement flickering in his eyes. You think this lock is what symbolizes your unbreakable bond? That’s cute. But it’s unnecessary. 

With or without it, you’re his. He’ll make sure of that.

Jungkook slips an arm around your waist, pulling you in as he looks down at the love lock you just attached. “Unbreakable, huh?” he murmurs, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

If only you knew how true that was.

You’ve done almost everything there is to do in Seoul, and he knows you’ve loved every second of it. From the food to the culture, every little thing has captivated you. And watching you take it all in, smiling like this city is your new home, it’s a sight he could never get tired of.

One of the things he’s grown to love about you is how easily pleased you are. The smallest things make you happy, and that makes you easy to care for. Easy to keep close.

Even back in high school, you saw something in him that others didn’t. When people distanced themselves, you stayed. When they looked away, you looked closer. You chose him, even when no one else would.

Maybe it was a pity. Maybe it was something deeper. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that you loved him, and that was enough. Enough for him to hold on, to fight for this, to shape this love into something unshakable. What others thought of him was irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was you, your choices, your opinions. And as long as he could help it, your choices would always align with his. Even if that meant guiding them himself.

He took you around South Korea, but on his terms. It wasn’t the kind of vacation where every day was a new adventure. No, he kept it balanced. Some days for exploring, some for work. That was how it had to be.

You never argued. Never complained. Whether it was because you didn’t mind or because you simply chose not to voice it, he didn’t care. Silence was compliance, and compliance meant control.

And that’s exactly how he wanted it. 

Jungkook followed a step behind you as you traced your fingers along the cold metal railing, your gaze lost in the beauty of Nami Island. The soft autumn breeze played with the hem of your pleated skirt, your oversized knitted sweater draping over your frame in a way that made you look so warm, so delicate. He couldn’t wait to take you home, wrap you up in his arms, and keep you there for as long as he wanted.

You stopped suddenly, turning to him with a soft smile. It was enough to make his heart stutter, but there was something in your eyes. Something distant. He quickened his pace, closing the space between you, and without a word, he took your hand in his, lacing your fingers together as you walked side by side.

“Thank you for bringing me here, Kook,” you said, your voice light but careful.

He glanced at you, studying your expression. You were smiling, but he knew you too well, something was off. 

“It’s a pleasure, love.” He waited, expecting you to say more. But you didn’t.

He hated that.

“How much do you love your stay here?” His tone was casual, but the question wasn’t.

“I really love it here, Jungkook. I really do. Korea is so different from home, but still, I love it here.”

Home.

The word made something dark coil inside him.

He pulled you closer, guiding your head against his chest before pressing a kiss to your forehead. He held you there as you walked together, feeling the warmth of your body against his, the way you fit so perfectly against him. You were his home, his peace. His.

But no matter how tightly he held on, he couldn’t control everything. He could make every decision for you, shape every choice in his favor, but there was one thing he hadn’t accounted for:

The possibility that you might make a choice of your own.

And that was the one thing he wasn’t prepared for.

Jungkook barely had time to remove his coat when he saw the worry in your eyes. You looked like you’d been waiting for him for a while, pacing, rehearsing your words. He already didn’t like where this was going.

“Jungkook,” you started, your voice edged with hesitation. “I just had a meeting with our senior. They need me back for a presentation with new investors and stakeholders. I also have to report to the board—”

He stopped listening. He didn’t need to hear the rest. The way your voice wavered, the way you clutched your hands together, he already knew what you were about to ask.

“Then let someone else handle it.” His tone was clipped, final, like it was the simplest solution in the world.

“I can’t!” Your frustration spilled over, your voice rising slightly. “I’m the Investor Relations Manager. It’s my job, Kook! No one else can do it.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened.

He had already let you keep your job even though he preferred otherwise. It was his choice to allow it. And now, you were asking him to choose again? To let you go back?

“When are we going home?” Your voice softened, practically pleading now. “Kook, they really need me this time.”

He held your gaze for a moment, his expression unreadable, then casually looked away as he removed his coat, his movements slow, deliberate.

“I’m not sure,” he finally said, shaking off invisible creases in the fabric. “I’ll be busy for the next couple of weeks. I have deals to close, business meetings to attend. You know how it is.”

You swallowed hard. “Then can I go home first?”

That made him stop. Completely.

His fingers curled around the fabric of his coat, knuckles whitening as the air between you turned still. His dark eyes lifted to meet yours, and something flickered behind them. Something unreadable yet unmistakably dangerous.

“You’re leaving me?” His voice dripped with sarcasm, but underneath it was something else.

Panic.

You stepped closer, shaking your head quickly. “Kook, I’m not leaving you. I just— I really need to go back. Just for work.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he let out a slow, humorless scoff.

“Wow,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “After everything I’ve done for you, is it that easy for you to leave? Just because they called you? What? Once?”

“That’s not—”

Jungkook’s fingers twitched at his side, his breathing slow, controlled—too controlled. He could feel his patience thinning, unraveling like a loose thread he was trying desperately to keep together.

“They told you before?” His voice was quiet, almost calm, but there was something beneath it. Something sharp. “And you didn’t tell me?”

You flinched slightly. “I didn’t want to ruin your mood,” you admitted.

He let out a slow breath through his nose, jaw locking. “And now you’re blaming me?”

You pressed your lips together, frustration flickering across your face. “No, of course not! I just—I didn’t want to ruin our vacation, Jungkook. That’s why I kept it to myself. But I have to tell you now.”

He scoffed. “And you don’t think telling me now ruins it?”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Well, that’s exactly what you meant, Y/N!” His voice was sharper now.

You blinked at him, startled by the sudden shift. He rarely raised his voice, but when he did, it was like a storm brewing, low, intense, unpredictable.

“I’ve been here, juggling everything. Work, time with you, making sure you have everything you need. And you—” He let out a dry laugh. “The second they call, you’re ready to drop everything. Just like that.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. No words came out.

Jungkook tilted his head, studying you. The way your hands trembled slightly at your sides, the way your throat bobbed as you swallowed back emotions you were trying so hard to hide.

He should feel guilty. He should care.

But he didn’t.

“The worst part?” His voice was softer now, but it was the kind of softness that made the air feel heavy. “You prove to me, over and over again, that I will never be your priority.”

A tear slipped from the corner of your eye, but he didn’t move. Didn’t reach for you.

Let you feel it. Let you sit in it.

Because this wasn’t just about work. This was about control.

And he refused to lose it.

“If you’re so desperate to leave,” he finally said, turning away, his voice cold and detached, “then go.”

He didn’t wait for a response.

Didn’t need to.

Because he already knew that you won’t leave.

He couldn’t understand why you insisted on working. It wasn’t like you had to. He was here, ready to give you everything. Yet, you kept holding on to something so insignificant when he had already built an entire fucking empire for you. Every deal, every dollar, every sacrifice, it was all for you.

When he started making real money, it wasn’t greed that drove him It was you. You were the reason he clawed his way to the top, the reason he burned through sleepless nights, the reason he never let himself fail. He stayed away, kept his distance, let you live your little life because he wanted to come back when he was ready, when he was powerful enough to make sure you could never slip through his fingers again.

The person you knew in high school? He buried him. In his place stands someone unrecognizable, someone untouchable. And yet, no matter how much money, status, or control he has, the thought of you walking away still eats him alive.

So before that can happen, he’s already making sure it won’t. Because what’s the point of having everything if he doesn’t have you?

You’re the only fucking reason he has to live.

Jungkook yanked his phone from his pocket, his fingers moving swiftly as he dialed the CEO of your company. He knew you wouldn’t leave. Not really. You couldn’t. But he wasn’t the type to sit back and hope. He made sure of things. He always did.

“Y/N won’t be coming back,” he said the moment the call connected, his tone cold, final. “Fire her. Tell her she’s being replaced by someone more competent.”

There was no hesitation on the other end. Just immediate agreement. As it should be. The moment the call ended, he exhaled slowly, satisfied.

He worked too hard, built too much, just to have you run back to a life that no longer served his plans. Everything he had, his success, his power, it was all for you. But if your choices didn’t align with his? Then you didn’t need choices at all. He still let you think you had them, of course. As long as they led exactly where he wanted.

And sure enough, he was right. You didn’t leave. Because for what? Work? You didn’t have one anymore.

He watched as you withdrew, as you curled in on yourself, as you let the weight of everything settle in. He didn’t stop you when you pulled away, when you cried, when you let yourself crumble under the reality he created for you. He let you feel the loss, the loneliness. Not because he didn’t care. Of course, he cared. He always cared.

But sometimes, he had to let you break on your own. Because only then would you finally see, he was all you had. Just like you were all he needed.

Of course, he didn’t let you cry alone the whole time. He gave you space just enough to let the weight of everything sink in, to let you feel small, lost. But he was always there, lingering in the background, ready to be the only comfort you had left.

Because he would never leave you to suffer on your own. Not when he was the one who put you in this position in the first place. But you didn’t need to know that.

Now, in the dim glow of the bedroom, he held you close, feeling the way your body trembled against his. His arms were firm around you, securing you exactly where you belonged. Right here, with him. He leaned against the headboard, his fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns on your arm, his presence steady, inescapable.

“I know it hurts now, love,” he murmured, his voice soft, patient, the perfect contrast to the chaos he caused. “But maybe it’s for the best. Maybe this happened for a reason. You’ll be fine… Trust me. As long as you’re with me, you’ll be fine.”

He wiped the tears from your cheeks with gentle fingers, studying your face as if memorizing every vulnerable detail. And you didn’t say a word. You didn’t ask for help, didn’t fight to get your job back, didn’t even question why it all happened so suddenly.

Nothing.

Only quiet sobs escaped your lips.

And that was fine. More than fine.

Because as long as this kept you here, exactly where he wanted you. He could live with that.

You stayed home for the following days. Barely leaving the bedroom. Jungkook let you be, giving you space while he handled business, but that only worked in his favor. You weren’t going anywhere, and he didn’t have to worry too much. Not when he had eyes on you the entire time.

Of course, you didn’t know about the hidden CCTV in the apartment. You didn’t need to.

Most of the time, when he checked the feed, you were either sleeping, mindlessly scrolling on your phone, or watching TV. You looked drained, distant. Maybe even depressed. But he wasn’t too concerned. You’d be fine. You always were.

He also monitored your phone activity. He saw the messages, the way you still kept in touch with your friends and family, updating them on your life. But he noticed how carefully you chose your words, how you left things out.

And that? That satisfied him.

You defended him without being asked, without him even having to plant the idea in your head. You already knew what he wanted. You knew exactly what to say, how to make them believe that everything was fine. That’s how he knew you loved him just as much as he loved you.

You were such a good girl for him. So obedient.

He knew your friends didn’t like him especially Mina. Not that it mattered. If anything, it thrilled him to watch you choose him over them every time. To watch you stand by him, no matter what.

It felt so good.

And he wasn’t going to let you drown in misery forever. No, he made sure of that.

For the past week, he took you out every day. Five-star restaurants, designer boutiques, all your favorite places. He made sure you were surrounded by luxury, by comfort, by him. He wiped away every trace of sadness, covering it up with indulgence, making you forget, if only for a moment what had been taken from you.

But he wasn’t blind. He saw the shift in you. The way your smiles were forced. The way your laughter lacked its usual warmth. The way you were starting to notice.

But he didn’t have to do anything about it.

Not yet.

Because sooner or later, you’d understand. The life he was giving you was far better than the one you had before.

And when that realization finally sank in?

You wouldn’t want to leave.

