mrsvante

[mrsvante]

thank you for reading 🥹✨

ex-husband taehyung headcanons

your ex-husband is and was always in love, he just couldn’t properly expresss it. it comes to him too late, and he respects your wishes and agrees to the divorce; then you tell him you’re pregnant.

ex-husband taehyung still wears his wedding ring even after signing the papers. he tells himself it’s out of habit, but the way his thumb rubs over the band whenever he thinks of you says otherwise.

ex-husband taehyung never changes the passcode to the penthouse because it was your birthday. even after you move out, he still punches in those six familiar digits like a prayer.

ex-husband taehyung doesn’t touch the empty side of the bed. he sleeps stiff and angled, convinced the lingering warmth of your absence is the only part of you he still has permission to hold.

ex-husband taehyung rehearses conversations with you in the mirror, but always forgets the words when he sees you in person. he’s still trying to figure out how to say i’ve loved you the whole time without it sounding like too little, too late.

ex-husband taehyung finds out you’re pregnant from a voicemail. your voice is shaking, soft and steady like you rehearsed it a hundred times, but you hang up before the message is even complete. he listens to it twelve times that night. then he drives to your place and falls asleep in his car out front, just in case you want to talk.

ex-husband taehyung buys a small speaker and starts playing classical music against your belly. he doesn’t say why, just sits cross legged on the floor next to the couch while you nap, the soft sounds of violins floating between you like lullabies. sometimes, he hums along. and when your daughter kicks for the first time, she does it to the sound of his voice.

ex-husband taehyung starts holding your belly to ease the pressure on your back, it’s practical at first. his hands slide under your bump while you brush your teeth or stand too long in line, gently lifting and supporting. “i’ve got you,” he murmurs, grinning secretly into your hair as you sag against his chest with a groan.

ex-husband taehyung doesn’t let go of your hand once. not through the contractions, not through the screaming, not through the panicked moment when the nurse mentions an emergency c-section might be necessary. he’s there, foreheads pressed together, breath matching yours, his voice low and trembling as he repeats, “you’re okay, no matter what happens, i’ve got you.”

ex-husband taehyung never sleeps that first night. you’re sleeping from exhaustion, but he holds each baby like they’re stitched from gold thread, whispering apologies they won’t understand yet—i’m sorry i wasn’t softer, i’m sorry she didn’t know, i’m sorry it took this. then he kisses the tops of their heads and murmurs, but i love you. so much. and i love her too. still.

ex-husband taehyung learns to swaddle from a YouTube video at three in the morning, using one of the nurses’ clipboards as a makeshift changing table. when he finally gets it right, he lifts your daughter like a treasure and says, “there we go, sweetheart. appa’s got you,” with a smile that still aches around the edges.

ex-husband taehyung holds your hair back when the postpartum nausea kicks in. he wipes your mouth with a warm cloth. he rubs your back in slow, grounding circles. when you cry over nothing and everything, he says, “let it out, jagi.” and when you whisper, “i don’t think i’m strong enough for this,” he kisses your hand and replies, “then we’ll be weak together.”

ex-husband taehyung calls you every night he’s not there. asks if you’ve eaten, if you’ve slept, if you’re drinking enough water. when you tell him the babies are fussy and you’re too tired to shower, he shows up thirty minutes later with dinner, your favorite almond body wash, and fresh towels. “you take the first half of the night,” he says, already lifting your son from the bassinet. “i’ve got the second.”

ex-husband taehyung starts wearing the baby carrier everywhere. grocery store? baby on his chest. walking the dog? baby on his chest. brunch with his mother? both babies, one on his chest, one in a stroller, as he calmly explains the difference between breastmilk storage bags and formula. you watch him from the doorway and wonder how you ever thought this man didn’t love you.

ex-husband taehyung falls asleep on the couch with the twins tucked into his arms like they’ve always belonged there; your heart aches watching them. and when he stirs with bleary eyes, voice rough, he says, “you can come lay with us, if you want.” like he’s inviting you back into something you never really left.

ex-husband taehyung takes the twins to the park every sunday so you can have a moment to yourself. he packs snacks, wipes, toys, a change of clothes, even your daughter’s emergency glitter wand. when he sends you videos, it’s always your son stomping puddles in his little rain boots and taehyung’s laugh trailing behind like sunlight.

ex-husband taehyung always waits in the entryway during drop offs. even when it’s a hectic day, or he’s running late. you asked why and he shrugged, eyes tender. “i like watching you say goodbye to them. it makes them feel safe.” what he didn’t say was, it makes him feel safe, too.

ex-husband taehyung asked if he could come with you to the twins’ first day of preschool. he waited downstairs for you in front of your apartment with your favorite chai latte and a bouquet of the same flowers he got on your first anniversary. neither of you said anything about that.

ex-husband taehyung never raises his voice in front of the twins. not even when they draw on the walls with crayons or pour orange juice into his shoe “to make it smell better.” instead, he crouches to their level, eyes gentle, and says, “let’s clean it together, okay?” like patience is stitched into his DNA.

ex-husband taehyung is the first to notice when you’re overwhelmed. a glance, a sigh, a slight slouch in your shoulders; he sees it all. and when you whisper “i’m okay,” he simply nods, picks up both toddlers with ease, and murmurs, “go take a bath. i’ve got them.” he always does.

ex-husband taehyung barely looks up when you ask if he’s planning to start dating soon. “no,” he says quickly, too quickly, brushing it off with a shrug. “i don’t want to confuse them.” but then there’s a pause, just a second too long, and his voice goes quieter when he asks, “are you?”

ex-husband taehyung doesn’t ask to stay the night anymore. he just… never really leaves. his toothbrush finds its way into your bathroom. his cologne sits quietly beside your perfume. the twins start asking why appa always comes back after he leaves, and neither of you really have an answer.

ex-husband taehyung confesses on a tuesday. not with a huge gesture, just over grilled mackerel and kimchi stew at the kitchen table, the twins snoring softly in the next room. “i think…” he says, staring at his bowl, “i was in love with you even when we were strangers. i just didn’t know how to say it without hurting you.”

ex-husband taehyung kisses you like he’s making up for every day he didn’t. slowly with both hands cradling your jaw like you’re fragile and a goddess and entirely his. and when you whisper, “maybe we don’t need the papers this time,” he smiles like it’s the first day of spring.

ex-husband taehyung still introduces you as the mother of my children when you’re out. even after he moves back in. even after you’ve started wearing his shirts to bed again. it’s not until your daughter blurts out, “eomma and appa kiss now,” to her teacher that you realize you’ve become his person again.

ex-husband taehyung buys a new ring. simple, elegant, no fanfare. he slips it onto your finger one night while you’re folding laundry, as if he’s just remembering something that’s always been true. “no grand ceremony,” he says, voice low. “just us. just this. forever, if you’ll let me.”

masterlist

[mrsvante]

thank you for readinggggg ☺️

The Long Game XI

pairing: namjoon x reader

genre: sugar daddy au, yandere, angst

summary: you never meant to catch his eye, you were just an intern. you were there to work, not bang the big wigs. you didn’t know who he was, so you just smiled politely and kept walking. that was the moment he decided you were his. and for a man who’s built his entire empire on control, the moment he noticed you was the moment he started to lose it.

warnings: power imbalance, jealousy, light stalking/surveillance, slow burn, smuuuuuuuuuut, praise kink, big dick joon, a little humiliation, possessiveness, overthinking that leads to internal/external spiraling, reader is hungry for that & i don’t blame her one bit, overstimulation, oral f!receiving, soft dom joonie, fingering f!receiving, mention of bc, mild breeding kink, aftercare, this is what happens when a man who controls empires decides you belong to him.

word count: 10,785

a word from our sponsors 💁🏽‍♀️: sorry for going mia with this series. if i’m being honest, it got wayyy more popular than i anticipated. i started with a oneshot, then added a few more drabbles because my brain just doesn’t know when to quit. but seeing how much everyone loves it, i finally sat down & properly organized the series. so i figured why not give y’all a glimpse into how our favorite couple came to be. i hope you like it 🤗💕

Namjoon didn’t believe in love at first sight.

Not until the elevator doors opened on the twenty eighth floor of the Cheongdam Tower and you stepped out, balancing a coffee tray and a file folder in your arms, trying not to let either fall.

You looked completely ordinary.

Polished but simple. Nervous but determined. Dressed modestly in business casual with a pair of sensible shoes that said you were serious, practical, here to work not to be noticed.

But Namjoon noticed.

He was speaking with one of the legal partners in the corridor, something about merger clauses or breach conditions, he couldn’t remember. Because the second you passed by, the air shifted.

He turned his head.

The lawyer kept speaking but Namjoon didn’t hear a word.

There wasn’t anything particularly striking about you, not by traditional standards. You weren’t trying to catch anyone’s attention. You didn’t even glance in his direction. But that was what made it worse. You didn’t see him.

Everyone saw him.

Everyone paused, straightened, and recalculated.

But you just walked past with your brow furrowed and your lip caught between your teeth, as if your entire world lived in the task in your hands and nothing else.

And for a man like Namjoon, used to commanding rooms and rerouting empires, that was the moment he stopped listening to anything but the sound of your footsteps retreating down the hall.

You worked in one of MONOLITH’s smaller tech adjacent firms, tucked under a web of strategic subsidiaries. Your internship was the result of a school partnership and a well timed recommendation from a professor he didn’t particularly respect.

You weren’t special. Not on paper.

But something about you stuck in his chest. He looked you up before he stepped back into the meeting. It took two swipes on his phone.

Name. University. Academic record.

Clean.

But not untouched.

There were already emails in your inbox. Mentors, other interns, a junior associate who thought he was charming because he went to Yonsei and had perfect teeth.

Namjoon made a mental note of him first.

Then he called his assistant.

“Flag anything related to the ARCHIVE cohort. I want weekly updates,” he said. “No one gets bumped without me approving it.”

——

The next time he saw you, he made it seem accidental.

You were leaving a project debrief with your team, notebook pressed against your chest, hair pinned up messily. You looked tired. Overworked.

Namjoon caught the elevator doors before they closed.

“Hold, please,” he said, even though you’d already pressed the button.

You glanced up at him, offered a polite smile, and pressed yourself further into the corner as he stepped in.

You didn’t know who he was.

Not really.

He watched you through the glass reflection of the elevator wall. The way you shifted from foot to foot. The way your fingers tapped against the spiral of your notebook, like your thoughts never really stopped moving.

He didn’t speak.

Not until the doors slid open on the executive floor and you stepped aside to let him out.

“Good work on the Stratwell proposal,” he said as he passed you. “You have a sharp eye.”

You blinked at him, stunned.

“I—I wasn’t sure anyone saw that draft,” you said quietly.

“I did,” he replied, gaze sharp. “Keep at it.”

Then he was gone.

That night, Namjoon had flowers sent to your desk. Nothing over the top, just a small bouquet of peonies and white lilacs. Elegant and understated. No card.

He told himself it was to keep morale high. But he also flagged your name on the internal transfer list.

——-

He saw you again two days later. This time in the lobby, struggling with a jammed badge at the turnstile. He stepped in before security could.

“New cards are temperamental,” he said, swiping his for you.

You looked up at him, cheeks flushed. “Thank you. I swear it was working yesterday.”

Namjoon smirked. “Technology’s fickle. Don’t take it personally.”

You laughed, a soft sound, airy and genuine. And that was the moment it clicked.

Your laugh.

That was what made the obsession calcify. Because when you laughed, Namjoon felt peace. And peace was dangerous for a man who had never needed anything outside of power. He needed to know that sound was always his.

He started showing up more often after that.

Not obviously. Never enough to spook you. Just enough to offer guidance when your project hit a wall. Just enough to make sure you were invited to closed door sessions with VPs and division heads. Just enough to ensure you knew he had noticed you, even if you didn’t fully understand why.

You didn’t ask for anything, never fished for credit, or ever sought his attention the way others did.

And that was exactly why you got it.

Namjoon moved mountains behind the scenes. Shielding you from office politics, keeping HR at bay when they tried to shift your department, ensuring you always had a direct line of communication to the resources you needed. All under the guise of mentorship. Talent acquisition. Just a hunch.

When he invited you to lunch under the pretense of discussing your career trajectory, you almost didn’t say yes.

He picked a quiet corner table at a restaurant where no one would question why a CEO was having lunch with an intern. He asked you questions. He listened. Not just to your answers, but to the way you spoke when you weren’t sure if you were allowed to hope out loud.