—

Just like he promised, he was taking you to Busan to meet his family. It felt like a necessary step. An assurance of his love for you. A way to solidify things, to remind you that he was willing to give you everything, even parts of himself he didn’t care for.

He also figured this trip would help. A change of scenery. New faces. Because lately, the only person you had been around was him. Not that he minded, but he didn’t want you to feel isolated. Even if, in reality, that was exactly what was happening.

His relationship with his parents had never been close. Even as a kid, there was always distance. But after they dragged him back to Korea, forcing him away from you, that’s when he truly cut them off.

The only reason he still tolerated them now was simple.

They were the reason he worked so hard. The reason he built everything from the ground up. The reason he clawed his way to the top, just to have you in his arms again.

If not for that, he wouldn’t even spare them a second thought.

"I'm really glad you finally visited us after so many years, son. And you even brought your girlfriend with you," Jungkook’s mother said, her voice warm with nostalgia.

Jungkook barely reacted, keeping his expression smooth as he sliced through his food. You and he sat at the dining table with his parents, the scent of simmered broth and fresh side dishes filling the space. His parents were thrilled, probably thinking this visit meant something.

They had no idea how he really felt. And they didn’t need to.

“What do you do for a living?” His father’s voice cut through the quiet clatter of utensils. The question was aimed at you, and instantly, Jungkook felt your body tense beside him. Your hand, which had been resting lightly on the table, twitched just slightly and he clenched his chopsticks tighter.

Before you could even answer, he spoke for you. “She’s taking a break right now. That’s why we’re here for a long time.” His voice was even, but his grip had turned rigid.

You turned to him, your expression unreadable, but he refused to meet your eyes. Instead, he continued eating, slow and controlled.

“Really? But what did you do before?” His mother chimed in, her curiosity laced with harmless interest.

He wanted to shut this conversation down. Shift it away. Stop them from prying. But he had to play along.

“I was an Investor Relations Manager,” you answered, offering a small, polite smile before turning your focus back to your food.

His father hummed in acknowledgment, then turned to Jungkook. “Investor, huh? As I recall, your business is in the same field, isn’t it?”

Jungkook stabbed his chopsticks into a piece of meat, his jaw tightening.

“You never tell us much about your life. Even your business,” his mother added.

"All we know is you’re making millions and millions every day. If only you invested in your own parents’ business, that would be great.”

Jungkook mentally rolled his eyes, keeping his expression unreadable.

He would never invest in something like that.

And he sure as hell would never invest in the very thing that tore him away from you.

Jungkook could feel your eyes on him, waiting for a response. But he kept his gaze fixed on his food, forcing himself to chew slowly. It wasn’t worth talking about. Not now. Not ever.

Sensing the silence stretching too long, you spoke up instead.

“Actually, Jungkook and I met at work, and before that, the last time we saw each other was in high school. That’s where we really got to know each other.”

His mother giggled, a soft, nostalgic sound. “I still can’t believe you two are high school sweet—”

“Honey, they were only friends in high school!” His father cut in with a laugh.

“Oh, right! But if we hadn’t moved back here, maybe you two would’ve been dating since then!”

Jungkook tightened his grip on his chopsticks. The conversation was light, harmless even. But he wasn’t stupid. He noticed how you shifted in your seat, how your fingers grazed the table absentmindedly like you were holding something back. He could read you too well. He knew there was something you wanted to say but you didn’t.

And he had a feeling he knew exactly what it was.

“If only he had introduced you to us before!” His mother sighed wistfully before turning her gaze to Jungkook. “You know, he was different when he was younger. More… open, I suppose. But ever since we moved back here, he became quiet, distant. We knew he wanted to stay in your country, he even begged us to go back but it wasn’t that simple.”

She looked at him then, a sad, longing expression crossing her face. “We’re proud of the man he’s become, of course. We just wish he could be open with us again. Let us back into his life.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched. The sound of his father’s spoon clinking against his bowl suddenly felt too loud. The warm aroma of the food became nauseating.

This. This right here was why he had kept his distance. Why he loathed them.

Pathetic.

They sat there, spewing bullshit, acting as if they were the victims. Acting as if they deserved his time, his emotions, his fucking pity. They had no idea. They never took responsibility. Instead, they pointed fingers at him, as if it was his fault that everything turned out this way.

But it wasn’t.

It was theirs.

He was already done with this conversation. Done with this entire visit. He needed to get out of here.

With you.

The lunch dragged on longer than Jungkook would have liked. His parents kept the conversation going, moving from small talk to stories about their old business. Their grand rise and inevitable failure. They spoke as if reminiscing about something tragic, but all Jungkook heard was noise.

He barely touched his food, his jaw tightening every time they brought up the past. He masked his irritation well, but the tension in his grip against his chopsticks was telling. He just wanted to leave.

This was exactly why he never wanted to come here. Why he never wanted you to meet them. They talked too much. About things that didn’t matter. About things he never wanted you to hear.

And now, he could already tell. You had questions. You always did when something didn’t add up. And right now, after everything his parents had carelessly spilled, your mind must be full of them.

Of course, you didn’t ask in front of them. You wouldn’t. But he knew you too well.

And he was right.

Because the moment the car was back on the road, heading toward Seoul, your voice broke the silence.

“Your parents are nice.” Your voice was light, but Jungkook could hear the underlying curiosity.

“Uh-huh.” His response was flat, laced with sarcasm.

“They even wanted us to stay. They’re really accommodating, Kook.”

He saw you glance at him from the corner of his eye, but he kept his gaze locked on the road. His grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly.

“I have a meeting first thing in the morning.”

Without warning, he overtook the car in front of him, the sudden movement making you flinch. 

“Sorry, love.” His voice softened, one hand briefly leaving the wheel to rest on your thigh. A gentle caress.

He had spent all his patience back at that house. The last thing he wanted was to talk about his parents again.

“I didn’t know you had an older brother.” Your tone was casual, but there was something beneath it. An unspoken challenge. “It sucks that I only found out now. I just realized… I barely know anything about your past.” You sighed. “I feel bad.”

“That’s why I brought you home to meet them,” he said, hoping it didn’t sound as sarcastic as it felt.

You studied him for a moment, like you were trying to read him. He gave you a small smile, his hand still resting on your thigh, fingers tracing lazy circles. A distraction. A way to keep you comfortable.

Then, you caught him off guard.

“Kook, why didn’t you invest in your parents’ business?”

His grip on the wheel tightened. He didn’t expect that.

You continued before he could answer. “You’re a big-time investor, right? It would help them a lot.”

“It’s not worth investing in. It’s already a failed business.” His tone was neutral, controlled.

“But they loved that business. Losing it broke them. Isn’t there any chance of bringing it back?”

“No.” His voice was sharp, final. “If there was, I wouldn’t hesitate.”

That was a lie. Even if their business was worth saving, he still wouldn’t do it. They didn’t deserve it. They didn’t deserve anything from him.

You looked at him again, hesitant, like you wanted to push further. To unravel the parts of him he kept hidden. But then, you seemed to realize he wasn’t in the mood to talk about it.

So you stayed quiet.

Good.

As much as he wanted to tell you everything, how his parents ruined his life, how they ripped him away from you, he couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk you looking at him differently.

He’d rather keep you in the dark than let you see the parts of him he didn’t want you to understand.

—

It’s been a week since you and Jungkook visited his parents. And two weeks  since you lost your job.

You haven’t told him about it. You haven’t asked about going home either. Not once. And it’s better that way. If you did, he already had an answer prepared, but he preferred that you didn’t ask at all.

You’ve become more obedient, following his lead without hesitation. You don’t ask for anything anymore. You don’t make requests. You just… comply.

It should make him happy. He decides what’s best for you, after all. But he doesn’t want you to turn into a lifeless doll, either. You should still function like a normal girlfriend and hold onto him like you need him.

And you do need him.

Jungkook wants to give you everything, especially now that you’re finally settling into his rhythm. He wonders if you realize how much he adores you like this. Maybe you don’t. Maybe you think this is just another day, another morning, another moment.

But to him, it’s everything.

You’re sleeping beside him, curled up and peaceful, completely unaware of his gaze lingering on you. His love for you grows stronger every day, so intense it nearly overwhelms him. It consumes him.

He rests his head on his arm, watching you, memorizing the way your lashes flutter faintly with every slow breath. His free hand moves on its own, fingers ghosting over your cheek.

His heart pounds in his ears.

The back of his fingers trail down to your lips, tracing the soft curve of them. You don’t even stir. He tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering longer than necessary.

Then, his fingers drift lower, down your arm, feeling the warmth of your skin. So soft. So delicate. His.

He could feel a familiar sensation growing between his legs as he touched your soft skin. He tried to ignore it but failed. The more he touched you, the more he thought about how much he wanted to be with you. He couldn't stop imagining all the ways he wanted to touch you, to be inside you. He felt his self-control slipping away as he placed his thumb finger on your lower lip, imagining how it would feel wrapped around him.

He couldn't help but look at your body, the outline of your breasts visible through your flimsy pajamas.

He have touched you several times but the sensation and feeling of your body was so intoxicating and addicting he couldn't get enough.

Fuck, Y/N.

He can barely keep himself from losing control. He desperately wants to bend you over and taste your lips but he knows that's not what he's supposed to do, so instead he slowly pulled his dick out and began to slowly stroke it while you sleep beside him, teasing himself.

He can’t help it but want to press you against the bed, taking in and enjoying every curve of your body, but he knows he can’t do that. Not now. He takes your hand softly in his, holding it warmly. His other hand slowly teases his dick, imagining how you’d feel under him, as he stares directly at your pretty face, his thoughts filled with nothing but how desperately he wants you, yet he holds himself back.

Damn it, love. 

He gripped himself tightly, his dick throbbing and leaking a small amount of cum that he eagerly spread over himself, slicking his movements as he pumped it harder and harder, his eyes locked onto your peaceful sleeping face, silently begging for you to wake.

His hands, despite his best efforts to keep them still, began to roam down your body, splaying out over your stomach and slowly inching lower until his fingers splayed out over your pussy through the thin fabric of your sleepwear.

He wanted you to wake up as his body already halfway there even without your touch. He hoped your eyes would flutter open and catch him like this, his pants tented, his hips subtly humping the air, his hands twitching with the urge to grope your body again unconsciously.

"Fuck..." he hissed under his breath, losing control as his hand moved faster over his length, the wet sounds filling the room.

"Love..." he moaned your nickname, imagining it was your hand, your mouth, your heat around him rather than his own hands. 

The soft, sensual moan that escaped your lips in your sleep sent electric jolts through him, making his grip on his dick tighten as he continued to stroke himself feverishly. He scooted closer, his fingers teasing your pussy through your clothes, rubbing slow circles over it.

His breath hitched as he felt the dampness seeping through your thin pajama bottoms, signaling your body's unconscious response to his touches. He gently slipped his hand inside, finding your folds slick and warm, a soft whimper escaping his lips at the contact.

As your eyes flutter open, you catch the erotic sight before you. Jungkook was furiously pumping his dick, clear fluid leaking steadily from the tip. The wet, obscene sounds of his strokes filled the air.

“K-kook, what are you doing?” Your voice was low and husky and your arousal was obvious, making him lose control faster.

Without warning, he covered your body with his, capturing your lips in a deep, hungry kiss. His tongue plunged into your mouth, dominating it as his body pressed you into the mattress. His weight pushed your smaller frame down, causing your chest to rise and fall rapidly.

He humped against your center like a wild animal, marking your neck with hot, open-mouthed kisses and sucking hickeys onto your jaw. His lips traveled down your chin, your jawline, your neck, leaving red, passionate marks. He was practically dry humping you, his control shot.

"Love..." He growled softly, hearing your shaky voice. Your arousal made him hungry. He yanked your shirt off, his mouth latching onto your breast without warning. You threw your head back with a loud moan as he sucked hard, his other hand pinching and rolling your nipple.

He could feel your softness against his tongue, the way you filled his mouth perfectly. He sucked harder, his hand squeezing your other breast possessively.

He kissed lower, trailing his lips down your stomach, his hands pulling your pajama bottoms down slowly. He peppered kisses on your pelvis, his hot breath tickling your lower belly. "Lift your hips, Y/N..." He whispered, his voice muffled against your skin.

He spread your thighs wider, diving between them. He flattened his tongue against your entrance, licking upwards to catch your wetness. "Damn," He muttered, watching you toss your head back. He wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking softly while pushing two fingers inside you.

God, you’re so fucking beautiful.

He watches you play with your breasts. Your fingers twisting your hard peaks made him harder. He pushed his fingers deeper, his mouth suctioning around your clit. Your moans grew louder, your back arching off the bed. His free hand spread your thighs wider apart.

Your nails dug deeper into the bed as you neared the edge. He suddenly pulled back, leaving you empty and disappointed. Before you could protest, he pulled his pants down and pressed the tip of his hard dick against your clit. His head rested on top of you, grinding his tip against you.

"K-kook… please?" He smirked wickedly, watching you throw your head back. He ground his tip against your sensitive nub, teasing you. 

He paused his tease and grabbed your face, staring harshly into your eyes. "Remember this...you're mine." He grumbled, crashing his lips against yours. The kiss was desperate and hungry, his tongue dominating yours immediately. He pushed his tip inside you slowly before thrusting hard. “Do you understand that?”

"Do you understand?!” He growled, his deep voice echoing. He thrusts his hips harder, watching your breasts bounce. He repeated himself slower, "Answer the damn question." His fingers dug into your hips painfully. "Use your words,"

"Yes!” You answered with a tear in your eyes as his movement became faster.

"Fuck, Y/N," he panted against your lips, his body shaking when both of you reach orgasm. He remained buried deep inside you, his eyes locked onto yours. "You're mine. Only. Mine." He enunciated each word slowly, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

He leaned down and kissed you deeply, his tongue exploring your mouth. When he broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes filled with love and adoration. “I love you, Y/N. I love you so fucking much it hurts.”

—

You’re such a good girl. So obedient. So perfect for him.

Jungkook always knew you’d get there eventually. You’re adjusting—slowly, but that’s okay. He can be patient. He understands that change takes time.

But he’s not blind. He sees how quiet you’ve become, how your laughter has faded into silence. You talk less, do less. Even when he offers to take you out, most of the time, your refuse. You spend most of your time curled up in bed, staring at your phone or watching TV, lost in some world that isn’t his.

That’s fine. You’ll come around.

He tells himself it’s just part of the process. Your adjustment period. You’re still settling into your new reality, learning to accept that this is your home now.

But even if he understands, that doesn’t mean he likes it.

He misses the way you used to be. The spark in your eyes, the way you used to tease him, the way you’d reach for him without thinking. That version of you is slipping away, fading like a dream upon waking.

Does he regret this? Is he having second thoughts?

Never.

This is only temporary. He knows that if he wavers now, if he lets himself get soft, he’ll never have what he truly wants.

So he won’t.

Instead, he’ll remind you.

He’ll give you all the attention you need, fill every empty space in your mind until there’s no room left for doubt.

“Lately, you’ve been watching a lot of baking videos,” Jungkook muses, his voice casual. It’s a quiet Friday afternoon, and he got home earlier than usual. You’re curled up on the couch, a snack in hand, eyes fixed on the TV.

He moves closer, pressing a lingering kiss to your neck before catching your lips. He feels you relax beneath him, just slightly.

“Nothing really to watch,” you reply, brushing it off.

Jungkook settles beside you, his gaze never leaving you as he reaches for a snack. His fingers trail absentmindedly along your thigh, slow and deliberate.

“I was thinking,” he starts, his tone light, “maybe you’d like to take baking lessons? Learn how to do it yourself.”

“That’s not necessary, Kook,” you say with a small laugh. “I just find it entertaining, that’s all.”

He hums, rubbing slow circles into your skin. “Then do you want to do something? Yoga classes, maybe?”

Silence.

You hold his gaze, but there’s something in your expression that makes his stomach tighten. You hesitate, as if weighing whether to say what’s really on your mind. And suddenly, he regrets even asking.

He should change the subject. He should pull you back into something softer, safer. But before he can, you speak.

“Well, if you have something in—”

“When are we going home?”

His whole body stills.

For a second, he doesn’t move. The words settle between you, heavy and suffocating. He exhales, slow and measured, before finally standing.

“I’m not sure yet,” he says, already walking toward the dining hall. “I told you, I have a lot to handle, love. I’ll let you know when.”

Jungkook doesn’t wait for your response. He turns on his heel, heading toward the dining hall. He pulls the refrigerator open as he grabs a bottle of water, twisting the cap off before pouring himself a glass. The sound of liquid hitting glass fills the silence.

He knows you're there before he even turns around.

Your presence lingers, hesitant but heavy. He takes his time, swallowing the water then he finally turns to face you.

“I miss home, Kook.”

Home. That fucking word again.

Ever since you started mentioning home, Jungkook has felt a slow, burning irritation clawing at him. The word itself is harmless, but coming from your lips, it feels like a blade. You and he have different definitions of home, and every time you say it, it grates against his nerves.

“We’ve been here for three months already, and I really, really miss home.” Your voice wavers, eyes shimmering with unshed tears, and it makes his irritation flare hotter.

“Aren’t we living in the same home either way?” His voice drips with sarcasm, his patience thinning.

“That’s not what I mean. I miss my family, my friends, my country—”

“And you don’t think I feel that too?” He cuts you off, his tone sharper now.

The glass in his hand meets the kitchen island with a dull thud, his fingers tightening around the rim before he releases it. His gaze, dark and unreadable, locks onto yours.

“Do you think I don’t want to go back?” He exhales harshly. “I planned to stay here for a vacation. But I had to handle so many things because, for what? To fucking build the life I want for us!” His voice rises, his frustration cracking through the surface. “I’m not doing this for myself, Y/N. I’m doing this to secure our future.”

Tears finally spill down your cheeks as you look at him, and something about it. The way you’re crying, the way you’re making him feel like the villain making his jaw tighten.

“Tell me,” he steps forward, closing the distance between you, his presence towering over you, “do you really think I’m keeping you here just because I want to?” His voice dips lower, but the intensity in his stare is suffocating.

You shake your head quickly. “Kook, that’s not what I meant!” Your fingers tighten around his, desperate, pleading. “Of course, I appreciate you! I’m sorry if that’s how it sounded, but that’s not what I meant—”

You keep talking, rushing to defend yourself, but Jungkook isn’t listening anymore.

His mind is elsewhere.

Your words dissolve into the background as something deeper stirs inside him. He watches your lips move, watches the way you hold onto him like you’re afraid of slipping away. 

Before you can finish, he pulls his hands away, wiping his own tears like he’s trying to erase the moment entirely.

Then he steps back.

“I think we should give ourselves some space.” His voice is quieter now, but distant, detached. He turns, ready to walk away.

But before he can take another step, you do something that surprises him.

“Jungkook, no!”

Before he can take another step, your arms are around his waist, locking him in place. Your grip is desperate, too tight, too frantic, like you're afraid he'll vanish the second you let go.

“N-no… please, let’s talk about this now! Please don’t leave me again.”

The way your voice breaks sends a thrill through him. You’re crying—really crying—and he didn’t expect it. Not like this.

“Please don’t leave me again! Let’s talk about this now. P-please don’t leave me alone.”

Your hands clutch at his back, fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt like you're trying to anchor yourself. When you pull back to look at him, your face is soaked, lips trembling, eyes blown wide with fear. Fear.

His heart pounds so hard it’s almost painful. A rush of something hot, something intoxicating, swirls inside him. You need him.

You really need him.

“W-we can talk about this now. Just please, don’t leave me alone.”

You bury yourself into him again, squeezing so tightly he almost forgets to breathe.

Jungkook stands frozen, overwhelmed by the moment, his pulse hammering in his ears. His breath comes out unsteady as his lips curl into a slow, hidden smile. He wants to laugh. Fuck, he wants to celebrate.

Because this. This is exactly what he’s been waiting for.

You’re clinging to him. Begging. Terrified at the thought of losing him.

You get it now, don’t you?

After a long pause, he finally moves. His hands glide up your back, soothing, reassuring. He exhales softly, letting just enough warmth seep into his voice.

“Okay, love. We’ll fix this.”

He’s too happy. A little too happy.

Your reaction, it was unexpected, raw, perfect. The way you clung to him, the way your voice cracked, the way you begged, fuck, it’s all replaying in his head like a song on repeat. It was beautiful. You need him just as much as he needs you. You just proved it.

And that means one thing: You’ll never leave. Not really.

You might resist, you might hesitate, but in the end, you break exactly how he wants you to. He doesn’t just control you, your whole existence is wrapped around him now, woven into his life so tightly there’s no escape.

But then, why?

Why did you suddenly bring up home? Why now, after all this time?

His jaw tightens. Something triggered you. Something. Or someone.

He doesn’t need to guess. He already knows.

It’s past 2 AM when he finally moves. The room is quiet, bathed in the soft blue glow of the nightlight. You're asleep, curled up in the king-sized bed, your breathing slow, steady and peaceful. Completely unaware.

Jungkook reaches for your phone on the bedside table, unlocking it effortlessly with his Face ID. He leans back on the couch, screen illuminating his face, and scrolls straight to your messages.

He knows exactly where to look.

And of course, he was right.

His smirk is slow, dangerous, curling at the edges as he reads.

You: I miss you too! I’ll see you soon once I return.

Mina: As you should. I’m so sick of being with Henry all the time! When are you even coming home? You’ve been there since forever.

Chloe: Yeah, Y/N. I thought you’d only be there for a vacation? You never said you’d stay this long.

You: Not sure with Jungkook. He has a lot of business to do as of now.

Henry: Are you even part of his business? Last time I checked, you and he were there for a vacation, not for business. Seriously, Y/N, he’s caging you at this point.

His smirk twitches.

And then, there it is. A missed video call, two fucking hours.

Yesterday. While he was too busy working to notice.

His fingers tighten around the phone. Of course. They filled your head with bullshit. 

How stupid of him to let this slip.

It won’t happen again.

He locks the phone and sets it back on the table, gaze flickering toward you. You’re still fast asleep, unaware that your little secret is no longer a secret.

Jungkook leans back, exhaling through his nose, his mind already working.

He’ll fix this.

He always does.

Jungkook doesn’t waste time.

The moment he discovers what your so-called friends have been whispering in your ear, he takes action.

First thing in the morning, before you even stir awake, he makes a call. The kind of call that isn’t exactly legal. By noon, he’s holding a sleek, black signal jammer in his hands, fresh from the black market. Compact, powerful, and silent.

He won’t resort to something as obvious as taking your phone away. That’s not the game he plays. No, no, no. He wants you to believe you’re still in control. That your world isn’t shrinking. That nothing’s changed.

Because that’s the key, you can’t miss what you don’t realize you’ve lost.

He positions the device in a discreet spot, its range wide enough to swallow every signal in the apartment. But, of course, he’s thought ahead. He installs a high-power signal booster for himself because while your world goes dark, his remains crystal clear. He still needs to monitor things. Track things. Track you.