By the end of the meal, he wasn’t thinking about if he could have you.

He was thinking about how long he could make the game last before you realized it was over.

——

It started with the intern mixer.

Namjoon didn’t attend things like that. They were beneath his rank, his schedule, his carefully constructed persona. He was a figurehead. Admired from a distance, untouchable in curated suits and private conference rooms.

But when he saw your name on the email chain confirming attendance?

He rearranged his calendar.

He told himself it was for optics. Leadership visibility. An excuse to show the younger cohort MONOLITH’s investment in future talent.

He told himself a lot of things.

The venue was casual. A rooftop bar overlooking the Han, modest and modern, filled with floor to ceiling windows and long velvet booths. The kind of place young professionals went to feel expensive.

You were already there when Namjoon arrived.

Sitting at the far end of a low cocktail table with your legs crossed, sipping something clear with an orange peel garnish hanging from a short glass. You laughed at something someone said. Not too loud or flirty, just enough to tilt your head and touch your chest as your shoulders shook.

Namjoon’s jaw tightened.

He wasn’t listening to the introductions being rattled off around him. Didn’t register the polite greetings. He only watched the man sitting next to you, the same junior associate he’d flagged weeks ago, lean in a little too close. Smile a little too wide.

Namjoon felt it then, that tightness in his chest. A slow heat coiling behind his ribs.

Mine.

He caught himself before it showed, just barely.

He smiled as he approached the group, one hand tucked casually into his pants pocket. His watch glinted in the light. His voice, when he spoke, was smooth and unbothered.

“Mind if I join you?”

The junior associate was startled, laughing nervously before he scrambled to make room, nearly knocking over your drink in the process. You looked up at Namjoon and blinked, surprised.

“Oh—Mr. Kim,” you said, straightening. “I didn’t think—”

“Namjoon’s fine,” he interrupted. “I was in the area. Thought I’d check in.”

You offered him a seat beside you without hesitation.

Of course you did.

Because you had no idea what he was doing.

You didn’t see the calculation behind his smile. The way he angled his body between you and the associate, cutting off eye contact without seeming rude. You didn’t hear the subtle bite in his tone when he asked, “How do you all know each other?”

His eyes never leaving the man beside you.

“Same cohort,” the guy replied. “She’s—uh—been a big help. Smart. Focused.”

“She is,” Namjoon said evenly.

You blushed.

The associate kept talking, but Namjoon wasn’t listening. He was watching the way your fingers toyed with your napkin, how you smiled softly at whoever spoke, always thoughtful, always sweet.

Too sweet.

Too unaware of the eyes on you. Of how that made him feel.

When the man beside you made a lighthearted joke and nudged your shoulder, Namjoon’s fingers clenched around his glass. The tension spiked fast, sharp, and unfamiliar. He had to set the drink down before the crystal cracked.

He hated it.

Not the man.

Not even the fact that he touched you.

He hated himself for the way it made him feel.

This wasn’t who he was.

He’d built an empire off discipline. Control. Calculated power.

But with you?

He was slipping.

And when you leaned in, whispering something to the guy that made him laugh, Namjoon realized, it didn’t matter if nothing was happening. The idea that something could, was enough to drive him insane.

That was the night everything changed.

Because as soon as he got back into his car, he wasn’t thinking about restraint. He was thinking about how to eliminate every variable between you and him.

——

The next morning, your desk was moved.

It was presented as a collaborative opportunity. You’d been paired with a new team lead in a different department. A better match for your strengths, they said.

A higher visibility role.

The junior associate? Sent on a six month remote project abroad.

Namjoon didn’t tell you any of this.

You just smiled when you passed him in the hallway, thanking him again for dropping by the mixer. You said it meant a lot to see someone like him care about the interns.

He nodded.

Said something polite.

But all he could think was…mine.

Namjoon didn’t act quickly. He acted precisely. He didn’t chase. He cornered. Which was why, the first time he truly took a look at your circle, he didn’t feel threatened.

He felt bothered.

The clingy ex-roommate who still sent you guilt tripping, passive aggressive texts about growing apart? Gone.

One anonymous tip about workplace misconduct, not even exaggerated, just curated, and her contract dissolved by the end of the week. Namjoon made sure the severance package included therapy credits. That wasn’t cruelty. That was care, neatly disguised in plausible deniability.

The senior TA at your university who liked to hover under your Instagram stories like a hungry stray?

A ghost by Monday.

Namjoon had a PI confirm his involvement in two separate HR complaints across campuses. He didn’t even need to make contact, just nudged the files into the right inbox. University bureaucracy did the rest.

And your manager?

The smug, middle aged caffeine tyrant who thought he could guilt you into covering shifts you never signed up for?

Namjoon bought the café.

He kept the staff, boosted wages, doubled benefits.

Except the manager. He was gone within seventy two hours, after a gentle offboarding discussion and an airtight NDA.

Namjoon told himself it was protection, preparation. That you’d never know he had his hands in the machinery behind you, smoothing the friction, removing the small, annoying gears that didn’t serve you…or him.

But the truth was, it only started that way.

Because by the time you were invited to a club downtown with a group of classmates, Namjoon was already pacing his penthouse like a man with splinters in his skin. Phone in hand with location services on the screen. Watching the tiny blinking dot of your phone drift through the city he knew too intimately to trust.

You were wearing a black dress. Short, tight, and had him harder than he’d been in years.

He hadn’t seen it in person.

But your friend had posted a blurry photo to her story. Your group lined up outside the velvet rope of the club entrance, laughing, arms slung around each other.

And you?

You looked radiant.

Unaware of how many eyes wanted you.

Namjoon wasn’t stalking you, not in the traditional sense.

He was nearby, attending a private event hosted by one of MONOLITH’s umbrella investors, just a few buildings down. He hadn’t planned on stopping by the club.

But he did.

He watched from the shadows near the bar, no drink in hand, no company at his side, just him. Observing long enough to notice how men looked at you.

Too long.

Too boldly.

And then it happened.

One of them reached for you.

Namjoon didn’t hear what he said, and he didn’t need to. He saw your polite smile stiffen. The way your body angled away. How your drink sloshed a little when the man leaned closer, fingers grazing your arm like he had permission.

Namjoon was across the room in less than five strides.

“Excuse me,” he said, clean and cold.

The man turned, confused. “What?”

Namjoon stepped forward, just enough to tower over the man. “She’s not interested.”

You spun at the voice. “Namjoon—?”

“It’s in your best interest,” he leaned in, “if you leave now while your legs still work.”

The man scoffed. Rolled his eyes. Muttered an insult under his breath before shoving past.

Namjoon’s hand flexed once, his jaw clenched. A thread stretched tight.

Then, your fingers curled around his wrist.

“We can go,” you whispered, words a little slurred. “’s fine. Let’s just go.”

Let’s.

That was all he needed.

—

The car ride was thick with silence at first. Namjoon’s driver knew better than to speak unless prompted.

You curled into the far corner of the leather seat. Your cheek pressed to the window, shadows softening your profile. For a while, you said nothing.

“Thanks. For earlier.”

Namjoon nodded. “Of course.”

“Didn’t know you were a clubber.”

He hesitated. “Neither did I. I had a thing nearby. Just stopped for a drink when I spotted you.”

You twisted your fingers in your lap. “He was being weird, right?”

His voice was steel wrapped in velvet. “He was being a prick. I should’ve broken his fucking nose.”

You laughed, startled. “I’ve never seen you like that.”

He turned his gaze toward you. “Like what?”

“Like… that. All protective.”

Namjoon’s expression didn’t shift. But something simmered beneath. “I’m always protective.”

“Of me?”

“Especially of you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was weighted. Loaded. Like the air between two tectonic plates, one tremor away from a shift that could reshape everything.

The car slowed in front of your apartment. Namjoon unbuckled his seatbelt. “I’ll walk you—”

But you turned before he could finish, cupped his jaw, and kissed him.

It was just a kiss, impulsive.

But not just a kiss.

Namjoon’s breath hitched. His hand found your thigh, thumb pressing into the fabric of your dress. His restraint hung by a thread, hunger clawing up his spine, rage and longing and need all compressed into a single moment.

But you pulled away too fast.

Eyes wide with the crash of clarity as your face turned bright red.

“Oh my God,” you whispered. “Shit. I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Wait—”

“No.” You unbuckled your seatbelt quickly, scooting away and out of the car. “I’m drunk. That was—fuck. I’m sorry, Mr. Kim. I didn’t mean to confuse you.”

Namjoon didn’t stop you.

Didn’t follow.

Because he couldn’t, because if he did.

He might not have stopped.

—

He returned to the penthouse half an hour later.

Everything looked the same.

The soft amber lights, low hum of the air system. The faint scent of cedar and white tea lingering from the diffusers throughout. Even the half drunk glass of whiskey he’d left on the bar top still sat there, the condensation long dried.

But he didn’t feel the same.

He moved like a man sleepwalking.

Jacket off. Shoes shelved. Shirt unbuttoned and tossed in the hamper. Each movement was a ritual meant to anchor him, to keep his hands busy, his mind from spiraling.

But it didn’t work.

The memory of your lips followed him to the closet. Haunted him across the cold tile of the en suite.

By the time he stepped under the ice of the shower, he was already trembling. His jaw clenched, muscles taut, skin humming with want.

The water lashed at him, freezing.

But it didn’t wash away the feel of your kiss. Didn’t cleanse the heat of your breath, warm and shaky against his neck. Couldn’t drown out the sound of his name on your tongue.

He braced both hands against the wall, fingers splayed wide against the tile, trying to breathe.

Trying to will the ache away.

But his cock throbbed stubbornly, heavy and leaking, twitching with the phantom weight of your body beneath his hands. His stomach tightened, hips jolting forward with a hunger he couldn’t bury anymore.

His hand found cock before his brain could catch up.

A guttural groan ripped from his throat as he gripped hard, pumping fast, punishing.

This wasn’t about pleasure.

It wasn’t about relief.

It was about control.

About how little of it he had left.

He thought of the way your lips had parted, stunned and breathless. Like you hadn’t meant to kiss him, but couldn’t stop yourself. The way your fingers curled into his shirt like you were anchoring yourself, like you needed him.

His strokes grew faster, teeth gritted, forehead pressed to the wall so hard it bordered on pain.

Every breath was a curse.

Every thrust of his fist an admission.

He was losing the war he’d waged against himself. Losing it every time you smiled at him like he was something good.

“Fuck,” he snarled, voice raw, strained.

And then he came, violently, his whole body convulsing as the heat ripped through him, viscous and hot against the shower floor. His knees nearly buckled.

The silence afterward was deafening.

Steam curled around him like a shroud, the water still pounding against his spine.

Eventually, he forced himself upright, chest still heaving, throat dry.

He turned his face toward the glass.

And through the fog, there it was.

His reflection, hollow eyed and flushed. Not a man purged of lust, but one undone by need. A man who knew, with absolute certainty now, that kissing you had changed everything.

And that he might never survive doing it again.

But he would do it again, because he had to. Waiting wasn’t safety anymore.

It was torment.

And you were the only thing that could quiet the fire he couldn’t put out.

Soon.

You wouldn’t be confused next time. You’d be sure.

And you’d be his.

—

You’d been avoiding him for days.

He had to give it to you. You were careful. The kind of careful that knew exactly how many seconds it took to pass him in the hallway without seeming deliberate. The kind that knew how to redirect an email thread so that your replies stayed professional, but never outright rude.

But Namjoon noticed.

He noticed the way your shoulders stiffened when his name lit up your inbox. The way you chose the longer path through accounting to avoid the design floor entirely.

How your coffee cup always had your name scrawled in your own handwriting now, no longer gifted by his order.

He noticed all of it.

And he let you run.

Until the fourth day.

He didn’t mean to stop, he only meant to pass. But when he caught sight of you inside the copy room alone, head bowed over a mess of reports, teeth worrying your lip raw, something in his chest gave out.

The door shut behind him with a quiet click.

You turned sharply, breath hitching. “Mr. Kim—”

“Namjoon,” he said, voice low. Not a suggestion. “We’ve been over this.”

You nodded, throat working. “Sorry. I was just printing something. For the marketing meeting. I’ll be out in—”

“I’m not here for the meeting.”

You sidestepped him, reaching for the tray, but he was already there. His body closing the space, hand braced beside your head, the other catching your wrist.

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

Your gaze fell to the floor. “I haven’t.”

“You have.”

Not cruel. Not accusing. Just certain.