It doesn’t take long for you to notice. The way your fingers swipe at your screen again and again, waiting for something to load. The way your brows knit together when nothing does. The way you glance around, confused, frustrated.

He sees it all. 

Your world is already shrinking, and you don’t even realize it yet.

Jungkook leans back in his chair, a slow smirk forming.

“Weak signals happen sometimes, love. It’ll come back. Don’t worry.”

He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek before pulling you onto the couch, wrapping you in his arms as the TV played in the background. What else could you do, really? Without a working connection, entertainment options were limited, and he had to pretend he was dealing with the same issue. TV was the perfect distraction. One that kept you close to him.

In a way, he liked this. No phones, no interruptions. Just the two of you, undisturbed. The thought alone made his heart flutter.

The next day, the situation hadn’t changed, and he knew frustration would start creeping in again. So he took you out. All day, keeping you occupied, keeping your mind off things. You didn’t resist. Why would you? There was nothing to do in the apartment without the internet, no one to talk to, nowhere else to turn.

A museum date. He half-expected you to get bored, but to his surprise, you didn’t. You wandered through the exhibits with wide, fascinated eyes, taking in every detail, pointing out the ones you liked best. Jungkook watched you more than the art. Watched the way your lips curved in a smile, the way your fingers traced the air as you spoke. You weren’t hard to please. Anything he laid out in front of you, you embraced, appreciated, accepted.

That was what made it so easy to love you.

And that was what made him tighten his grip.

Because something so easy, so pure, could be taken away in an instant.

He wouldn’t let that happen. Not now. Not ever. You were already his, and keeping you meant protecting you. Even if you didn’t realize it yet.

For the third, fourth, and fifth day, nothing changed. The signal jammer stayed on, and you stayed unaware. He kept you entertained when he was home, making sure there was always something to distract you. Movies, dinner, his arms wrapped around you on the couch. But when he wasn’t around, all you had was the TV.

That was fine. That was good.

Whenever he was out, he tracked your location. He never mentioned it, of course. He played dumb when you casually told him where you went, what you did to pass the time. It made things easier. It reassured him. You were still being good, still keeping him in the loop, still showing him without even realizing it that you loved him. That you weren’t going anywhere.

And that was all he needed.

Because as long as you kept being this obedient, this trusting, you wouldn’t even notice the strings wrapped around you, pulling you exactly where he wanted.

But of course, no matter how much control he had, some things still slipped through the cracks.

He thought he had everything covered. That as long as you stayed close, as long as you kept looking at him the way you always did, nothing would change.

But even the most perfect plans had flaws.

It was a cold Thursday evening when Jungkook stepped out of the shower, steam curling around him as droplets clung to his skin. A towel hung low on his waist, and the heat from the water still lingered on his body, contrasting the chill in the air. He had just returned from a long business meeting. Another deal closed, another win under his belt. You were in the kitchen, insisting on making dinner, and he let you.

As he pulled on his nightwear in the walk-in closet, he instinctively reached for his phone. But his fingers met empty space. His usual spot? Empty. Bedside table? Nothing. Maybe he left it outside? That was unlikely. His phone was always with him.

The frustration simmered. His brows furrowed as he searched every possible surface in the bedroom. It wasn’t there. His chest tightened. And then—

A ringtone.

Not from inside the room. From outside.

His breath caught. His phone wasn’t on silent. You were hearing it.

A sharp pulse of panic shot through him as he shoved the bedroom door open. The sound grew louder, the vibrations almost rattling in his ears, until he saw you.

Standing at the dining table.

Staring at his phone.

A cold sensation crawled up his spine, harsher than the evening air. His fingers twitched. His heart pounded, slamming against his ribs, too fast, too loud.

Without thinking, he strode forward and snatched the phone off the table, immediately declining the call. His grip was tight, white-knuckled. He could feel your eyes on him, could see the way your expression shifted, shock, realization, suspicion.

Then, you moved.

You pulled your phone from your pocket, swiped through the screen, and then your jaw clenched.

Slowly, you looked at him.

Brows furrowed.

And then, without a word, you turned your phone around and showed him the screen.

“How come you can get calls when I can’t even reach you?” Your voice had that sharp edge, like you were daring him to slip up.

Jungkook’s grip on his phone tightened for a second. Just a second before he let out a slow breath. One you wouldn’t even notice.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, meeting your gaze without hesitation. “I’ve had signal since yesterday.”

Your brows furrowed. “What? That doesn’t make sense. I don’t have network service. No internet, either.” You scrolled through your phone, frustration seeping into your voice.

“Maybe it’s your phone. Not the network.”

“Huh? How does that even—”

“I don’t know, love. I’m not a technician.” His tone was casual, a little too nonchalant, as he turned to walk away.

But you weren’t letting it go.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice was sharper now, accusing. “You knew I’ve been complaining about this for days!”

Jungkook exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening, but his voice was still even. “I didn’t notice right away. And I’ve been out, haven’t I? Besides—” He scoffed. “Do you even see me using my phone when I’m home?”

Your frustration boiled over. “Ugh, this is so annoying! What the hell?” You jabbed at your phone aggressively, like pressing harder would somehow force it to work. When it didn’t, you let out a groan, tossing it onto the table with a thud before running a hand through your hair.

Jungkook clenched his teeth, trying to suppress the irritation crawling up his spine. “Y/N, can you calm down? It’s just a phone. We’ll fix it.”

“You don’t get it!” You snapped.

Your voice cracked slightly, your chest rising and falling with every frustrated breath. “That’s my only way to keep in touch with my friends and family while I’m stuck here! It’s the only thing I have to pass the time! I have nothing to do, Jungkook. It’s draining! I feel exhausted just… existing like this!”

His stomach twisted.

Not because of what you said, but because of the way you said it. This was the first time he’d seen you this raw since your last big fight. It was like catching a glimpse of something real. Something he wasn’t supposed to see.

And honestly? He didn’t know how to feel about it.

His fingers curled, nails pressing into his palms, but his face remained unreadable.

“Okay,” he finally muttered. “We’ll get your phone fixed.”

That was all he said before turning on his heel, walking away, leaving you standing there, stunned.

The moment Jungkook stepped into the bedroom, he lost it.

His phone hit the bed with a dull thud, but it wasn’t enough. His hands went straight to his hair, fingers tangling in frustration as he paced back and forth, his mind spiraling.

Anytime now, you could put the pieces together.

Anytime now, you could realize everything.

No. No. No. That cannot fucking happen.

His jaw clenched so tightly it ached, teeth grinding as he tried to force himself to think. He needed a solution. Fast. But every scenario felt like a loose thread, something that could unravel the carefully built illusion he had created around you.

His breath came out sharp and ragged, his chest rising and falling as panic crawled up his spine. His hands curled into fists, nails pressing into his palms.

Calm down. Think.

Would replacing your phone be enough? Could he make it seem like it was just a defective device all along? Should he play dumb, act as if he had no clue what was going on?

Fuck. Think!

He’d always been careful. Always one step ahead. So why was he unraveling now?

Why did this feel different?

He sucked in a slow, shaky breath, trying to steady himself. He was just being paranoid. That’s all this was. He had handled worse. He had controlled worse.

This was just another obstacle.

And like always, he’d find a way to make sure you stayed exactly where you belonged.

But he was wrong.

Because the moment he woke up, you weren’t beside him.

It felt like a bucket of ice had been dumped over him, freezing him in place. His body tensed, fingers gripping the sheets as he blinked, trying to process the empty space next to him.

No. No, no, no.

He had stayed up late, trying to think of a way to fix things. He didn’t even realize he had slept in. And now, you were gone.

His hands were already shaking as he pushed himself out of bed, his heart pounding.

“Y/N?”

The bathroom, empty. The closet, empty. The longer he searched, the faster his panic grew.

He stormed out of the bedroom, checking every corner of the apartment, but you were nowhere to be found. His breathing turned ragged, his vision tunneling. His fingers fumbled as he reached for his phone, opening the tracking app.

There you were. Not far.

A mall.

Fuck.

His jaw clenched so hard it ached. He already knew what you were doing.

His mind raced, self-loathing creeping in. How the fuck did I let this happen? He had been so careful. He had planned everything so perfectly. And yet, somehow, you slipped away.

His grip tightened around his phone as he immediately dialed a number. The person he hired to watch you.

“Find her,” Jungkook ordered, his voice dangerously low. “Now. And tell me exactly what she’s doing.”

Ending the call, he exhaled sharply and let his body drop onto the couch, his knee bouncing as he tried to steady himself.

Calm down.

He had dealt with things like this before. He knew exactly what to do. You were easy to convince, easy to pull back into his world. You always had been.

There was no reason to panic.

Because no matter what, he wouldn’t let this ruin everything.

He had come too far, done too much. What was the point of stopping now?

Minutes later, his phone buzzed. An update.

You had bought a new phone.

Of course, you did. He expected it. He had already planned his reaction, the perfect lie to feed you. He knew how to twist things, how to shape reality into something that made sense to you.

He was ready.

This was just another obstacle, a minor inconvenience. Soon, everything would be back to normal.

Or at least, that was the illusion he forced himself to believe.

Because the moment you walked through that door, his world shattered.

All the confidence, all the carefully built lies, gone.

The second you speak the truth, everything he worked for started to crumble.

You stood in front of him, unmoving, while he lounged back against the couch, arms crossed over his chest. The apartment felt colder than usual, the lack of sunlight casting a dull, gray shadow over everything, including you.

You looked drained.

Dressed in a white knitted sweater under a long black coat, paired with jeans, you slowly unwrapped the scarf from your neck, gripping it tightly in one hand while your other held a paper bag.

He already knew what was inside.

The new phone.

Your eyes locked onto his, unblinking, unwavering. There was an intensity in them that made something deep inside him churn, but he didn’t let it show. Instead, he was the first to break the silence.

“Was it really that hard to wake me up and let me know you were going out?” His voice was laced with sarcasm, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You just couldn’t wait to get your phone fixed, huh? Had to rush out and buy a new one?”

He scoffed, shaking his head.

You didn’t answer.

You just stood there, staring at him with eyes filled with something far worse than anger. Disgust. Your jaw clenched so tightly he swore he could hear your teeth grinding, and then he saw it.

A tear.

His smirk twitched, faltering for just a second.

“What’s with the face, love?” he drawled, tilting his head. “I thought you fixed your little problem?”

His voice dripped with mockery, but something inside him twisted, because he could feel it.

Your tears fell silently at first, but then you inhaled sharply, steadying yourself before speaking.

“My phone was jammed,” you said, voice shaking. “Both my phone and the internet connection were jammed.”

Jungkook felt a flicker of something. Surprise, irritation, but he masked it, tilting his head as if your words were nonsense.

“How would your phone be jammed?” His tone was casual, almost amused, like he was humoring you.

You let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t know. Ask yourself.”

The sharpness in your voice sent a ripple of irritation through him.

“How the fuck is my phone jammed while yours isn’t?” You took a step closer, eyes burning with fury. “Does that make any sense to you? Both my laptop and my phone had no signal the entire fucking week, while you were just fine.”

His jaw tightened.

That bastard. The man he hired had left out important details. He hadn’t reported that you had your phone checked.

Fucking useless.

“What the hell are you talking about?” He scoffed, forcing his voice into something more natural. “I didn’t have service either. You know that. We were both—”

“No!”

The single word sliced through the room, loud and unwavering. It caught him off guard.

“I checked your phone this morning,” you continued, voice shaking with restrained rage. “I checked your laptop, too. And both of them had WiFi.”