You pulled your hand from his grip. “I kissed you,” you said, voice breaking on the edges of the words. “I was drunk. It was inappropriate. And I panicked. I’m sorry.”

Namjoon tilted his head.

Then, just as your apology began to spill out again, he leaned in and kissed you.

There was nothing delicate about it.

No nerves or hesitation.

It was the kind of kiss that burned, that said you’re not going anywhere. His hand slid to the base of your skull, fingers threading through your hair, tilting your head until your mouth parted for him.

And when he deepened the kiss, when he swallowed your gasp and pressed you back into the wall with the weight of everything he’d been holding in, your body betrayed you.

Your knees weakened. Hands clutched his arms as your heart stuttered in your chest.

When he finally pulled back, your breathing was ragged.

“This,” he said, his breath brushing your bottom lip, “is how you’ll kiss me from now on.”

You couldn’t speak.

He didn’t need you to.

“I’ll be at your apartment at seven,” he murmured, the command dressed as a promise. “Wear whatever makes you feel dangerous.”

Then he stepped back, smoothed the lapels of his jacket, and walked away. Leaving you stunned, breathless, and brimming with adrenaline you couldn’t shake.

—

The rest of the workday passed in a blur.

You tried to focus. But everything—the reports, the deadlines, the back to back calls—turned into background noise. Every thought returned to the moment his mouth met yours. The weight of his hand. The way he’d looked at you

So when you returned home and saw the garment bag hanging off the handle of your front door, your breath caught.

Inside was a dress spun from ink and starlight. Black silk, shot through with tiny flecks of silver. It shimmered like it knew secrets. Like it’d been chosen not just for you, but because of you.

There were matching heels. Jewelry. A bottle of perfume you’d once mentioned in passing but had never bought yourself.

And beside the necklace box, a note in his handwriting:

Tonight is about firsts. Be ready by seven.

— Joon

You stood in the doorway for a long time, fingers trembling.

Then you slipped into the dress.

Namjoon was waiting just outside the elevator.

He looked devastating in an all black suit. His Rolex glinting beneath the low light. He turned at the sound of your heels, and his expression shifted. Something devious settling over his features as he took you in.

“Stunning,” he said simply. He offered his hand as he stepped closer. “You’ve always been beautiful. But this?”

You hesitated, unused to the attention.

“…This makes me want to lock you away.”

You should’ve been alarmed. But instead you just…burned. Quietly, from the inside out.

In the car, he asked about your day. Your team. The coffee you’d spilled on your keyboard last week. His voice was gentle, and his gaze sharp. His thumb brushed yours every few minutes like a tether.

It was disarming. Intimate and a little surreal.

The restaurant was hidden behind an unmarked door. The decor was minimalistic but exuded exclusivity. The kind of place with no menu or photos. No distractions.

You weren’t just a guest here. You were being attended.

Taken care of.

Like everything else in Namjoon’s world.

By the time the wine arrived, you’d forgotten to be nervous. You were laughing, genuinely. His smile had teeth but it wasn’t dangerous.

Until it was.

Namjoon leaned back in his seat, fingers tracing the rim of his glass with casual elegance. “There’s something I want to run by you,” he said, voice low, thoughtful. “And I want to make sure it’s clear from the beginning.”

Your pulse skipped. “Okay…”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you with intent. “I know how hard you’ve worked. Your education, your goals. I don’t want to get in the way of that.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected gentleness in his tone.

“I also know that the kind of connection I want with you… doesn’t really fit into the usual mold,” he continued, setting his glass down. “I’m not someone who dates casually. I don’t lead people on. And I don’t ask for things I can’t commit to.”

Your breath hitched.

“So I’m offering something different, something honest.”

He leaned in, elbows resting on the table. “You’ll be taken care of. Not in a vague, half hearted way, but fully. Financially, practically. I want you to be able to focus on your future without worrying about rent or tution or juggling three jobs to stay afloat. If you’re mine, you won’t have to.”

You stared at him.

“But in return,” he added, voice cooling just a touch, “I expect exclusivity. I don’t share. Not your time. Not your attention. Not your body.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t soften the words.

“I’m possessive,” he said simply, like it was just a fact. “And I’m not apologizing for it.”

The restaurant around you faded, dimmed. It felt like you were the only two people in the room.

“And if I say no?” you asked, your voice quieter than before.

His brows lifted, playful but firm. “You could say no… but you won’t.”

You gaped at him. Then, you laughed. Shoulders hunched and trembling with a hand over your mouth.

“You’re something else,” you murmured, shaking your head.

“I told you,” he said, raising his glass. “This is our first dinner. Not our last.”

You hesitated.

Then raised your glass to meet his.

“To the beginning.”

——

It happened quietly.

Like sugar dissolving in tea.

You didn’t even notice how fully Namjoon had embedded himself into your life until he was simply… there. Not suffocatingly, not overt, and never demanding.

But constant.

Present in ways that mattered.

There was the second Monday of your new team rotation when your lunch mysteriously arrived already paid for. A perfect match to the sandwich you’d been craving all morning, down to the brand of flavored sparkling water you liked and the extra cookie you’d half joked about wanting with a coworker in the breakroom.

There was no card. No signature.

But you knew.

Then came the flowers.

Not the kind that screamed guilt or apology. No overpriced red roses, no carnations that looked like funeral arrangements. Just soft and delicate lilies, peonies, ranunculus in shades that matched the changing seasons.

A bouquet at your apartment, waiting on your doorstep in a real crystal vase.

Another at work, perched on your desk.

Every time you thought it was too much, too indulgent, he’d somehow level it out. You’d mention needing a new umbrella, and three different colors would arrive by the end of the day. You’d jokingly complain about hating heels, and suddenly your go to sneakers came in five limited edition colors you’d never seen before.

And yet, he never crossed a line. No wandering hands, sleazy comments, or pressure.

Just kisses. And oh, the way he kissed you.

Like a starving man finally tasting something he’d been craving his whole life. Long, deep, passionate kisses that left you breathless. He kissed you like a slow burning fire, coaxing heat out of every nerve in your body until you were gripping his shoulders, thighs trembling, aching.

And then… he’d stop.

Every single time, he’d slow it down before things went further. He’d smooth your hair. Press a kiss to your neck or forehead. Help you sit up and tuck your clothes back into place like a fucking gentleman.

At first, you were charmed.

Chivalry? What a concept. And from a man with hands big enough to break down buildings, who had no shortage of power or ego? Even better.

But then it kept happening.

Date after date.

Dinner after dinner.

Kiss after kiss that left your underwear soaked and your body twitching for more.

Nothing.

You’d leave with trembling knees and a mind full of filth, only to take care of yourself in your bedroom later like a teenager with a crush. And the worst part?

You knew he wanted you.

You could feel it in the way he pressed his body against you, thick and hard beneath those expensive slacks. You could see it in the way his jaw clenched when you moaned into his mouth. You could hear it in the way he exhaled your name like a prayer.

But still… nothing.

And it was driving you crazy.

—

One night, curled into his side on the couch, half watching some black and white movie you’d both forgotten the name of, you couldn’t take it anymore.

You tilted your head, eyes dragging across the strong line of his throat to the faint pulse just beneath it. His arm was draped around you, hand resting innocently on your waist, like you weren’t silently buzzing with need.

You cleared your throat.

“Can I ask you something?”

Namjoon hummed, eyes still on the screen. “Of course.”

You hesitated. “Why haven’t you…?”

He blinked down at you. “Haven’t what?”

You lifted a brow. “You know.”

He smirked, but continued to play innocent. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

You squirmed. “Why haven’t you tried to sleep with me?”

That got his full attention.

Namjoon turned toward you slowly, the weight of his gaze pressing heat into your skin. His brow arched, lips curling into a smirk.

“You want me to?”

Your breath caught. “Obviously.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, his arm that had been resting behind you shifted lower, his large hand finding your thigh, giving it the lightest squeeze. Then his other hand came to your jaw, tilting your face toward him.

“I do too,” he murmured. “Don’t think for a second I haven’t thought about it.”

His fingers stroked your cheek, his voice dipping lower with each word. “I dream about it. I fuck my fist to the thought of it. You straddling me, dripping, moaning my name like it’s a fucking prayer.”

You whimpered.

“But I know you,” he went on. “You’ve only ever known boys. Horny little boys who take because they don’t know any better.”

His hand slid higher.

“I’m not a boy.”

You sucked in a breath as his fingers brushed the hem of your shorts, teasing lightly against the curve of your inner thigh.

“I don’t take,” Namjoon whispered, voice dark silk against your skin. “I claim.”

Your heart skipped. Your thighs instinctively parted, just enough.

Namjoon smirked.

“But, if you need relief,” His fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your shorts. “I’m more than happy to take care of you.”

You gasped when his fingers found your pussy, already soaked from nothing more than the sound of his voice. He groaned low in his throat, forehead tipping forward to rest against yours.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “So wet already. You’ve been holding this in for weeks, haven’t you?”

You could only nod, too breathless to speak as he stroked slow, deliberate circles over your clit before slipping two fingers into you, curling just right.

You gasped out a moan, you walls clenching around his fingers.

“I’ve waited this long to touch you,” he said, watching the way your face twisted in pleasure. “I can wait a little longer to have you. But if you need me—if you need this—then I’ll give you everything.”

Your back arched. His fingers moved faster, deeper, his palm grinding against your clit in perfect rhythm.

“You’re my good girl,” he whispered. “You don’t even know how good you are for me.”

You clenched around him, “N-Namjoon,” your body trembling, mouth falling open as the heat inside you began to crest.

“That’s it,” Namjoon growled. “Cum for me.”

You exploded in his arms, hips jerking, fingers curling into his shirt as your orgasm rolled over you in waves. Namjoon held you through it, fingers still stroking, coaxing every last tremor until you were gasping, boneless.

Then he was lifting you, as if you weighed nothing.

You barely registered the motion, just the press of his chest against your cheek, the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his hand cradling your thigh. He carried you to your bedroom, set you gently on the bed, and brushed the hair from your damp forehead.

“Stay,” you whispered weakly.

He kissed your temple, then your forehead. “Not tonight.”

“But—”

He smiled, tucking the blanket around you. “You need rest. Not more of me.”

You pouted, eyes fluttering shut despite yourself.

Namjoon leaned down and kissed your forehead once more.

“I’ll call you in the morning.”

And then he was gone, like a fever dream.

——

You’d been to luxurious restaurants and hotels before. But Namjoon’s penthouse in Busan?

It was something else entirely.

Sunlight spilled through two story windows that overlooked the harbor, painting the marble floors in soft gold. The air smelled like salt and sandalwood, like ocean breeze and wealth. And everywhere you looked, his presence lingered. From the books stacked neatly on the nightstand to the workout gear folded at the foot of the bed.

It was too perfect.

So was he.

Namjoon had barely let go of your hand since the plane touched down.

He hadn’t left your side, hadn’t missed a beat. Every small need you didn’t realize you had, he’d already anticipated. Slippers in your size at the door. Your favorite skincare waiting in the bathroom. A matching robe that somehow fit you perfectly despite him never asking for your measurements.

It was your first trip together outside of Seoul, and yet, somehow he made it feel like your tenth anniversary.

Which only made the silence between your legs harder to ignore.

You were losing your mind.

On the plane, he’d fucked you with his hand until your thighs trembled, three fingers deep, palm grinding against your clit as he whispered filthy promises into your ear. You’d cum so hard, so loud, that the stewardess walked over with a frown and asked if you were alright.

Namjoon just smiled, while you hadn’t been able to look her in the eye for the rest of the flight.

And yet…he hadn’t fucked you.

Not then or when you’d wrapped your arms around him in the car. Not even after arriving, when you’d slipped into the silk robe, makeup off, skin flushed, eyes soft from anticipation.

Just kisses. Fingers. Tongue.

No cock.

No grand finale.

At first, you chalked it up to nerves. Maybe he didn’t want to rush. Maybe he was building toward something.

But it had been almost three months now. And it was starting to crawl under your skin.

It didn’t help that everything else about him was perfect.

He made you laugh. Let you pick the playlist in the car. Stopped to buy pastries from a local café just because you liked the smell. He whispered sweet nothings in your ear between meetings, rested his hand on your back when you walked through crowds, and brushed his lips over your shoulder while you sipped your morning coffee.

You should’ve been basking in it. Most women would.

Instead, you were spiraling.

Every compliment felt like a tease. Every soft touch a taunt. Every smile made your stomach twist because if he wanted you, why hadn’t he taken you yet?

You tried not to show it.

Tried to enjoy the shopping trip he took you on this morning after his early meeting, let yourself relax as he held your hand through boutiques, let yourself smile when he picked out earrings he said reminded him of the moonlight on your skin.

But still, it lingered.

That whisper of doubt, curled around your spine like smoke.

Maybe he thinks you’re not ready.

Maybe he thinks you’re not good enough.

Maybe this isn’t going anywhere. Maybe you’re just a phase.

Namjoon noticed something was off. Of course he did.

He watched you as you fingered silk scarves on a display, gaze distant.

“You’re quiet today,” he murmured beside you.

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Just tired.”

He didn’t push. Just tucked your hand in his again and pulled you gently toward the next shop.

But your thoughts didn’t stop.

Not even when he kissed your temple. Not even when he called you baby and helped you pick out the softest sweater you’d ever touched. Not even when he chided you to hand over your bags so he could carry them all himself so your arms wouldn’t get sore.

Because the worst part was, you wanted him.

Desperately.

And it was starting to feel like he didn’t want you back.

—

The car was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the road beneath the tires and the muted sound of the city slipping past the tinted windows. You were reclined in the plush leather backseat beside Namjoon, the privacy screen rolled up, the lights inside dim and low.

Dinner had been beautiful, at a rooftop restaurant overlooking the bay with candlelight and a bottle of red wine with a name you couldn’t pronounce. Namjoon had ordered for you both without hesitation, somehow always knowing exactly what you wanted before you did.

Now you were warm, relaxed, just buzzed enough to feel your limbs like silk, and Namjoon was all soft hands and quiet laughter beside you.

His palm rested on your thigh, fingers absently stroking the inside like he was drawing invisible patterns into your skin.

You didn’t stop him when his hand slid higher, grazing just under the hem of your dress, you shifted, giving him space. It had become a routine by now. A rhythm.

Until he started to slip his fingers into your panties, then you pulled away.

Namjoon’s eyes flicked to yours immediately, concern tightening his features. “Baby?”

Your heart pounded in your ears.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly. Too quickly.

His hand withdrew, but not far. “You sure?”

You looked away, jaw tight.

When he called your name again it was with that tone. Low. Measured. Serious now.

You exhaled, jaw trembling, then said the one thing that had been chewing through your brain for weeks.

“Why haven’t you fucked me?”

The air in the car went still.

Namjoon blinked once.

You laughed, but it sounded sharp, almost bitter. “Seriously, Namjoon. You eat me out like I’m your last meal. Fuck me with you hand until I can’t see straight. But you won’t fuck me.”

He opened his mouth, but you weren’t done.

“I’m not dumb. I can take a hint. If this is just supposed to be some pretty little arrangement where I warm your lap and you play with me like a doll, just say that.”

“Hey,” he said softly. “That’s not—”

“Or maybe it’s the age thing,” you snapped, the words bubbling out faster than you could catch them. “Maybe it’s the twelve years between us, maybe you think I’m just some little college brat with a pretty mouth who doesn’t know what she wants.”

His jaw flexed. His hand on your thigh tightened ever so slightly.

“I get it,” you said, trying to keep your voice from breaking. “I’m young. You’re rich. You want control. Fine. Just don’t treat me like I’m fragile.”

Silence.

For a long beat, he just looked at you.

Then he exhaled through his nose and muttered, “Get over my lap.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

“I said—” his voice dropped an octave, “—get over my lap.”

You hesitated, frozen.

Namjoon’s eyes darkened. “Now.”

You obeyed.

Slowly, you climbed onto his lap, straddling one thick thigh. His hand slid up the back of your neck, guiding your face close, lips brushing against your ear.

“You don’t come to me with your doubts,” he murmured. “You sit there. You smile. You let me hold you like you’re not losing sleep over these thoughts.”

Your breath shivered from your lungs.

His hand dipped between your thighs again, slipping beneath the lace of your panties.

“Let me be very clear,” he whispered. “I haven’t fucked you because I respect you. Because I want our first time to mean something. Not because you’re young. Not because you’re not ready. But because I am trying to not ruin this before I can give you everything you deserve.”

One finger slid inside you, slow and deep.

You gasped.

“I want you,” he growled, his other hand holding your hip firm. “I dream about you.”

Another finger slid in beside the first. The stretch made your hips jerk, breath catching in your throat.

Your hands curled around his shoulders. Your forehead dropped against his collarbone as he started to move in earnest, deep strokes that made your thighs tremble.

But there was a tension in his body. Not just lust. Something colder.

“You should’ve told me,” he said, voice low but sharp, like a blade sliding under your skin. “All those thoughts? All that doubt? You kept it to yourself and let it fester.”

You whimpered. “I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did,” he cut in, curling his fingers just right. “You let it eat you up instead of coming to me.”

Your body clenched around him, the pressure mounting fast, the edge in your periphery. One more stroke, just one, and you’d go crashing over it.

“Namjoon, please—” you gasped, hips twitching.

But just as the words left your mouth, he stopped.

Just like that.

Pulled his fingers out of you with a slow, final drag, wiping them calmly on the leg of his tailored slacks.

Your breath hitched, a broken sound that made his eyes soften for half a second. But he said nothing as he gently reached between your thighs, adjusted your panties back into place, and smoothed down your dress.

Then his fingers moved to your hair, brushing it away from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

Still so tender it made your stomach twist.

The SUV rolled to a stop.

Namjoon straightened his jacket, adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, then opened the door and stepped out.

You followed, legs shaking slightly, to find his hand was already waiting. He helped you down like nothing had happened, then placed a firm hand at the small of your back as you walked together into the building.

The elevator doors closed behind you.

He didn’t speak. Just kissed your temple softly, like he hadn’t just left you a trembling mess on the verge of breaking.

You stood beside him in silence, heart racing, nerves fraying at the edges. Because Namjoon wasn’t angry, he was calm. And that scared you more than anything else.

The moment the penthouse doors shut behind you, the air shifted.

You turned to speak—to apologize again, maybe—but his hand gently touched your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His eyes were leveled like glass over something dark and churning.

“Go to the bedroom,” he said softly, his voice low and even. “Strip and sit on the edge of the bed. I’ll be there in a moment.”

You blinked. “Namjoon—”

“Now, baby.”

He kissed your cheek. Then turned away, moving into the kitchen.

Your heart pounded, but you obeyed.

You walked slowly, your heels silent on the polished floor, your body buzzing with a mix of nerves and anticipation. The bedroom felt colder than usual, or maybe it was just your skin. Your fingers trembled as you unzipped your dress to let it pool at your feet, slid off your panties, and climbed onto the edge of the bed.

Waiting.

You crossed your legs, then uncrossed them, then folded your hands in your lap like a schoolgirl awaiting judgment.

You were still soaked.

Worse now, even.

Every brush of cool air against your thighs made you shiver.

And then you heard them…footsteps.

Namjoon entered, minus his jacket and tie, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, the top buttons of his shirt undone. His chest peeked through, golden and smooth and maddeningly defined.

He looked like a punishment dressed in designer.

And he was staring at you like a man two seconds from devouring you whole.

“I had it all planned,” he said quietly, walking toward you, each step controlled. “A vacation. Somewhere far, somewhere warm. No work. No school. Just you. Me. A few days of spoiling you before I ever slid between your pretty thighs.”

He unbuttoned another button. You swallowed hard.

“I was going to wine you, dine you, dress you in diamonds. Then take you to bed and bury myself so deep inside you you’d forget anyone else ever tried.”

You whimpered, thighs squeezing together.

He stood before you now and undid his belt, letting it drop. His shirt followed.

“But that’s not what you wanted, is it, princess?” he murmured, letting his slacks fall next before slipping out of his boxer briefs. His cock was already hard, thick and flushed and glistening at the tip as he slowly stroked it. “Your greedy little cunt wants to be filled now, doesn’t it?”

You squirmed, eyes glued to the way his hand moved.

“Answer me, baby,” he said softly, warningly. “I don’t like repeating myself.”

You nodded, sheepish but burning with want.

He groaned at the sight of you. “Fuck, you’re so greedy,” he muttered. “Greedy and shy. It’s gonna ruin me.”

He leaned down and kissed you deep. It was rough, but tender, and a little desperate. Like he was punishing himself for waiting this long.

You moaned against his lips as he pushed you back on the bed, crawling over you with slow, aching deliberation. His hands trailed down your sides, smoothing over your skin, worshiping every inch.

Then his mouth was on your neck, slipping down to your collarbones, then trailing across your breasts.

He sucked a nipple into his mouth, his fingers teasing the other, switching back and forth until your body writhed beneath him.

Your fingers clutched at his hair, his shoulders, anything.

But when he kissed lower, trailing heat down your belly, he stopped just above your soaked folds.

His hand ghosted over your pussy, not touching, just hovering.

“You’ll be honest with me from now on,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours.

“Please—”

“Say it.”

You whined, back arching.

“Say it, baby. Promise me.”

You swallowed, hips twitching. “I’ll be—I’ll be honest…”

“With everything. What you want. What you need. What’s hurting you. I’m not a mind reader. So I listen when you speak.”

You nodded desperately. “Yes—yes, I promise.”

That was all it took.

His fingers slid between your folds, spreading you open. His tongue followed, hot and wild and sinful.

You cried out, one leg thrown over his shoulder as he devoured you with the precision of a man who knew exactly how you tasted. How you clenched. How you begged.

He stroked your walls while he sucked your clit, dragging his fingers in and out while curling them perfectly, his tongue relentless as he pulled wave after wave from you.

“Again,” he murmured when you collapsed from the first orgasm, lips slick with your release. “You’re not done.”

“Namjoon—please—”

“You can give me more, baby. I need to prep you for my cock,” he said, voice strained with restraint. “You think I’d forgive myself if I hurt you? Never.”

He added a third finger.

You screamed.

He kissed your thighs, your hips, your belly. “Good girl. That’s it. One more.”

Your body shook as another orgasm short circuited your nerves. Overwhelmed and overstimulated with pleasure, but he wasn't done.

Namjoon hovered over you, every line of his body controlled, like he was holding himself back with the last thread of his will.

Your thighs were trembling, slick with arousal, your chest rising and falling in ragged pulls of breath. His fingers were still wet with you, his tongue only just retreating from where it had drawn orgasm after orgasm from your ruined body.

He lifted from between your thighs to fold over you, caging you under his massive body as he settled against your dripping cunt.

He kissed you again, tongues dancing, as he lined himself up. The swollen head of his cock pressed gently against your entrance, and you gasped into his mouth, the stretch already making your thighs twitch.

“Breathe,” he whispered, lips brushing yours. “Let me in slow. I’ve got you.”

And he did.

Every inch of him stretched you open, cock thick and unrelenting. Your body arching and quaking beneath him as your pussy clenched instinctively around the intrusion, struggling to take him all.

You cried out, hands fisting the sheets beside you.

“Shh, baby,” he cooed, stilling inside you. “I know. I know—it’s a lot.”

His hand smoothed over your thigh, sliding up your waist to palm your breast, thumb brushing your nipple. He kissed the edge of your jaw, your temple, the crown of your head.

“I’m gonna fuck you until your pussy molds to my cock,” he murmured, voice hoarse with restraint. “So perfect, so tight… like you were made for me.”

You whimpered, already too full, already drowning.

But you didn’t want him to stop.

“N-Namjoon,” you gasped, voice thin and desperate, “please—”

“I’m here,” he whispered, brushing his lips against yours. “I’ve got you. You okay?”

You nodded, barely able to find your voice. “Yes.”

He kissed the corner of your mouth. “Tell me if anything doesn’t feel right. I need to hear you.”

You nodded, a little frantic this time.

And then he began to move.

The first thrust was slow. He pulled out just a bit, then eased back in, groaning against your neck as he bottomed out.

Your breath hitched. Your nails dug into his biceps, clawing for something to hold onto.

“Good girl,” he groaned. “You take me so well. So fucking tight.”

Another thrust. Then another.

Your eyes fluttered shut, mouth parted in a helpless moan as your body began to adjust, to crave the stretch and drag of him.

Then he shifted, hands gripping your hips with authority. Your thighs parted wider before he hooked one over his shoulder, folding you open.

Your breath caught, shocked at how much deeper he could go, how easily he reached places no one else had.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “That’s it. Just like that. Look at you—look how well you take me.”

You couldn’t. You couldn’t look. You couldn’t think. You could only feel.