His fingers twitched. His mind raced.

“Then that’s not my problem anymore—”

“You don’t get it, do you?”

Your voice dropped to a whisper, slow and deliberate.

Jungkook felt a chill run down his spine.

“Or…” You took another step forward, your eyes locking onto his like you were staring into something dark and rotten. “Is this just what you wanted me to believe?”

Jungkook didn’t say a word at first. He just watched you, his gaze unwavering, calculating.

He couldn’t afford to make a mistake now.

“I can’t believe you’re blaming me for this.” His voice was measured, carefully laced with disbelief, like he was hurt. “Why would I even do that?”

Then, quieter, like he was nursing a wound only he could feel. “Why do you always blame me when things go wrong for you? Even when it’s your own fault?”

You scoffed, tilting your chin up defiantly. “And how exactly is it my fault that my phone was jammed? That’s not something I could have done to myself, intentionally or unintentionally!”

“No, Y/N.” His voice hardened. “I’m not just talking about the jammer. I’m talking about everything, all the accusations, all the times you’ve turned on me, made me the villain in your little stories.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why are you even bringing all that up? We’re talking about the jammer—”

“Because that’s the problem!” His voice rose suddenly, sharp and unwavering. “You always blame me. The moment something inconvenient happens, it’s Jungkook’s fault. Like it’s second nature to you.”

He took a step forward, but you stood your ground. Your eyes locked onto his, unflinching, before you exhaled and turned to leave.

Panic flashed in his chest.

No.

In an instant, he was behind you, gripping your wrist, firm, but not enough to bruise. 

“Are you seriously walking away right now?” His voice was dangerously low, breath uneven. “We’re still talking.”

You yanked your hand free without hesitation. “There’s nothing left to say. This isn’t going anywhere.”

Jungkook clenched his jaw so hard it hurt.

His fingers twitched at his sides, the rage bubbling beneath his skin.

“What?” His voice was strained, barely holding back his temper. “You accuse me of this bullshit, throw it in my face, and then just walk away?”

You took another step toward the door of the bedroom, but this time, you hesitated. Then, slowly, you turned back to face him.

Your expression was unreadable. Empty.

“Yes,” you said, voice hollow. “Because you’ll never admit it. You’ll just twist everything, turn it all around, like you always do.”

Jungkook felt his stomach twist at the way you were looking at him. It was like you were seeing him now, really seeing him.

And then, without another word, you turned your back on him and walked away.

For the first time in a long time, Jungkook didn’t know what to do.

Jungkook felt like his mind was slipping. Too many thoughts, too many emotions crashing over him at once. He couldn’t process what just happened. He needed clarity, needed to understand you. Because suddenly, he couldn't read you anymore.

He hated that.

He stormed into the bedroom without hesitation.

“Why are you doing this to me, huh?” His voice was sharp, cutting through the tense air the moment he stepped inside. “Is this your way of getting back at me? Because I didn’t let you go home when that’s all you’ve been crying about for months? Is that it, Y/N?”

You turned to face him, brows furrowing. “What are you talking about? I never said that!”

“Oh, so you don’t say it, but you show it instead?” His heartbeat pounded against his ribs, his breathing growing heavier. “You think I like watching you change? Seeing you drift further away when all I wanted was for you to wait? You think I enjoy having you next to me when I can tell your mind is somewhere else? That you’re just enduring being with me?” The words poured out of him, unfiltered, his voice trembling with something raw.

“I’m not pulling any act, Jungkook. That’s all in your head.” Your tone was flat, detached.

That only set him off more.

“Oh, fuck it, Y/N! Just tell me the truth—”

“No, you tell me the truth!” You cut him off, voice ringing through the room. “Tell me why you jammed my phone! Tell me why you’re tracking me!”

Jungkook froze. His breath caught in his throat.

His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing, but he said nothing.

You took a step closer, pointing at him with a shaking finger. “You think I didn’t know? There’s a tracking chip inside my phone. And what? You’re going to sit there and twist it around again? Pretend it’s my fault that a tracker magically ended up in my phone? Just like how you jammed my signal?”

Your voice was sharp, relentless.

Jungkook didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He just stood there, staring at you. Eyes dark, jaw clenched, mind racing.

Jungkook watched you with hollow eyes, his mind spiraling as your words cut through him like a blade.

Enough.

You’d had enough of him.

He should’ve seen this coming. The way you looked at him differently, the way you hesitated before answering, the way you started pulling away, piece by piece. But knowing didn’t make it any easier to hear.

“I ignored all the red flags,” you said, voice shaking, tears slipping down your cheeks, but you didn’t wipe them away. “I kept telling myself you were doing it because you loved me. I swallowed every truth right in front of me, thinking it was for my sake. But everyone was right.”

Your lips quivered as you exhaled shakily.

“You’ve been manipulating me. You’ve been making me blind to everything you’ve done.”

Jungkook’s fingers curled into his palms, his nails digging into his skin.

His jaw clenched. His breathing slowed.

“And you know what?” You let out a bitter laugh, eyes glassy. “You are right. This is my fault. Because I let you do it. I let all of this happen.” Your voice cracked, but you kept going, pushing the knife in deeper. “I loved you. I fell so fucking deep that I couldn’t even pull myself back up.”

That’s when he noticed—

You were packing.

You weren’t just throwing words at him, trying to wound him.

You were leaving.

You grabbed your phone, your wallet, a small pouch, only the essentials. Because you weren’t planning to come back.

The thought made his vision blur with rage.

Something inside him snapped.

His breathing turned eerily calm. The thick mask he had been wearing, the patient, loving, understanding Jungkook you thought you knew, shattered in an instant.

"You think you can just leave like that?"

His voice was soft, almost tender. But it sent ice down your spine.

You froze, fingers gripping your bag. When your gaze met his, your whole body tensed.

He took a slow step forward. Then another. But he stopped midway, slipping his hands into his pockets like he had all the time in the world.

"After everything I’ve done for us—" his lips curled into something twisted, "you think I’m going to let you walk away that easily?"

He let out a quiet chuckle. Low. Cold.

Your breath hitched.

And then he saw it—

The way your eyes darted to the door. The way you shifted ever so slightly, like you were ready to bolt.

He tilted his head, gaze darkening.

"Why are you stepping back?" His voice dropped even lower. "Are you scared?"

You didn’t answer.

His smirk widened, his steps slow and deliberate as he closed in on you.

He backed you into the wall, trapping you in place.

"Because you should be."

Jungkook's grip on reality was slipping, but he didn’t care.

He loved you.

Loved you so much that if keeping you meant becoming the villain in your story, then so be it. If he had to be the bad guy to make you stay, he’d do it without hesitation.

His lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.

“Is this what your friends planted in your head?” His voice was calm, too calm. Each word rolled off his tongue deliberately, like he was savoring them. “They’ll say anything, won’t they? Whisper the nastiest things to break us apart because they don’t understand. They don’t matter in this relationship.”

He took a slow step backward.

"That’s why I didn’t want you around them in the first place.” His tone was gentle, almost affectionate, but the weight of his words was suffocating. “The more time you spend with them, the more they poison your thoughts. Filling that pretty little head of yours with lies.”

Jungkook sighed, shaking his head like he was disappointed.

“But you just had to be stubborn. Kept pushing my buttons. And now look where we are.”

His gaze flickered down to your parted lips, to the way your throat bobbed as you swallowed hard. He move closer to you once again and leaned in just enough to catch the way your pupils dilated.

His smirk widened.

“So yes,” he whispered, voice dripping with satisfaction. “This is your fault.”

You flinched.

He saw the way your body trembled, the way your fingers curled into your palms like you were trying to steady yourself. But what made him really grin, what sent a shiver of satisfaction down his spine, was the quick, fleeting glance you threw at the door.

You were considering running.

How cute.

A quiet chuckle left his lips as he watched you inch back, your breathing shallow, your mind scrambling for an escape.

Too bad.

You weren’t going anywhere.

Jungkook tilted his head, watching you with something between amusement and disbelief.

“I can’t believe you’re still thinking of leaving when you have nowhere else to go.” His voice was light, almost teasing, as if the idea of you escaping was a joke.

Then, without warning, he ripped the phone from your hand and tossed it across the room. The sharp crack echoed as it shattered against the floor.

Your breath hitched. “Jungkook, please. You’re scaring me.”

But he wasn’t listening.

He grabbed your laptop from the coffee table, eyes dark with something unhinged, and in one swift motion, hurled it against the wall. The device split in two on impact.

You screamed.

Your breath hitched as you stared at the shattered remnants of your phone and laptop. The metallic clatter of destruction echoed in the room, but it was the eerie silence that followed that made your blood run cold. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The only sound was the erratic pounding of your heart.

Jungkook exhaled slowly, his eyes locked onto yours with a satisfaction that made your stomach twist. 

It was done.

There was no turning back now.

His fingers twitched at his sides before he took a step forward, closing the distance between you two. You flinched, instinctively stepping back until your legs hit the edge of the bed.

“You don’t need them anymore,” Jungkook murmured, voice dangerously soft. “I’m all you need.”

You shook your head, your voice barely a whisper. “Y-you… you didn’t have to do that.”

He tilted his head, watching you, drinking in your helplessness like it was a drug. “I did,” he said simply as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Now, there’s nothing left to come between us.”

You wanted to scream, to fight, but the weight of his words pressed down on you like an immovable force. There was no way out. No reaching for help. He had stripped you of everything, piece by piece until all that remained was him.

Jungkook reached out, his fingers grazing your cheek, a mockery of affection in the way he cradled your face. “You’re mine,” he whispered, the words sinking deep into your skin, your bones. His grip tightened just enough to make your breath hitch. “Say it.”

You trembled, lips parting, but no words came. A flicker of something dark passed through his eyes before he crushed his mouth against yours.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was raw and possessive, his lips crashing against yours with bruising force. You struggled, hands pushing against his chest, but he was stronger.

“J-Jungkook, no—”

“You’re mine, Y/N.” His breath was hot against your lips, his grip unrelenting. “You’re fucking mine, and no one will ever have you but me.”

His mouth trailed down to your neck, teeth grazing over your skin before he sucked harshly, marking you like a brand.

You fought. You squirmed. But he didn’t care.

Because in that moment, the last of his carefully crafted mask shattered.

This was him. The real him.

And now, you finally saw it.

You had seen glimpses before, but you ignored them, forced yourself to believe they were nothing. That he was nothing more than a man who loved too much.

You were wrong.

You had unknowingly created a monster. A monster that could no longer be controlled.

And now, it was too late.

Because every path that once led to freedom was gone, every exit sealed shut.

And you were trapped.

Trapped in the darkness with him.

As he pulled away, he wiped a stray tear from your face, his smile almost gentle. “That’s my good girl.”

The finality in his voice made your stomach drop. There was no escaping him.

Not now. Not ever.

-end-

I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I enjoy writing it! This was supposed to be a one-shot, but when I started writing, it turned into a two-shot lmao. And just when I was about to finish it, I thought about making it a three-shot, but then I realized it wasn't really necessary hahaha

If you have any comments or suggestions to help improve my writing, please don't hesitate to let me know. Thank you!

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Undone

Notes: I can't even wrap my head around it—1,000 people following this account? It's honestly surreal. Thank you so, so much, for sticking around and supporting me and my writing, especially when I went away for a bit. I’ve got something a little different for you guys as a thank-you gift. @furioussheepluminary's Ghost Protocol has been taking over my brain the past few days (I highly recommend it, by the way), so... here’s something inspired by it. I hope you enjoy it <3

Content Warnings: This story contains explicit sexual content and language, including graphic sex scenes, intense power dynamics, and dominant-submissive interactions. Themes of manipulation, possessiveness, vulnerability, emotional intensity, physical and psychological control, and possible trauma are explored. The reader is described as AFAB, and Chan is... a bit mean on this, be cautious.