He began to move harder now, his hand slipping between your bodies to toy with your clit. You jolted, gasped, a choked sound breaking from your throat.

Your hands scrambled across his shoulders, his back, searching for purchase, for anchor, as he drove into you with a pace that bordered on punishing, but was somehow still tender.

And his mouth? Filthy.

“Gonna ruin you, princess,” he growled, each word pressed hot against your throat. “Stretch your pussy open so wide you’ll forget what it felt like to be empty.”

He thrust harder and you swear you could have felt it in your spine, your toes curling as another strangled moan escaped your lips. Your walls fluttered, already clinging to him like you couldn’t bear the thought of being without him.

“You feel that?” he murmured, eyes locked on yours as he fucked into you with maddening precision. “How tight you are—how wet?”

You nodded, a broken sound catching in your throat.

He leaned in, biting softly at your jaw as his pace picked up. “You’re dripping,” he rasped, “making a mess of us both. My messy girl.”

His hand slipped between your thighs again, spreading the slick that coated your skin, groaning when he felt the way your arousal had soaked everything below.

“Wanna see you dripping down your thighs,” he said, voice darker now—carnal, hungry. “Wanna see the mess I make of you every time I pull out.”

But he didn’t.

He stayed buried deep, rocking into you slow and hard until your breath hitched again.

“You think I’m gonna stop after this, now that I’ve finally had you?” he murmured against your mouth. “No, baby. I’m gonna keep you full all night so I can watch my cum leak out every time you move.”

You whimpered utterly undone.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his gaze wild with something possessive and terrifyingly tender.

“I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else,” he whispered. “And you’re gonna thank me for it.”

A broken sob escaped your throat and his smirk was all teeth and hunger.

“God, listen to you,” he growled. “So fucking wet. You love this. Love how I fuck you.”

You couldn’t respond. Couldn’t think past the pleasure. Couldn’t speak past the pressure.

He brought you to the edge—once, twice—only to stop, to hold you there, writhing beneath him, begging with tears in your eyes.

Then he started again.

“Please,” you cried, “please—Joon—”

“You want it now?” he breathed, thumb circling your clit again. “You wanna cum around my cock, sweetheart?”

You nodded frantically, the tears spilling over.

“Do it,” he groaned. “Cum on my cock. Let me feel it.”

And you did.

You shattered around him, a scream tearing loose from your chest as your body seized, muscles clamping down around him like a vice, your cunt gushing with the force of it.

Soaking him, soaking the sheets.

Namjoon moaned, his head dropping to your shoulder as he buried himself to the hilt, shaking from the effort of holding back.

“Fuck—just like that, princess—so perfect—”

You trembled beneath him, your body raw and overstimulated, breath hitching in broken gasps as he fucked you through the aftershocks. Still thick inside you, still so achingly hard.

He hadn’t cum, not yet.

Even now, with your cunt milking him, fluttering greedily around his cock, Namjoon was still holding back.

He leaned over you, panting into your mouth, forehead resting against yours.

“Tell me something, baby…” he murmured, grinding deep, slow, torturously. “Have you been taking that little pill like we agreed?”

Your lashes fluttered, vision blurred. “Yes,” you whispered. “Every morning.”

He groaned like it hurt him. Like it broke him apart.

“You’re sure?”

You nodded, desperate. “I promise.”

He kissed you then, like he was anchoring himself in you.

“Good girl,” he rasped. “Because I’m not pulling out.”

You moaned, wrecked.

Namjoon growled low, finally surrendering to the need that had been clawing at him from the moment he laid eyes on you. His pace turned punishing again, each thrust deeper, more desperate, more consuming.

His hands were everywhere—your hips, your throat, your breasts, your thighs—like he needed every part of you to be his.

“I’m gonna cum inside you,” he gritted. “Fill you so full you feel me for days. Fuck you until you’re dripping.”

You sobbed his name, legs locking around his waist, pulling him in.

“Your pussy’s too good,” he groaned. “Can’t let it go. Can’t leave it empty ever again.”

And then, with one final desperate thrust, he came.

It wrecked him.

A cry tore from his chest as he spilled deep inside you, his cock throbbing with every pulse. You felt it, hot and thick and endless as he filled you, burying his face in your neck like the moment itself was too much to hold.

You clung to him, arms wrapped tight, heart hammering with the weight of everything between you.

Namjoon didn’t move. Didn’t pull out. Just stayed there inside you, wrapped around you, his breath stuttering against your skin. You were still trembling beneath him, your body humming, slick thighs clinging to his hips, his cum warm and thick inside you.

He lifted away from your neck, eyes dark, a little crazed, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. You blinked up at him, dazed, flushed, and boneless.

“Nam…joon” you whispered, voice barely there.

His thumb traced the edge of your jaw, his other hand skimming down your spine. “You feel better than anything I’ve ever imagined.”

He kissed your cheek. Your nose. Your mouth.

Then he shifted, flipping you gently but quickly until you were on top of him, his cock still half hard, slick with both of your release, already starting to throb with need again.

You gasped at the sudden movement, blinking down at him.

“Ride me,” he said softly. “I want to watch you take it.”

Your breath caught, your body still sore and twitching with aftershocks. But he looked at you like you were divine, like you were the universe’s best kept secret, made flesh and laid bare in his bed.

You nodded slowly, hands bracing on his chest.

Namjoon grunted softly as you sank back down, the stretch just as intense the second time, maybe more so. His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he filled you again.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, his head falling back.

You whimpered, thighs trembling as you began to move, trying to find your rhythm.

Namjoon’s hands immediately moved, one cupping your ass, the other sliding up your front to squeeze your tits.

“You’re perfect like this,” he panted. “So fucking pretty on top of me. Look at you.”

His fingers pinched your nipples, and your pussy clenched around him so hard he nearly bucked off the bed.

“Ohhh fuck, do that again,” he growled. “Clench like that again and I’ll cum just from watching you.”

You moaned, your back arching as his lips found your breasts. Pressing them together in his hands, he suckled on both of your nipples at once. Licking and biting and dragging his tongue until you were whimpering with every bounce of your hips.

The stimulation was overwhelming.

Your body pulsing, your head spinning, but you kept going, desperate for more, for all of him.

He groaned into your skin, sucking harder as your movements faltered.

“Legs tired?” he murmured, voice all velvet and sin. “Let me help.”

Before you could speak, his hands gripped your hips and he started thrusting up into you, slow at first making your breath catch.

Then harder, and faster, and deeper.

You cried out, hands scrambling for purchase on his chest as he slammed up into you with unrelenting purpose.

“You love this,” he growled. “Love being fucked like this, don’t you?”

You could barely nod, your head falling forward, nails digging into his skin.

And then he moved again.

Flipping you onto your stomach with an ease that made you feel weightless. His hands lifted your hips, arching your back to meet him as he knelt behind you.

You cried out as he pressed back in, the angle impossibly deep.

Namjoon groaned, one hand gripping your waist, the other pulling your arm behind your back, keeping you pinned.

Even like this, even with him fully sheathed inside you, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the room, he was still gentle in the way he touched you. Still kissed your shoulder. Still whispered your name like a prayer.

But all the other words spilling from his mouth?

Anything but gentle.

“Can’t stop thinking about this pussy, even when I’m inside of you,” he groaned. “You’re unreal. Taking me so well. You’re mine, baby. All mine.”

“Ah, Namjoon—please I don’t—”

“You said you wanted it,” he teased, voice thick with lust. “Said you wanted to be fucked, needed to be filled with my cock. You’re not throwing in the towel now, are you princess?”

You shook your head, body jerking from overstimulation, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

Namjoon pressed kisses along your spine, even as he kept thrusting. “That’s my girl. You’re being so good for me.”

Then his thumb was back on your clit, slow, soft circles that made your legs shake.

He could feel how close you were. Practically choking his cock while gushing around him.

“One more, sweetheart,” he whispered, breath hot against your ear. “Let me feel you cum one more time.”

You didn’t last much longer.

“Namjoon, Namjoon, Namjoon please—“

With a wrecked sob, your body clenched hard, your back arched as you came again, soaking his cock, your thighs trembling, your hands clawing at the sheets.

And this time he followed right behind you.

Namjoon growled, his body snapping forward, one arm curling under your waist to pull you back against him as he buried himself deep and came hard. His teeth sank into the soft skin of your shoulder, hard enough to mark, before his mouth soothed the sting with kisses as his cum filled you in desperate spurts.

You collapsed together, tangled and trembling, every nerve fried and every part of you claimed.

He didn’t pull out, not right away.

Just held you, kissed your spine, your shoulder, and your cheek. Even after the trembling stopped. Even after your breath evened out. Even after the heat between your bodies began to cool and the sweat on your skin began to dry. He held you like you were something he couldn’t risk letting slip through his fingers.

One arm wrapped around your waist, the other stroking slow, soothing lines along your thigh.

Your body was limp, your eyes fluttering shut, your breathing soft and shallow. You were barely conscious, but the way your fingers stayed curled around his wrist told him everything he needed to know.

You weren’t ready for distance.

He wasn’t either.

Still, eventually, he shifted with a soft grunt, murmuring, “Easy, baby,” as he carefully pulled out of you, his cock soft and slick with the mess you’d made together.

You whimpered, your body twitching at the loss.

“I know, princess,” he cooed. “I know. You were perfect.”

You barely registered his movements as he slipped out of bed, disappearing into the ensuite. A moment later, he returned with a warm, damp cloth, his brows furrowed in concentration, his jaw tight from focus.

He eased your legs apart again and cleaned you gently, whispering soft apologies every time you flinched, every time you whimpered from the sensitivity.

“You did so good for me, baby. So fucking good.”

The cloth disappeared, and a moment later you felt the dip of the bed, the heat of his chest returning.

“Drink this, sweetheart,” he murmured, holding a glass of water to your lips. “Nice and slow.”

You sipped, eyes barely open, and he watched every swallow like it was holy.

“Good girl,” he praised softly. “That’s it.”

When you’d had enough, he set the glass down on the nightstand and kissed your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose.

Then, he reached for the shirt he’d discarded earlier, soft black cotton, and carefully tugged it over your head, guiding your arms through the sleeves like he was dressing porcelain.

You blinked slowly, lips curved in the faintest smile. “Your shirt…”

“Yours now,” he murmured, brushing your hair from your face. “Looks better on you.”

He tucked you into the sheets, climbed in beside you, and pulled you into his chest with your face pressed to his throat, your limbs tangled with his. His arms a fortress. Scent wrapping around you like an extra blanket.

“Sleep, baby,” he whispered against your hair. “I’ve got you.”

You murmured something soft in return—unintelligible, band quiet—and Namjoon’s heart swelled so full it ached.

His thumb brushed lazy circles over your hip. “I don’t think you even realize what you’re doing to me,” he whispered.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, lips lingering there for a moment like he was trying to brand the feeling into his bones.

Another kiss.

“Sleep, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

And just like that, wrapped in his arms, blanketed in his warmth, you drifted off.

Namjoon stayed awake long after your breathing had evened out, just watching you, touching your skin like it was a secret. Trying to figure out how someone could already mean this much to him without even trying.

“You’re becoming so important to me, princess,” he whispered, voice barely audible in the dark. “More than I expected… more than I should let you be.”

He inhaled deeply, eyes fluttering closed for a long moment.

“It’s getting hard already to pretend this is casual,” he added. “Hard to keep pretending I don’t already need you.”

The words lingered, suspended in the hush between your breathing. Namjoon pressed one last kiss to your temple, his voice tinged with that feeling that stirred in him the first time he’d heard your laugh.

“I’m not letting you go. You’re mine.”

ten | masterlist

[mrsvante]

wow, i’m honestly speechless. thank you so much for reading and giving this such a detailed review. i’d be lying if i said these kind of reviews weren’t my favorite 🤭 not to ruin too much of the awe for you but as far as the apocalyptic setting, i took a page from current events and put jin & mc in a world where earth is actively in decay. you’re giving me ideas with jin’s brother being jungkook…spinoff maybe?? 🤔 again thank you so, so much for your kind words and for reading 💜💜💜💜

From Scratch

pairing: seokjin x reader

genre: post apocalypse au, strangers to lovers, slow burn

summary: the end doesn’t come with fire or noise, but with flickering lights and silence. the world doesn’t end all at once. it unravels quietly, like breath leaving a body. it’s not fate or luck. just… timing and the choice to stay. it’s not a love story, not yet. just two people learning how to survive in a world that’s trying to forget them.

warnings: slow burning tension, a little grief, mentions of abandonment, harsh survival, mentions of death, injuries, trauma responses, insomnia, food scarcity, trust issues, light violence, the ache of being seen 😫

word count: 9,785

a word from our sponsors 💁🏽‍♀️: not only has jin been wrecking tf out of me despite my husband being home. this song has been on repeat daily for like two weeks, it’s just so tragically comforting. hopefully that makes sense, enjoy!

You remember the color of the sky that day.

Not the headlines or the buzz of warnings that began like a murmur and bloomed into full blown static. Not the shaky videos passed between strangers with trembling fingers. Not even the way a man on the train platform wept openly, bent over the screen of his phone, face drained pale like he’d just witnessed something too big to name.

Just the sky.

Lavender gray like something bruised, the moment before a wound swells. You remember thinking how beautiful it looked and how wrong. The clouds were too still. The light too bright, even though the sun never broke through.

It looked painted. Or poisoned.

You adjusted the straps on your backpack. Double-checked the screenshot on your phone. A dot on a map circled in red, coordinates near a town you hadn’t seen since childhood. A safe place. Higher elevation, limited population, freshwater source. If the rumors were true, it had been evacuated early and quietly.

That was the plan.

Get out of the city before things went fully dark. Live quietly. Off grid. Long enough for the world to remember how to breathe again.

You weren’t the only one with that idea.

The train station was packed shoulder to shoulder with bodies that pretended to be calm. Parents whispering into their children’s ears. A woman humming to herself. A boy clutching a stuffed rabbit in one hand and a cracked iPad in the other.

You tried not to look at anyone too long. Tried not to think about the voicemail from your cousin that morning, the one who told you, “Don’t wait. Don’t ask questions. If you’ve got somewhere to go, go.”

So you did.

When the train screeched into the station, you nearly cried with relief.

There was no announcement. No flashing departure time. No conductor’s voice through the speakers. Just the hiss of the doors opening, and the first press of movement as the crowd surged forward.

You stepped on board.

And as the train began to pull away, your gaze flicked outside.

That’s when you saw him.

—

Seokjin stood on the platform like he didn’t belong there.

His gaze fixed upward, not at the train, not at the crowd, but at the sky, as if it might open at any moment and speak to him.

You only caught a glimpse.

But he saw you clearly.

A flash of your face in the window. Eyes shadowed beneath the fluorescent lighting. Tension in your jaw. You looked like you were pretending to be brave, and failing.

He didn’t board.

Didn’t even move.

He waited until the train disappeared, then slid his phone back into his jacket pocket. The last message he’d received from his younger brother was sent three weeks ago. No punctuation. Just a pin drop and the words ‘heading this way. don’t wait.’

He was still trying to figure out what that meant.

—

The train swayed gently as it sped past buildings that blurred into each other. Gray cement bled into rusted signs and rows of cracked glass windows.

You sat near the back, facing a pair of empty seats.

Your backpack stayed clutched to your chest like a shield.

Three people sat clustered across the aisle. An older man reading a newspaper, a girl around your age with a bandaged hand, and a toddler who wouldn’t stop humming.

There was no wifi, no cell service. Just the hum of the train and the flickering lights above your head.

You checked the map again.

You’d be getting off at Riverstead Junction, four stops from the city. From there, it would be a hike. Maybe two days on foot. The survival forums said it was safe enough if you didn’t stop. If you didn’t trust anyone.

You let the train lull you, eyes drifting shut for a moment.

When they opened again, the toddler was gone. Her mother stood at the door with her, rocking gently. You could see her lips moving, murmuring a something into the child’s hair.

The lights flickered again, the train slowed. And then for the first time you felt it, a low rumble.

Like the sound of something cracking deep underground.

Your breath caught.

You looked around, but no one else seemed alarmed. They were used to it, maybe, or pretending to be. The man with the newspaper didn’t even glance up.

But your instincts wouldn’t quiet, something’s not right.

—

Seokjin knew the sound well.

It started after the third major meteor shower, when the atmosphere had begun collapsing in quiet, invisible ways. It wasn’t always visible. ut if you listened closely there was a pressure to it. Like your bones were being warned before your brain caught up.

He adjusted the strap of his duffel bag and kept walking, the station behind him dissolving into silence.

—

The train didn’t make it.

You weren’t surprised, but naively you’d hoped.

It was dusk when the train finally groaned to a halt. People shifted uneasily. Someone jiggled the intercom. A few whispered into phones that no longer had service. There was a nervous kind of denial in the way people stayed seated, clutching their bags like life rafts. As if the train might suddenly jolt forward again.

You waited ten minutes, fifteen. Each second pressed down on you with a heavier certainty. No rescue was coming.

You stood.

No one stopped you.

The emergency release hissed at your touch, the door creaking open just enough to spill out the smell of wet pine and cold dirt. You stepped out. Gravel crunched beneath your boots, uneven and loose beneath your weight. The air hit your face sharp and clean, tinged with something that smelled like coming rain.

Around you was nothing.

No lights.

No hum of distant cities.

Just a soft, sprawling dusk folding into trees. Row after row of dark silhouettes bending in the breeze, whispering among themselves.

You adjusted the straps of your backpack.

Behind you, footsteps.

Hesitant and scattered as people trickled out in twos and threes, looking around as if a bus would pull up beside the train to carry them away.

Taking a deep breath and pulling the straps on your backpack just a little tighter, you walked. You didn’t know where you were going from here, but staying felt worse. You couldn't say how many hours has passed before your legs started to give out.

The roads were cracked and overgrown. Your phone battery finally died. You lost count of the people who passed you. Some with bikes, others on foot, all of them locked into that same singular, desperate focus.

Forward.

Always forward.

One man stopped long enough to offer you a canteen. He didn’t say a word. Just nodded and kept going. You murmured a thank you too late for him to hear it.

You slept curled beside a rock that night, arms tucked around your bag, dreaming of nothing. By the time the sun rose, your feet had blistered.

You kept walking.

—

He found you on the fourth day.

You were slumped against a guardrail near what used to be a scenic overlook, though the trees beyond had all collapsed in on themselves, like dominoes made of rot.

Your throat was raw and your hands scraped. You weren’t sure if you were asleep or dying.

And then there was a voice.

“You look like shit.”

You blinked.

The light hurt your eyes. A silhouette stood above you. Broad shouldered and backlit by overcast sky, holding something out.

A bottle of water.

You didn’t move.

“Fair enough,” he said after a beat. “You can throw it at me if you’re worried. But I promise it’s just water.”

Your fingers twitched.

You took it.

Shakily unscrewed the top and drank too fast. You didn’t stop despite coughing, letting it spill down your chin.

He crouched.

“I’ve been watching you walk the past mile. I figured you were either running from someone or really determined to find something better than this shithole.”

Your voice cracked. “Which one is it for you?”

He smiled, just barely.

“Honestly? Looking for someone who isn’t looking for me.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

He didn’t seem to need an answer.

“I’m Jin,” he offered simply. “And I know you don’t trust me yet, but I’ve got extra supplies. A fire kit. Food, if you like beans. Thought we could walk a little farther together. You up for it?”

You weren’t sure.

But you nodded anyway, and that was how it started.

No romance or recognition.

Just the sound of your name leaving his mouth for the first time hours later, spoken softly across a fire you didn’t build, with hands you didn’t trust yet offering half of a ration bar wrapped in cloth.

The morning after he found you, you woke to the smell of smoke and the sound of someone humming.

Just a thread of melody, barely there, curling into the early light. You stirred in the crinkling warmth of the emergency blanket he’d wrapped around you sometime during the night.

Your bones ached.

Your throat felt dry again, even though you’d sipped from his bottle before falling asleep.

A dull pain throbbed in your left ankle where the slope of the hill had twisted it beneath your weight. You hadn’t even realized you’d cried until your fingers brushed your cheek and came away salt damp.

You sat up.

He was crouched near a makeshift fire, poking at a tin can with a fork that looked too clean for the world you were living in. He didn’t turn when you stirred, didn’t greet you, just kept humming under his breath.

“Did you sleep?”

“Define sleep.”

He didn’t look up as you pulled the blanket tighter around your shoulders. There were other questions. Obvious ones.

Where are we headed?

Why are you helping me?

Why did you share your supplies when you could’ve walked right past?

But your voice caught on something smaller.

“What were you humming?”

His fork paused.

He turned then, finally, eyes bleary but warm. “Just something my mom used to sing when I got sick.”

“…You remember it?”

“Only the melody. The words are gone.” He smiled faintly. “I think she made most of them up anyway.”

You didn’t say anything. Just watched him for a moment.

His knuckles tight around the handle of the fork, the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath a threadbare jacket. The world had collapsed. People were scattering like birds ahead of a storm. And here he was. Heating canned food. Humming lullabies.

You should have been more afraid of him.

Instead, you felt… strangely calm.

Maybe that was the danger, or maybe it was exhaustion.

Jin didn’t ask for your story. Not that first day, not the second either. Instead, he told you little things.

“I used to be a cook. Well—technically I was a variety show host for a while, but I cooked more than I performed.”

You blinked at him.

“A what?”

“You don’t know Back with Bangtan?”

You stared blankly.

His lips curled. “Wow. That’s humbling.”

He didn’t explain further. Just took another bite of cold beans and offered you the rest.

The road narrowed into a slope that hadn’t been cleared in months, overgrown with stubborn weeds and splintered bark. Every few steps, you had to stop and wince through the throb in your ankle. Jin slowed without comment. Always just a step ahead, never too far.

By midday, your stomach growled so loudly it startled a bird into flight.

Jin handed you a protein bar.

“You don’t have to—”

“Just take it,” he said gently.

You did.

You chewed slowly, equal parts grateful and embarrassed.

Later, when you passed a rundown gas station, he lingered behind to scavenge the shelves. He came back with a can of peaches and a plastic dinosaur keychain.

“Why that?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Felt like the little guy needed a second chance.”

You watched him clip it onto the zipper of his bag.

He didn’t look at you when he said, “People should get those too, if they want them.”

That night, you both camped near an old collapsed barn. It had once been painted red, but the weather had stripped it, leaving only bones behind. Wind slipped through the beams like whispers.

You sat beside the fire with your knees pulled to your chest.

Jin peeled an orange he’d swiped from a roadside stand you both passed without stopping. He handed you half.

You ate in silence.

When the fire cracked, you spoke.

“I left someone behind.”

He didn’t flinch.

“My cousin. She… she was supposed to meet me. But the roads were closed. Her last message just said to run.”

Jin’s voice was low. “Did you?”

You nodded. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

He looked into the fire for a long time before saying, “My brother’s out here. Somewhere.”

You waited.

“He’s younger than me. Impulsive. He thinks he’s invincible.” A breath. “He sent me a pin. Just a location. No message. I haven’t heard anything since.”

“Do you think he’s okay?”

“I think… he’s smart. And stubborn.” His jaw clenched slightly. “But so is the world.”

That was the first time you saw it—the grief he kept pressed behind his calm. You didn’t say anything. Just passed him your orange peel so he could toss it into the fire.

—

You stopped walking on the third day. Not because you wanted to, but because your ankle finally gave out.

It happened somewhere past the empty chapel and the overturned delivery truck with a crow’s nest in the cab. You shifted your weight too fast, lost your footing, and dropped hard onto the gravel.

Jin was beside you in seconds.

“Hey—hey. Breathe. It’s okay.”

Your eyes stung.

“I can’t—”

“You can.”

“I can’t walk.”

“Then don’t.” His voice was firm. “You’re not walking anywhere today.”

You sat there shaking, hating how hot your face felt, how fast your heart was beating. Not from the pain, but from the shame.

He didn’t rush you. Didn’t scold. Just pulled a bandage from his bag and knelt beside you.

“May I?”

You nodded.

His hands were careful. Too gentle for someone who had lived through the kind of violence you both had. He wrapped your ankle slowly and with care.

“Okay,” he said when he finished. “Now for the fun part.”

You blinked. “What?”

And then he crouched lower, bent his back, and motioned with his head. “Up you go.”

“…You’re going to carry me?”

He smirked. “You’re small. I’m strong. Don’t argue.”

You hesitated.

He looked back at you, one eyebrow raised.

“Unless you’d rather crawl?”

You exhaled a laugh through your nose, it felt like the first one in weeks, and climbed onto his back. And he carried you, for miles. That night you asked him why.

Why he helped you.

Why he stayed.

Why he didn’t just keep walking.