[7.7k words]

──────────────────────────────────────────── The door slams shut behind him with a force that rattles the room, the heavy lock sliding into place with an unmistakable finality. There’s no sound, no words, only the oppressive stillness that fills the space between you. His presence is overwhelming, suffocating, and it crushes the air in your lungs as he steps into the room, his every movement deliberate and sharp. The tension is palpable, humming between you two like a live wire, stretching thinner by the second, and you know, you know exactly why he’s like this. The mission was too close, the danger too real, and the bullet—the bullet—it had come too damn close to taking you from him. You barely escaped with your life, and he’s been holding onto that fear, that cold terror, ever since and you can feel it in the way he looks at you now, eyes dark with something you can’t quite name.

His breath is uneven, and it stings with the weight of everything unsaid, but you don’t need him to say it. You feel it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his muscles coil beneath the fabric of his clothes, he’s holding himself back, just barely, and the control he’s exerting is becoming a dangerous thing.

Sit down. His voice is low, rough, stripped of the softness you once relied on. It’s a command, not a request, and something inside you flares—anger, defiance—mixed with something darker, something deeper that you won’t admit to yourself. You hesitate, just a beat too long, as your body betrays you, and it’s enough to make him take that final step forward, closing the space between you with a dangerous grace. His gaze locks onto yours, unwavering and cold, and the air seems to crackle with something raw. The authority in his eyes is so sharp that it cuts through any resistance you might have left. I said—sit.

It’s a warning, a low growl that threatens to break you if you test him. His hand moves toward you, and the sheer weight of his presence makes your heart stutter in your chest, his fingers brush against your arm, the touch rough and hard, and it sends a shiver down your spine—not from cold, but from something else entirely. Without a word, you sink into the worn chair behind you, your muscles stiff as you do. You’re not used to this, him like this, but there’s a certain clarity in the way he moves, a certainty that presses down on you like a vice. You can’t fight it, not when he’s like this. And the look in his eyes, cold and unforgiving, tells you that he’s done pretending.

His hands are on you before you can even react. He’s too fast, too precise as he grabs your jacket, tugging it off your shoulders with a savage kind of efficiency, the roughness of the movement sending a jolt through your body. The fabric falls to the ground, leaving your chest bare beneath your tactical vest. And that’s when you feel it, the rawness of the situation, the weight of it all crashing down around you.

You should’ve followed the plan, he mutters, the words laced with a fury that feels like it’s been building since the moment that bullet nearly tore you apart. His hands move to your vest, working quickly to loosen the straps, his fingers brushing against your skin with an intensity that borders on brutal. Every touch is sharp, calculated, like he’s stripping away not just your gear, but every last trace of control you thought you had and you open your mouth to argue—to remind him that you’ve always had this handled—but the words die on your tongue before they can escape. He’s already yanked the vest off, tossing it aside like it’s nothing, his gaze never leaving yours.

You think you’re untouchable? His voice is harder now, cutting through the thick tension in the room like a blade. He kneels in front of you, his body close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, a constant, burning reminder of just how little space you have to breathe, his hands trail down your leg, stopping at the holster strapped to your thigh. The motion is fluid, almost too smooth, but it carries with it a force that makes your chest tighten.

You think you can take risks like that and walk away?, his fingers close around the clip of your holster, unbuckling it with a practiced ease that feels too personal, too intimate for a moment like this. He slides the holster off your leg, his gaze never leaving yours, and you feel the full weight of his eyes on you, weighing you, measuring you, studying you like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to solve. You could’ve gotten yourself killed, he adds, his voice barely more than a whisper. It’s quiet, so quiet that it makes your skin crawl.

I handled it, you snap, but even you can hear the way your voice trembles. It’s not as confident as you want it to be. It’s not as strong as you need it to be. He doesn’t respond with words, he responds with force, his hand shoots up, snapping to your jaw with a speed that leaves you no time to brace for it. The pressure isn’t painful, not quite, but it’s enough to make you freeze, enough to remind you just how fragile the illusion of control really is. He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes, and the moment you do, the anger, the frustration, the fear, they all hit you like a wave.

You don’t ‘handle’ anything without me, is voice is low, a dangerous hum that vibrates through your bones. Not out there. Not here.

You want to break free, to tear away from him, but the words die in your throat, as his hand on your jaw tightens ever so slightly, and the softness of his thumb against your lower lip feels like a brand against your skin. Don’t test me, you warn, but you know, he knows, that it’s hollow. It’s a weak attempt at regaining control that you’re already losing. His lips curl into something dark, something feral—an almost-smile that makes your heart race with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

You’re not in a position to make threats. The words are clipped, final, and before you can respond, before you can even take a breath, he’s moving again, towering over you, every inch of his body blocking your escape. The space between you is suffocating, there’s nowhere to hide from the intensity of his gaze, from the command in his posture. He’s taking control of the room, of you, in a way that feels irrevocable, and deep down, you know you don’t want him to stop. Up, he orders.

You rise before your mind even catches up, your body obeys his command instinctively, every muscle in your body responding to the strength in his voice. And before you can gather your thoughts, he’s on you, his hands wrapping around the back of your neck with a firm, unyielding grip. his other hand drags down your side, fingers brushing over the still-tender skin of your ribs, where the bullet had grazed you. The pain is sharp—excruciating—but you don’t let out a sound, you don’t give him that satisfaction. But he knows, he knows what’s happening beneath the surface, what’s breaking inside you.

You’re shaking, he murmurs, his voice a cruel mockery of concern, his fingers tighten around your neck, forcing you to look up at him. What’s the matter, agent? Not so tough now? You want to say something, anything, but you can’t, the words die in your throat. You glare up at him, every ounce of defiance you have left burning in your veins, ut it’s not enough, not when he’s like this.

You think I don’t see what you’re doing? His voice is cold, cutting through the last of your defenses. Running yourself into the ground. Pushing past your limits like you’re invincible. Like you’re trying to prove something. His fingers tighten again, and you can’t help the gasp that escapes you. But you don’t get to break. Not on my watch.

I don’t need you, you force out, but it sounds weak, hollow. You don’t believe it. His laugh is dark, rough, humorless. Liar.

And then, with a brutal speed, he’s backing you into the nearest wall, pressing you hard against the rough wood as his body crowds yours. There’s no room to fight, no space to escape, the force of him feels like a weight on your chest, a constant reminder of how small you’ve become in this moment. You can pretend you’re in control all you want, he whispers, his mouth brushing against your ear, his breath hot and commanding. But when it comes down to it? You’re mine.

The words hit you like a punch. And for a moment, you can’t breathe, can’t think. He kisses you, hard, harsh—like he’s taking back every shred of control you tried to steal from him. His hands are everywhere, rough and unforgiving, and you know, deep down, that you’ll never be the same after this. You don’t fight it, not anymore, you let him claim you, let him strip away the last of your resistance, until you’re nothing but his. And when he finally pulls back, when he releases you just enough to breathe, the look in his eyes is suffocating, possessive.

You don’t get to run from me, he says, his voice low, lethal. Not out there. Not in here. Not ever. And you know—you know—that he means it.

His eyes lock onto yours, dark and dangerous, and the space between you feels like a chasm, a yawning pit you know you’ll never escape. You can feel the intensity of his gaze, heavy, suffocating, like it’s stripping away every last shred of your defenses, the air around you is thick with something primal, something visceral, and you can’t help but feel like prey, even as your heart pounds with that familiar, twisted rhythm, the pulse of something between rage and need.

You still think you’re in control? His voice is a cold, guttural growl, each word laced with a kind of fury that both terrifies and excites you. His grip on your neck tightens, just enough to remind you who holds the power, his other hand traces down your body, his fingers grazing the tender skin where your bullet wound is still raw, still burning, and the pain shoots through you like fire. You don’t flinch, you don’t show weakness, but it doesn’t matter. His gaze is already on the trembling of your chest, the subtle hitch in your breath.

His mouth comes down on yours, claiming it in a kiss that is brutal, punishing. There’s no gentleness in the way his lips move against yours, no sweetness or tenderness, only hunger. His tongue forces its way into your mouth, demanding, commanding, and you can taste the bitterness of his need, the depth of his fury at what almost happened to you. He doesn’t pull back, doesn’t give you a chance to breathe, and you can feel your body responding against your will. You hate it, you hate how easily he bends you to his will, how your body betrays you, how you can't help but drown in the fire he ignites with every touch. But you hate yourself more for wanting it, for craving it, for needing him like this.

His hand slides down your side, fingers digging into the flesh of your hip as he pushes you harder against the wall. His body is a solid weight pressing you into the rough wood, and for a split second, you think you might suffocate under the intensity of it all, his breath comes in sharp bursts, hot against your ear, as he whispers darkly, You think you’re still strong? You think you’re still tough? You’re nothing but a broken thing, a shattered piece, and I’m the only one who can fix you. You’ll never be anything without me.

The words slam into you like a physical blow. You want to scream, to fight back, to prove him wrong, but the reality is, he’s right. Deep down, you know that, he has you cornered, body and soul, and every move he makes chips away at the fragile walls you’ve built around yourself. The worst part? You don’t want to stop him. Don’t fight me, he growls, and his teeth graze your ear, sending a shiver of pure need down your spine. You know you want this. You want me to break you. You want me to show you how fucking powerless you are.

His hands move like wildfire, pushing your clothes off with brutal efficiency, exposing you to him in ways that make your skin burn. His lips trail down your neck, biting and sucking in places that make you gasp, your body trembling beneath him, every touch, every kiss, is a demand for submission, his submission, his way of reminding you that he owns you, that you’re his to break and remake however he sees fit.

He pulls away just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with possessive hunger. You’ll learn to rely on me. You’ll learn to stop pushing me away. His fingers press into the tender flesh of your ribs, the wound still fresh beneath his touch. I can protect you. I can keep you safe. But you have to stop being reckless. Stop acting like you don’t need me. Because you do. You need me more than you’ll ever admit. And I’ll be here, every time you forget that, to remind you.

Your heart races, a violent drumbeat that echoes in your chest as you lock eyes with him and there’s a kind of love there, you can see it, but it’s raw and brutal, twisted and suffocating. It’s the kind of love that’s not meant to heal, but to own, to possess, to claim every piece of you until there’s nothing left but him. And maybe that’s what terrifies you the most—that you want to give it to him. You want him to own you, to shape you into whatever twisted thing he thinks you should be. You hate yourself for it, but you can’t stop it, you can’t escape him, not now, not ever.

He pulls you close, his body pressing into yours as his hand locks around your throat, holding you there as his lips crash against yours again, harder this time, bruising, punishing. The kiss is like a storm, relentless and unforgiving, until you’re gasping for air, every inch of you drowning in him. You’re mine, he says, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. And I’ll keep you that way. No matter how much you try to fight it, no matter how much you push me away, you belong to me. You always have.

You don’t respond, there’s nothing to say. He knows the truth. You know the truth, as he presses you harder into the wall, his lips curling into a twisted smile as he lowers his head to your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin. You think you can run from me? he murmurs, his voice dripping with dark amusement. You think you can leave me behind? You’ll never escape me. Not in this lifetime, not in any other. You’re mine, now and forever.

And as his hands move with a brutal confidence, tearing away the last of your resistance, you know, deep down, that he’s right. You’ll never escape him, you’ll never be free of this. But the thought doesn’t terrify you the way it should, instead, it makes you want him more, it makes you crave the control he’s taking—because in the end, you know he’s the only one who can tame the storm inside you.

His hand trails lower, slow but unyielding, like he wants you to feel every brush of his fingertips, every inch of his control sinking into your skin. The roughness of his touch is deliberate, designed to remind you that nothing you do, no defiance you cling to, will shake his hold on you, no tenderness in the way he pulls your body closer, fitting you against him like you belong there.

You think I’m going to let you walk away from me? His voice is a low rasp, vibrating against the curve of your jaw as his mouth drags across your skin, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. After tonight? After you almost fucking died? His teeth sink into the side of your neck, not enough to break the skin, but enough to leave a mark, a reminder of exactly who you belong to. His hand moves higher, sliding under the thin barrier of your shirt, rough fingers grazing over your ribs. The scrape of his touch stings against the bruise forming there, but he doesn’t ease up. If anything, he lingers—pressing just hard enough to remind you of the damage, your damage, the damage he couldn’t stop.

You think this is nothing? he growls, pushing the fabric higher, exposing more of you to the cool air. You think you can brush this off and pretend it didn’t happen? His voice is venomous, pure, unfiltered rage, but underneath it, there’s something else, something raw, something desperate. Not with me. Not anymore.

The words are a promise and a threat all at once, and they make your breath catch in your throat. You open your mouth to speak—to push back, to tell him that you don’t need his protection—but before you can get a word out, his hand is already at your chest, his palm presses between your breasts, right over your pounding heart, and the weight of his touch is enough to steal whatever fight you were about to throw his way.

I felt it, he says, quieter now, but no less intense. The moment you went down. The second that bullet touched you. His fingers curl into your skin, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel how much he’s holding back. I thought— He stops himself, jaw clenching tight. Doesn’t matter.

The air is thick, heavy with everything he’s not saying, everything he’s feeling, but there’s no room for tenderness here, not with the way he touches you. Not with the way his hands move—possessive, demanding, like he’s afraid that if he lets go, you might slip through his fingers again. His thumb brushes over your nipple through the thin fabric, and even that touch feels like a command. Your body reacts instantly, traitorously, heat curling low in your stomach despite the lingering ache of your wound. He notices, of course, he always notices, mouth twisting into a cruel, knowing smirk against your neck.

Sensitive, he murmurs, his voice dripping with mockery. His fingers tighten, tweaking the peak between them just enough to send a jolt of pleasure through you as you bite down on your lip to hold back a sound, a whimper, a plea—but it’s useless. He can already feel the way your body responds to him, can already tell how much you want this despite the fight you’re trying to put up, and he’s not going to let you hide it, not tonight.

His hand slides down your body, fingers dragging over your stomach before he grips your hip, fingerprints digging into your skin. You think you're still in control? his voice is low, rough, each word thick with intent. You're strong, I get it. But you're also fucking delusional if you think you don’t need me. He slips his hand lower, fingers teasing the waistband of your pants. You need me. And I'm gonna make sure you feel it. You don’t answer right away—not fast enough, not before he feels the tension building in your body, and it pushes him to snap.

Answer me, he demands, his grip on your hip tightening to the point of bruising. Yes, you finally choke out, the word tasting heavy and wrong on your tongue, but it’s so easy, too easy. He’s unraveling you with every word, every touch, and you hate how much you want it.A dark, satisfied smile plays at the edge of his mouth. Good girl.

He doesn’t waste time as his fingers work with brutal efficiency, undoing the button of your pants and dragging the zipper down with a sound that seems deafening in the tense silence between you. The rough tug as he pulls the fabric over your hips is just as punishing, deliberate, like he wants you to feel the loss of control as much as he does. You’re always so fucking stubborn, he mutters, more to himself than to you. Always acting like you don’t want this—like you don’t need this. His hand slips beneath the last barrier of fabric, fingers brushing against the heat between your thighs—and the sharp inhale you can’t stop is all the confirmation he needs.

So wet, he taunts, dragging his fingers through your slick with slow, devastating precision. Is this what gets you off? Pushing me until I lose my temper? His fingers hover over your clit, teasing, just barely grazing it as he watches your body tremble with anticipation. He knows exactly what he's doing, the subtle pressure making your breath hitch. His gaze is cold, ruthless, a twisted satisfaction in his eyes as he watches you squirm beneath him. Or is it knowing that no matter how tough you act, I can still break you wide open? he whispers, his voice dark with dominance.

You want to fight back. You want to tell him he’s wrong—that he doesn’t own you the way he thinks he does, but the words die in your throat when he presses down, hard, right where you need him most. Your whole body jolts against the wall, and his grip on your neck tightens just enough to hold you still. That’s it, he murmurs, and there’s something almost cruel in his tone, like he’s savoring the way you tremble under his hands. You can act like you don’t need me all you want. But this— He pushes two fingers inside you without warning, stretching you open with a ruthless, punishing rhythm that leaves no room for resistance. This doesn’t lie.

Your hands fly to his shoulders, not to push him away, but to hold on, because you’re slipping, losing yourself in the sheer force of him, the way he tears down every last defense you’ve tried so hard to keep between you, and he knows it, lives for it. His fingers are relentless—deep and demanding, stretching you in a way that burns, that pushes against the edge of too much, but you take it because he makes you. Because he isn’t giving you another option as his grip on your hip tightens, pulling you harder against his hand, forcing your body to accept the brutal rhythm he sets. There’s no hesitation, no softness, only his raw need to claim you, to remind you exactly who you belong to.

You think I’m going to let you keep doing this? His voice is low, rough against your ear, sending a sharp pulse of heat straight through you. Running yourself into the ground, acting like you don’t need me—like I won’t fucking stop you? His fingers curl inside you, hitting that devastating spot that makes your legs tremble beneath you. I’m done letting you play that game.

A broken sound escapes your throat before you can stop it—a sharp, breathless whimper that only makes him push harder and you want to fight back, want to hold onto the last shred of control you have left, but he isn’t giving you the chance. His body cages you in, one hand still wrapped tight around your throat, just enough pressure to remind you who’s in charge, while the other works you open with ruthless precision.

You’re shaking, he mocks, his tone cold and unforgiving. What happened to all that fight, huh? You were so fucking mouthy before—where’d that go? His thumb brushes against your clit in another sharp, punishing stroke, and your knees nearly buckle beneath you. Or is this what you needed all along? Someone to put you in your place?

His words cut through the fog clouding your thoughts, sharp and brutal. You want to deny it, to tell him he’s wrong, but your body betrays you, the slick, obscene sounds of his fingers working inside you are proof enough, and he knows it, he feels it, every tremor, every twitch, every desperate clench around his fingers.

Pathetic, he breathes, though the heat in his voice tells a different story. You talk so big, but the second I get my hands on you— His teeth scrape along the curve of your jaw, biting down just enough to make you gasp. You fall apart. You try to hold onto your pride, try to keep the words locked behind your teeth, but the pressure is building too fast, his touch is too much, too rough, too perfect in the way it breaks you down. Your body arches against him, chasing the friction he’s giving you even as you bite back the moan rising in your throat, and he notices, of course he notices Look at you, he sneers, dragging his fingers out of you only to slam them back in, harder, deeper. So desperate. So easy.

You bite down on your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Even now, when your body is trembling against him, when every nerve is burning with the pleasure he’s forcing on you, you hold onto your pride. But he’s not a patient man. Not tonight. Think you can still keep that up? His voice drops lower, rougher—dangerous. Fine

Without warning, he pulls his fingers out of you, leaving you empty, aching. The sudden loss makes you gasp, makes your knees threaten to give out, but he doesn’t let you fall, his hand on your throat tightens just enough to hold you upright, keeping you exactly where he wants you. See how far that attitude gets you, he growls, dragging his wet fingers along your inner thigh in a slow, filthy tease. You want to act tough? Go ahead.

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, hot and cruel and dripping with the promise of punishment. And he means it, you know he does, he’s never been the type to bluff. If you push him, he’ll make you pay for it.

His hand leaves your neck only to grab your wrists, dragging them behind your back and pinning them there with one strong hand. The sudden loss of freedom, the sheer force of his control, makes your head spin and he knows it, he feels the way your breathing quickens, the way your body tenses beneath his hold, and he uses it against you. He pushes you against the wall harder, pressing his body into yours until there’s nothing left between you, nothing but heat and rage and the raw, brutal need simmering just beneath the surface. His lips find your ear again, and his voice drops to a low, dangerous whisper.

You’re not going anywhere, he promises, his tone filled with dark, undeniable possession. Not out there. Not in here. Not without me. His fingers find your clit again, circling it in slow, punishing strokes that make you writhe against his hold. You went off without telling me. You think you’re untouchable? You think you can do whatever the hell you want?

His grip on your wrists tightens as he works you closer to the edge, dragging you toward it whether you want it or not, and you can’t fight it, not when he touches you like this, not when he tears you apart with nothing but his hands and his voice and the sheer force of his will. Your pride clings to you like a vice, tight, stubborn, but his touch is tearing it apart piece by piece, and you know you can’t hold out forever, not when he’s like this, not when his fingers are so unforgiving, dragging you to the edge with brutal, calculated precision. He doesn’t care how much you fight him, he’ll take what he wants, what he knows is his, and right now that’s you, shaking, breathless, pinned beneath the weight of his control.

His grip on your wrists is like iron, unyielding as he keeps your hands trapped behind your back. It forces your body to arch, to open up for him as he presses his chest against yours, the heat of him searing through your clothes, a constant reminder of just how little power you have left. He’s taking it from you, every last shred, and God, you hate how much you want to let him.

You’re so stubborn, he growls, his mouth brushing over your jaw as his teeth graze your skin. So fucking difficult. He pulls his fingers from you, too soon, too suddenly, and the loss is enough to make you whimper, a soft, broken sound that only makes him crueler. His other hand, rough and unforgiving, grips your jaw, forcing your gaze up to meet his and there's something dark in his eyes—something stormy, a dangerous mix of fear and fury. You don’t get to make me watch you bleed again, he hisses, voice thick with something raw. I thought I lost you tonight. You don’t get to forget that.

His thumb slides over your lip, dragging it down, a silent command that he wants you to see him, to feel him, because everything about him is breaking apart at the seams, and he can’t hide it. I don’t care how stubborn you are. I’m done letting you act like you don’t matter. Breaking fucking news—you matter, matter more than you’ll ever understand. I’m not letting anyone else touch you. I’m not letting you slip through my fucking fingers. Do you understand me? You’re mine. You always will be. I’ll burn the fucking world down to keep you here.

The moment his body finally stills, the air between you is thick with more than just lust, it’s something unspoken, something raw, something he’s been fighting for far too long to admit to himself, but now, as his breath evens out and his chest presses against yours, it’s impossible to ignore. There’s no anger left in his touch now, no sharp edges to cut you open, just heat, just need. It bleeds into every movement, every place his skin meets yours, burning through the space between you like something primal, irreversible.

He pulls back, just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and glassy, still filled with that vulnerability he’s tried so hard to bury. His fingers tremble ever so slightly as they tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch softer now, more reverent, like he’s terrified to touch you too roughly, even after everything as his gaze lingers on your face, studying every feature like he’s trying to imprint it in his mind. Like he’s reminding himself that you’re still here.

Are you okay? His voice is low, almost hoarse, the concern in it so genuine that it hits you harder than anything else he’s said tonight. He’s not angry anymore, not demanding, there’s no harshness, no dominance, it’s just him, standing here, looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters in this fucked-up world. Just quiet, raw truth. I almost lost you.