Jin stared at the fire. “Because it’s not about surviving anymore. It’s about how.”

You looked at him, really looked, and you saw it again. That stillness in him that wasn’t numbness, it was something quieter.

Maybe he’d always been like that.

Or maybe the world had scraped him clean.

You didn’t know yet that he had a notebook in his bag. The small, worn journal filled with lists and fragments. Names of the people he’d seen. Places he’d passed. Things he wanted to remember in case there was no one left to remember him.

He never let you see it.

But some nights, after you were asleep, he’d take it out and write in the margins beside your name.

First saw her on the train.

Didn’t smile.

Took the water anyway.

And later…still here.

You wake before the fire dies.

Its glow pulses in the dirt beside you, the flames low. The air is cold in that empty unfamiliar way it gets before the sky has fully committed to morning. Damp, still, edged in silver mist.

Your shoulders ache. Your left ankle throbs in protest beneath the emergency wrap, and the emergency blanket bunched around you is half covered in leaves.

You don’t remember lying down.

Just Jin’s voice the night before. It had just enough authority to make you listen, but not enough to make you afraid.

“Stay off that foot. I’ll set up camp.”

And the sound of his hands moving through the dark, unzipping compartments, striking a flint, tearing open a protein bar with his teeth. The small sounds of someone surviving. Someone who’s done this more than once, who expected to do it again.

You sit up slowly, blanket falling away from your shoulders. You’re stiff. Starving.

You glance to your left.

He’s there, not asleep, awake but just still.

Sitting cross legged beside the fire, elbows resting on his knees, fingers curled around a dented can of something he’s turning absently in his hands. The firelight casts his features in gold and shadow. His cheekbones sharper than you remembered, mouth drawn into something too tired to be called a smile.

You don’t say anything.

You’re still not sure how to talk to him.

Still not sure why he stayed.

He doesn’t look at you, but his voice comes quiet, like it’s been waiting for you to stir.

“Morning.”

You clear your throat, but it’s dry. “Did you sleep?”

His eyes flick to you. “Define sleep.”

You huff a breath. A sound almost like laughter. Almost.

Your voice feels like rusted hinges. “Did I snore?”

“You didn’t make a sound.”

That makes you sit up straighter. “Really?”

His eyes rest on you a second longer before he looks back down at the can in his hands. “That’s not a compliment. People who don’t make sounds in their sleep usually aren’t dreaming. Means your body doesn’t trust the quiet.”

You blink.

He tosses the can into his lap and stretches. The movement pulls his shirt tight across his chest, a faded navy thermal with a tear at the shoulder seam. He’s still wearing the same jeans. There’s a new scuff on his cheek, a streak of dried sap on his forearm.

Despite all of that, still handsome, irritatingly so.

You look away.

“Thanks,” you murmur. “For last night.”

Jin shrugs. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

His gaze lifts then. Right to you.

For a moment, the air between you stills.

Then he stands.

“You hungry?”

You nod, too quickly.

He walks to his pack without waiting for an answer and returns with a foil pouch. Peels it open. Offers it to you with two fingers, like it’s no big deal.

You reach for it with both hands. The smell of artificial maple hits your nose. Instant oats, sweetened and cold.

“I didn’t realize it was a five star breakfast,” you deadpan.

“Don’t get used to it. I’m almost out of that one.”

You eat in silence.

The world around you crackles and breathes. Wind shifts through trees overhead. Somewhere far off, a bird calls and receives no answer.

“Do you have a route?” you ask quietly. “A destination?”

“Sort of.”

“That’s vague.”

“I’m a vague kind of guy.”

You glance at him. He’s watching the embers again.

“My brother,” he says finally. “He was last seen near the border. Around Red Ridge.”

You blink. “That’s a week’s walk from here.”

“I know.”

You chew slowly. “You’re going to keep walking?”

“I was, yeah.”

“Even if he’s not—”

“I’m going anyway.”

Something in his voice closes like a door so, you don’t press. You just set the empty pouch beside you and watch the fire burn down.

The first time you try walking again, you only make it five steps before the pain stops you cold. You double over on a hiss, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out.

“Okay,” Jin says behind you. “Nope. Sit down.”

You grit your teeth. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

You wave him off. “I can manage.”

He walks up behind you and crouches. “Don’t be stubborn.”

You glance over your shoulder, half laughing. “That’s rich coming from you.”

He sighs.

And then, without ceremony, he kneels, turns his back to you, and tugs your arm over his shoulder.

“Climb on.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I’m not letting you carry me like a damsel.”

He cranes his neck to meet your eye. “Fine. Then like a stubborn idiot.”

You scowl.

He grins. It’s the first real grin you’ve seen from him. Perfect, super cocky, but undeniably…warm.

“Come on,” he says. “You can hit me later.”

You hesitate.

And then you climb onto his back.

His hands adjust your thighs like it’s nothing. Your arms hook around his neck. His scent is warm and familiar,smoke and sweat and something faintly herbal, like old cologne that never quite wore off.

When he stands you gasp. He doesn’t even wobble.

“Told you.“ he murmurs.

You press your cheek to the space between his shoulders and don’t answer.

The truth is—you’re scared to speak. Because it feels safe here. Too safe. Like you could fall asleep against him and not worry about waking up to find him gone.

And you’ve learned not to believe in things like that.

Not anymore.

He doesn’t ask about your ankle again. Doesn’t ask about the cousin you left behind, or the place you’re headed, or what made you decide to leave the city in the first place.

Instead, he tells you stories. Most are short and dumb, almost pointless.

“Once I ate twelve eggs in one sitting on a dare. I couldn’t look at an omelet for a year.”

“During my intern days, I thought I’d never make it. I almost quit six times.”

“I used to dream of owning a big yellow dog and naming him Bartholomew. Don’t ask me why.”

Sometimes you respond, and other times you just listen. The world narrows to the sound of his voice and the steady rhythm of his boots. At one point, he stops to let you down beside an abandoned farmhouse.

He gestures at the lopsided fence.

“Give me ten minutes. I’ll get us dinner.”

“Dinner?”

But he’s already hopping over the fence and disappearing behind a grove of bare apple trees. You sit on a stone ledge and pick bark from the soles of your shoes, too stunned to protest.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s back with a rusted tin pot, a handful of wild greens, and three eggs.

You stare at him. “You’re magic.”

“I’m observant.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

He just smirks. And when he lights the fire, boils the water, and gently cracks the eggs into it he hums again. That same wordless lullaby. You don’t ask what it means.

That night, as you both lie beneath the stars with your bodies lined shoulder to shoulder, you whisper, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

He exhales, slow and thoughtful.

“Because,” he says, after a pause so long you think he might not answer at all, “I think it would’ve been really easy to keep walking when I saw you on the road.”

You don’t move.

“I think it would’ve been easier,” he adds, voice low, “but I would’ve regretted it. Probably forever. However long that is.”

When you turn your head toward him, he’s already looking at you. And for the first time, you realize his stillness isn’t cold. It’s steady, like an anchor in the middle of all this unraveling. You nod, it’s barely enough for him to see, but he sees.

Of course he sees.

—

The next town is a ghost.

You see it from the ridge before the road begins its descent. Shuttered storefronts, crooked telephone poles, mailboxes swallowed by ivy. The trees thin as you approach, and in the silence between each footstep, you can almost imagine what this place used to sound like.

Now there’s only the creak of a loose sign on its hinge, one corner flapping like it’s waving you in.

Jin glances at you.

“Still good?”

You nod.

Your ankle is better. Not whole. But better. You can walk without wincing now, though you still favor one side. You’ve stopped apologizing for it.

Jin never made you, just handed you a long stick to help you keep balance.

The two of you move slow, scanning the edges of buildings and broken fences. There’s a pattern to it now. His eyes track left, yours sweep right. You’ve developed this unspoken rhythm, the kind that happens when people walk the same path for long enough.

The gas station is looted.

The pharmacy, ransacked.

But the corner diner? Her windows are shattered, and there's a layer of dust on every surface. You still manage to snag a few dusty cans of soup behind the bar, along with two half used candles and a tin of waterproof matches.

Jin grins triumphantly.

You sit on the counter and let your legs swing. He joins you after a minute, sliding onto the stool beside you and shaking the match tin near his ear like it might speak.

“You ever work in a place like this?” he asks.

You shake your head. “No. I… I used to manage events.”

“What kind?”

“Weddings. Fundraisers. Mostly boring stuff.”

“That’s not boring.”

“It is when no one shows up happy and no one leaves satisfied.”

He huffs. “I did one wedding gig before. I was supposed to sing. Ended up helping in the kitchen instead. The groom’s dad forgot to confirm catering.”

“What happened?”

He smiles. “I boiled twenty seven eggs and burned a whole tray of dumplings. Bride still cried.”

“I mean, I would too.”

“Right?”

The moment stretches and you glance at his hands. They’re resting on the counter, much bigger than yours, knuckles chapped, a faint mark at the base of one thumb. He catches you looking, but doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he shifts toward you and says quietly, “You good to walk another hour, or do you want to rest here?”

You look around the diner. There’s a hollow feeling it gives you. Maybe it was once warm and welcoming but it looks sad and forgotten now.

“I’d rather keep moving.”

He nods. “Then let’s move.”

That evening, you find an old firewatch station on the edge of the next hill. It looks like it was abandoned well before the world collapsed. Three wooden steps lead up to the door, which hangs open on its hinges like a mouth agape. Inside is filled with dust, leaves, and a nest of twigs piled in the far corner.

Jin looks around once, then shrugs. “We’ve slept in worse.”

You set your pack down and kick aside the debris near the window. The view is something out of a dream, an endless sea of trees, rolling like waves in the dusk. You wonder what it looked like before the sky turned strange.

Jin lights a candle and places it in the window. You give him a look and he answers without needing the question.

“If someone’s out there, then they’ll see it.”

“What if it’s not someone good?”

He meets your gaze. “We’ll know by how fast they move toward the light.”

You swallow.

He pulls out his notebook after that. The one he’s always scribbling in when you’re not watching. You catch a glimpse of lines and numbers, some circled, some crossed out.

You say, without meaning to, “You keep a list of places?”

His fingers still. Then slowly close the cover.

“Something like that.”

“You don’t let me see it.”

“I don’t let anyone see it.”

The air between you cools.

You look back out the window. “Okay.”

He closes the book, stands, and walks to the corner of the room. Without facing you, he says softly, “It’s not about you. I just… I write things down that don’t always make sense.”

You turn to him. “Like what?”

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he moves to the bedroll and kneels, fiddling with the folds like they’ve misbehaved.

You don’t ask again, not that night.

But later, long after you’ve laid down and turned away, you hear the scratch of his pen. And your name, whispered softly under his breath like a prayer he’s afraid of saying too loud.

You snap at him the next morning.

It’s stupid.

You’re halfway down a ravine, trying to collect water from a stream that smells slightly of sulfur. Your foot slips but you catch yourself with a curse, and Jin moves to grab your arm.

“Don’t,” you snap.

He blinks. “What?”

“Just—don’t touch me.”

His hand drops instantly.

You regret it the second you see his face. He doesn’t look hurt. Just… distant. Like he’s shutting something away.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, voice thick.

He doesn’t respond, just walks ahead. The silence stretches but you follow anyway. At the top of the ridge, you sit on a fallen log and pull your hood low. The wind bites your ears. Jin’s footsteps crunch to a stop beside you.

He doesn’t sit, just says, “You don’t have to talk about it. But if there’s something I need to know—”

“There isn’t.”

The lie tastes sour, he nods, and you don’t say another word for the rest of the day.

You find a creek the next evening. The sun is low and red, painting the rocks in bruised gold. You peel off your shoes and wade in without thinking. Water shocking against your skin, the cold so sharp it feels like a reset.

Jin stays on the bank, watching, but after a minute he says, “You shouldn’t go too deep.”

“I’m not.”

“I’m just saying—”

“I know how to not drown, Jin.”

The words snap too fast.

He sighs. “Okay.”

You go still.

“I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine.”

You look at him and the look he gives you is… unreadable. Like he’s trying to be patient with a wound he can’t see.

“I’m just so tired,” you say quietly. “I’m tired.”

“I know.”

That night, you both sleep beside the creek. The sound of the water is steady, almost cleansing. When you wake in the middle of the night to find that you’ve rolled closer, your hand just barely brushing his, neither of you pulls away.

You just breathe, together.

The next day is quiet.

You walk in silence. Eat in silence. Rest in silence.