Your fingers slide into his hair, gripping tight as if that alone could hold him together, could hold both of you together, because the truth is, you almost lost him too. You could’ve watched him bleed out on that cold, dirty concrete, could’ve been the one left behind, forced to live with the hollow, gaping wound he would’ve left behind in your chest. But you don’t say it, ot now, not when he needs this, needs you—more than he needs to hear words that can’t change what already happened.

I’m right here, you whisper instead, turning in his arms, pressing yourself against him as close as you can get. Your body is still aching, your legs still weak from what he just did to you, but none of it matters, none of it even registers against the way his arms tighten around you like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go. I’m here, Chris. For a long moment, he doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, his eyes search yours, like he’s trying to make sure you’re telling the truth, trying to convince himself that you’re really safe now, that you’re really his.

He exhales slowly, long and deep, as if the breath he’s been holding finally finds its way out and then, before you can react, his lips find yours, gentle at first, testing, hesitant even, like he’s afraid of breaking you if he’s too rough. His kiss is slow, as though he’s savoring this moment—this connection—in a way that makes your heart beat a little faster and when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his hands drifting to your back, pulling you in closer, if that’s even possible.

I thought I lost you, he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers thread through your hair, tugging you closer until you can feel the heat of his body, the thrum of his heartbeat against yours. I can’t... I can’t lose you, not like that. Not after everything. You feel a pang in your chest at the rawness of his words, the way they scrape at your soul, like he’s afraid to need you, afraid of depending on you when the stakes are so high. He’s always been the strong one, the one who keeps it together, who holds it all in, but now, with the fear still lingering in his eyes, it’s clear, he’s not invincible, not when it comes to you.

I’m not going anywhere, you promise, your voice steady, even as your own emotions threaten to spill over. You feel the sincerity in your own words, the promise of something more than just survival. You don’t just want to be here; you need to be here, with him, always. He exhales a shaky breath, the tension in his shoulders slowly melting away, but there’s still a fire in his eyes, one that isn’t angry, or demanding, or filled with the same brutal hunger from earlier, but something softer now, something that says I love you, even if he can’t quite say it yet.

His hands move lower, tracing down your spine with a tenderness that makes your breath catch in your throat and when they reach the hem of your shirt, he pauses, looking at you, seeking your permission, and it’s in that look that you realize, he doesn’t just want control. He wants to care for you, in a way that makes you feel safe, not just desired. Slowly, carefully, you lift your arms, allowing him to pull the fabric over your head, his fingers brushing your skin with a reverence that feels almost sacred. When you’re bare before him, his gaze lingers for a moment, his eyes dark, his breath hitching as if the sight of you, vulnerable in his arms, hits him harder than he ever expected.

You're here, he murmurs, his hands cupping your face now, his thumbs sweeping across your cheekbones in a slow, tender rhythm. The way he says it, like he’s trying to embed the words into the very marrow of your bones, makes something stir deep inside you, something that aches, something that wants to give itself to him, over and over, until there’s nothing left but this. He lets out a breath—shaky, uneven—before his hands slide down your back, gripping your thighs and then, with terrifying ease, he lifts you, pressing your back against the wall, his body solid and unyielding between your legs. There’s nothing hesitant about it, nothing slow. It’s pure instinct, pure hunger, his mouth finding yours with the kind of desperation that feels like it’s been building for years.

He swallows every sound you make like he needs it to live, like your gasps and whimpers are the only thing keeping him from falling apart as his tongue claims yours, deep and insatiable, and there’s nothing left of hesitation now, just possession, just the raw, unrelenting need to feel you, to remind himself you’re still here, still his. His grip tightens beneath your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise, and he rocks against you, slow but deliberate, the thick press of him dragging between your legs, teasing at your swollen, oversensitive heat. He’s still fully clothed, but you can feel him hot, heavy, aching even through the layers, and it sends a fresh pulse of arousal flooding low in your stomach.

Your body trembles against the unyielding surface of the wall, your nails biting into his shoulders as the heat between you builds, thick and smothering. His hands slide lower, rough palms skating over the curve of your ass before gripping tight, holding you steady as he grinds into you with torturous precision and he pulls back just enough to rip his shirt over his head, the motion sharp and impatient, like he can’t stand another second with anything between you. His gaze locks onto yours, something dark and searching in his eyes—an unspoken question, even though he already knows the answer. He can feel it in the way you shake beneath him, the way your thighs squeeze around his waist, the way your body aches for him without a single word.

And then, he’s pressing your hands to his bare chest, forcing you to feel every sculpted line, every rigid muscle flexing beneath your fingertips. You trace the sharp planes of him, the heat of his skin searing against your palms, and just as you start to explore, his fingers wrap around your wrists, guiding your hands to his lips. He presses a kiss to the inside of each one, slow and reverent, before dragging them lower, to the waistband of his jeans as he lets you unbutton them, lets you feel the way his breath shudders when your fingers graze his stomach, but he’s too impatient to wait. He shoves them down himself, the metallic clicks of the zipper barely registering over the pounding of your heart.

His cock presses against your inner thigh, thick and throbbing, the heat of him burning into your skin, his lips brush against your ear, his voice rough and barely holding together. My baby, he murmurs, and the words are edged with something almost tender, something that makes your stomach clench with need. He’s so close now, so unbearably close, his forehead pressing to yours as his breath comes hot and ragged, syncing with yours as the air between you crackles, charged with a desperate kind of hunger, a need so intense it threatens to consume you both whole.

He lowers you to the ground just long enough to shove his jeans the rest of the way down, kicking them aside with a quiet curse, his eyes never leaving yours. You’re trembling by the time he presses himself against you again, your bodies aligning like they were made to fit together. His hand slides between your legs, fingers gliding over your drenched slit, teasing, testing, a broken sound catches in your throat as he circles your clit with a slow, agonizing precision, his touch light, almost teasing, until your legs start to shake. He groans, low and ragged, his fingers slick with proof of just how badly you need him. Fuck, he mutters, voice thick with restraint. You’re so wet for me, baby. You sure?

You nod, barely able to form words, lost in the ache, the unbearable anticipation of what’s coming next. He lifts you again, strong hands guiding your legs around his waist, holding you steady as he lines himself up, the thick head of his cock brushing against your entrance. The contact alone is enough to send a shiver ripping through you, your fingers clutching at his shoulders like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality and he pauses—just for a second, just long enough for the tension to coil impossibly tight between you. His gaze meets yours, dark and unwavering, his voice barely above a whisper. I’ve got you. Just trust me.

The words sink into your skin, into your bones, and you exhale a shaky breath, nodding, needing him more than you’ve ever needed anything and then, in one slow, devastating motion, he pushes inside you, and the stretch is blinding, a white-hot pleasure that borders on pain, and you cry out, your body struggling to take him, to fit around the sheer size of him. He groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps.

He holds himself still for a moment, letting you adjust, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs as he fights for control. Every nerve in your body is on fire, every inch of you stretched wide around him, and it’s too much, it’s not enough, it’s everything, as you whimper, shifting against him, and that’s all it takes to snap his restraint.

He pulls back, just enough to thrust in again, slow but precise, dragging against every sensitive nerve inside you. A sharp, choked sound escapes you, your head tipping back against the wall as he sets a pace, each stroke deep, claiming, designed to make you feel every inch of him, his lips finding your neck, your jaw, his teeth scraping over your pulse as he fucks into you, relentless and unyielding, until you’re nothing but heat and sensation, nothing but a desperate, pleading mess in his arms. So good, he breathes against your skin, voice wrecked. Like you were made for me.

The words unravel something inside you, send a fresh wave of arousal pooling between your legs, and he groans as he feels you clench around him, his hips stuttering, his rhythm faltering just for a second. But then he’s pressing you harder against the wall, his grip tightening, his thrusts turning rougher, deeper, until you’re right on the edge, dangling over the precipice with nothing to hold onto but him and you can’t hold back anymore. The pleasure builds, sharp and unbearable, and then it crashes over you all at once. Your body seizes, your vision going white as you cry out, your walls clamping down around him, dragging him over the edge with you as he groans, low and wrecked, his hips slamming into you one last time as he spills inside you, heat flooding deep, filling you completely.

For a long moment, neither of you move, both of you caught in the aftermath, tangled together, bodies shaking, hearts hammering in sync, his breath is warm against your temple, his hands sliding up your back, holding you close like he can’t bear to let go. His forehead presses to yours, his lips barely ghosting over your own, and when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, raw and there’s something softer beneath it, something almost fragile.

His fingers trace slow, absentminded paths over your skin, like he’s memorizing the feel of you, anchoring himself in the warmth of your body, the proof that you’re here. He exhales shakily, his lips pressing against your cheek, your jaw, your temple, not in hunger now, but in something deeper—something reverent. You feel it in the way his arms tighten around you, how he tucks you closer, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

He shifts, still holding you, pressing you deeper into him, his hands smoothing over your skin like he doesn’t know how to stop touching you and there’s something searching in the way his fingers move now, the way they trace along your arms, your ribs, down your thighs—like he’s checking, making sure you’re whole, that there’s nothing else he missed. His touch lingers when he finds the bruise on your side, his fingers brushing over it with unbearable gentleness, barely more than a whisper of contact. His breath catches, and for a moment, he just holds his hand there, like he could take the pain away if he pressed hard enough, like he hates himself for not stopping it before it ever touched you.

Gently, he lifts you, moving to lower you onto the forgotten bed, onto something softer, his touch lingering over every inch of you, his fingertips press lightly against your skin, brushing over the faintest marks, the places where you might still ache, where his fear still lingers. A breath catches in his throat when his fingers drift between your legs—hesitant, careful—before he exhales shakily and presses his lips to your shoulder, your collarbone, his mouth moving over you like a promise, like an apology, like a prayer.

I’ll clean you up, he murmurs, almost to himself, like it’s not just about the mess, but something else, like it’s about taking care of you, keeping you safe, giving you even this. His hands linger a little longer before he finally pulls back, hesitating like he doesn’t want to leave your warmth even for a second.

And when he returns, warm cloth in hand, he kneels beside you, his touch impossibly gentle, eyes flicking up to yours, searching, still needing to know you’re with him, that you’re not slipping away until he's finished, and he still doesn’t pull away, doesn’t shift back. Instead, he stays there, his hands still resting softly on your skin, his forehead pressing gently to your belly as his breath steadies, and for a long moment, he just breathes you in, as though grounding himself in you, like he needs the connection as much as you need his presence.

For a long moment, he simply stays there, his presence enveloping you, as if he needs this, needs you, to remind him of something real, something whole. I’ll take care of you, he murmurs, his words heavy with sincerity, almost like a promise. I won’t let anything hurt you again. His lips press a soft kiss to your stomach, lingering there, before he finally pulls away just enough to look at you, and in that quiet, still moment, everything feels right.

Written in the Stars ☆ Masterlist

Pairing: Bang Chan x Fem reader

Genre: SMAU, Stray Kids x Modern Hogwarts, Hufflepuff x Slytherin, (minor/one sided) Enemies to Lovers, Reverse Grumpy Sunshine

Warnings: mentions death, several battles, a few swear words here and there

Synopsis: It is modern time at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. One Hufflepuff who suppresses her emotions while one Slytherin who breaks the stereotype of the Slytherin Prince. Will they connect? Or will they continue to clash?

Status: Writing

Taglist: OPEN

Profiles:

The Golden Trio ✦ Roaming Kiddiewinks ✦

Chapters:

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25 (end)

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