And when dusk falls, Jin builds the fire too close to the edge of the trail for you to feel comfortable.

“What if someone sees?” you ask.

He doesn’t look up. “Then they’ll know we’re here.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“No,” he says. “It’s honest.”

You sit down hard, arms folded.

He raises a brow. “You want to take the next watch shift?”

You grumble. “I want a warm bath and a real bed.”

He laughs, really laughs this time. It echoes like something ancient but new. You smile despite yourself.

“You’re not what I expected,” you admit.

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. Someone colder. Or crueler.”

He looks into the fire, then, so soft you almost don’t hear it, “I think I was, once.”

You watch the flames flicker.

“I don’t think you are now.”

He doesn’t answer, but in the way his shoulders loosen, you think he hears you. And maybe, for the first time, he believes you.

—

It starts with a smell.

Smoke, but not firewood. It smells synthetic, chemical.

Something caught in the back of your throat. You freeze mid-step, the cracked earth beneath your boots giving way to gravel. Jin doesn’t notice at first. He’s a few paces ahead, hands in his pockets, scanning the edge of a boarded up library with the casual sharpness of someone who’s been watching for shadows since before the world started unraveling.

But you don’t move, because the smell is too familiar, it reminds you of…no.

You clamp down on the thought before it finishes forming, but the memory’s already rising.

It was a hotel.

Neutral tones. Faux warmth. The kind of place where nothing has edges and everything smells like lemon disinfectant and recycled air.

Your cousin’s baby shower had just ended.

You remember the cake. It had pink icing and little booties drawn in fondant. You remember laughing. Not a big, belly laugh. But enough to feel it in your chest.

You remember your mother standing by the wall of windows, her face backlit by soft lamplight, arms folded, eyes on the horizon like she could already see the world ending.

You walked over with a drink in your hand and asked what she was thinking about.

She turned her head, slow and quiet, and smiled at you in that way she only did when something was already breaking.

“I don’t think people really survive,” she said.

You blinked. “What?”

“They just… outlive things.”

You laughed. She didn’t.

A moment later, she looked down at your hand—still wrapped around your glass—and touched it with two fingers.

“Don’t wait too long,” she said.

You opened your mouth to ask what she meant, but someone called her name from across the room, and she was gone.

You never got the answer, she died six days later. Not from the collapse. Not from fire or flood or sickness, but from just from being human. And you’ve been outliving things ever since.

Jin’s voice brings you back.

“Hey,” he says, careful. “You okay?”

You blink once. The library reappears. So does the sky. The smell’s already faded—just burnt plastic, maybe.

You nod. “Yeah. Just spaced.”

He doesn’t press, but his eyes linger a second too long before he turns back to the door.

The library’s roof is caved in on one side. Books are scattered across the floor in brittle heaps, spines curling from exposure. The air inside is dry, dust motes spinning through the beam of Jin’s flashlight like flecks of old gold. He steps carefully over a fallen shelf and lifts a small leather bound book from the floor.

You glance over his shoulder.

“What is it?”

He turns it toward you.

It’s a cookbook with torn pages and a coffee stain in the shape of a thumbprint smudging the corner of a buttercream recipe.

He huffs through his nose. “God, I miss cake.”

You give a small, crooked smile. “You miss being able to burn cake and blame it on someone else.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Excuse me, I’ll have you know my soufflés had a fanbase.”

“Your soufflés collapsed like the global economy.”

He snorts, shaking his head, and tucks the cookbook under his arm. The two of you sit in the reading corner for a while on cushions that reek faintly of mildew, back to back, sharing dried apple slices and a pouch of electrolyte water that tastes like chalk.

Neither of you says much, it’s the kind of silence that holds its shape.

Not empty. Just full in a different way.

Later, when you’ve set up camp beneath the overhang of an old bus shelter, Jin builds a small fire inside a half crushed barrel and arranges the stones around it like it’s instinct. He doesn’t even look at what he’s doing anymore. His hands just move, steady and practiced.

You watch him from across the flames.

There’s something soothing about him in the quiet. Something that settles in your bones when you let it. You hadn’t noticed how much tension you carry in your shoulders until it starts to ease just from watching him fold up the corner of a tarp.

“You don’t sleep much,” you murmur.

He glances at you, but doesn’t deny it.

“You don’t either,” he counters.

“I used to.”

“What changed?”

You lift your eyes to the fire. “I outlived too many things.”

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. He doesn’t say anything. But he sits down beside you, close enough for your knees to touch, and says softly, “I’m sorry.”

It’s not pity, not performance, just… presence. Somehow that undoes you more than any apology ever could.

The wind picks up after nightfall.

You curl into your blanket and press your cheek to your sleeve. Your skin’s cold, even under layers. The fire has burned low. Jin’s lying a foot away, staring at the ceiling of the shelter, hands behind his head like he’s listening to the wind talk in a language he almost understands.

You whisper into the dark.

“Did you ever want to be alone?”

He turns his head.

“What do you mean?”

“After it all started. Did you ever just… want to disappear?”

His eyes flicker for a moment, recalling something, before he nods.

“Yeah.”

“For how long?”

His voice is quiet. “Too long.”

You want to but don’t ask what changed, because you’re afraid the answer might be you. Instead, you whisper, “Same.”

Jin shifts, his arm brushing yours, and he doesn’t pull away. Your breathing slows. It should be awkward, too much contact, too close, but it isn’t. It just feels…okay..

He murmurs, “Do you think it matters?”

“What?”

“That we’re here. Together.”

You turn to look at him. His face is half covered in shadows. The lines around his mouth deeper now. The firelight dances in the soft brown of his eyes.

You whisper, “I think it might be the only thing that does.” Answering without thinking.

Jin doesn’t speak after that, doesn’t move either. But you can feel the shift in the air between you.

Thicker. Closer.

You’re not looking at him anymore, but you don’t have to. You can feel his gaze lingering on you, more than curiosity, less than intent. Like he’s holding his breath, like he’s deciding whether he’s allowed to cross a line neither of you has drawn out loud.

You feel his pinky brush yours, it’s barely there. A breath of touch. And then it curls, not over your hand and not possessively. It’s just a gentle link. His pinky hooks with yours in the space between sleeping bags, quiet and trembling and intentional.

Your breath catches, but don’t pull away. You don’t look at him either. You just shift, just slightly, so that your fingers rest more fully alongside his and you let yourself have that.

The smallest tether.

A wordless yes.

And when you both finally sleep, it’s with your hands tangled softly in the dark. Not quite holding on but not letting go.

—

The cottage isn’t much with its peeling paint and a crooked porch. The door takes a firm shoulder to budge open, and there’s a squirrel nest in the kitchen drawer. But the windows are intact and there’s no mold on the walls. And the roof doesn’t leak when the wind howls.

In this world, that makes it a miracle.

Jin finds it first.

You’re lagging behind on a narrow dirt trail, one boot half unlaced, sweat prickling at the base of your spine. The canopy overhead is thick with moss and light, an autumn green gone almost gold. You’d given up speaking an hour ago, your voice too dry, your breath too shallow.

When Jin turns, eyes lit with cautious excitement, you nearly miss what he says.

“There’s a chimney,” he pants. “And a well.”

You blink. “You’re joking.”

He just grins. “Come see.”

So you do and…it’s real.

You drop your pack at the threshold and let your knees hit the floor inside the front door. It smells faintly of cedar and mildew, like it’s been sleeping for years and just now stirred. Dust spirals in lazy shafts of sunlight through the broken slats in the shutters.

You lean your head against the cool wooden floor and whisper, “Tell me I can stay here forever.”

Jin’s footsteps creak as he walks past.

“You can stay,” he says. “But only if I get the big bed.”

You lift your head. “There’s a bed?”

He points to a tiny room tucked in the back. A quilt still lies rumpled across it, faded and moth bitten, but intact.

“Looks like someone left in a hurry.”

You don’t ask why they didn’t come back, you both know the answer.

The well works.

Jin lowers the bucket, muttering to himself the whole time like it might make the crank turn easier. When he hauls the water up, it’s murky, but not foul. You boil it on the stovetop. Still cold, but at least gas fed, the pilot light miraculously still functional. Jin searches the cabinets and emerges ten minutes later with an unopened box of pasta, a can of tomatoes, and what he calls the last olive oil in existence.

You both cook barefoot.

The sun slants warm through the cracked kitchen window. You take turns stirring the pot. Jin hums off key and tells you the most ridiculous lie about how he once judged a televised cooking competition in Spain with a hangover and a translator who only spoke French.

You laugh. Harder than you mean to, harder than you have in months.

It feels… terrifying. But so, so good.

The pasta burns a little on the bottom, but it doesn’t matter.

You sit cross legged on the dusty kitchen floor, eating from mismatched bowls with spoons that don’t match either. You trade bites. You smear tomato sauce across Jin’s cheek and he retaliates by flicking you with a wet noodle.

It’s so stupid you both cry laughing.

When it finally dies down, you’re both breathless. Sweaty and joyful in a way that feels like it doesn’t belong to the end of the world. And that’s when you realize, this is the first time you’ve seen Jin truly smile. Not for you or because of you, but with you.

And it splits something in your chest wide open.

That night the temperature drops, so you build a fire in the living room hearth while Jin pushes the couch into a better position. Closer to the flames, farther from the holes in the floorboards. You find an old blanket folded in the closet, soft from age and still smelling faintly of lavender.

He lies down first but you hesitate long enough for him to lift the edge of the blanket.

“Come on,” he says. “Don’t make me beg.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Is that your plan?”

His grin is crooked. “Maybe later.”

You roll your eyes and climb in beside him, your back to his chest, the blanket tucked beneath your chin. The fire snaps softly in the hearth. His hand doesn’t touch you at first. But slowly, almost like he doesn’t mean to, it settles over your waist.

You hold your breath, and then let it out, slowly melting back into him. Later, when you shift slightly to stretch your legs, his voice murmurs into the dark, low and sleep rough.

“You ever think about what you’d do if this didn’t happen?”

You blink. “The world?”

“Yeah.”

You think for a moment before speaking.

“I wanted to open a bookstore with a tea shop. I used to fantasize about alphabetizing everything by theme instead of title. Like a ridiculous, chaotic system only I could navigate.”

He hums. “That sounds exactly like you.”

You smile. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.”

You turn, just enough to see him. His eyes are open and watching you like you’re a puzzle he’s afraid to finish solving.

“You?”

He pauses.

“I’d have settled down. Somewhere green. Somewhere quiet. Had a kid, maybe. Grown tomatoes.”

You whisper, “You’d be a really good dad.”

His breath catches.

You didn’t mean to say it, but you mean it anyway.

He reaches for your hand beneath the blanket, lacing his fingers through yours. You don’t stop him, don’t say anything at all.

Just squeeze.

You wake in the middle of the night to find Jin already watching you, his hand still in yours.

The fire’s burned low, casting the room in a warm, flickering hush. The kind of quiet that feels like a held breath. Everything about it is still, like the world is listening in.

Your legs are tangled beneath the blanket. Your shoulders brush. His body is curved just enough to cradle yours without pressing. And he’s looking at you like he’s been memorizing the soft shape of your face while the rest of the world kept sleeping.

You whisper, “You okay?”

He nods.

But his thumb is moving, gently tracing the back of your hand where it rests between you. A rhythm with no beat. A question he hasn’t asked out loud.

You watch him, then ask the question first.

“Do you want to?”

His eyes lift to meet yours.

There’s a breath.

A pause before he leans forward.

His forehead brushes yours, nose grazing your cheek slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the nearness before it disappears. His breath stirs against your skin. He’s trembling a little, not from fear, but from all the things he’s trying not to feel too fast.

When his lips finally find yours it’s not rushed, or hungry. Just sure. Warm and searching. A little deeper than you expect, a little longer, too.

Your fingers twitch where they rest between you, the tiniest pull that anchors him there. He kisses you again, barely parting, then pressing back in with a soft exhale, like he needs the reminder that you’re real. Like he’s afraid this will vanish if he lets go too soon.

There’s a flicker of something fuller beneath it. Something that hums at the edges, unspoken, but there.

When he finally pulls back, just far enough to rest his forehead against yours, you don’t speak. You just hold on tighter to his hand and feel the world, for one suspended breath, go still.

The next morning feels different.

You wake before Jin. Sunlight slices across the floorboards in thin, cold lines. The cottage is quiet, too quiet, like the house itself knows something it won’t say.

His arm is still wrapped around your waist, but you don’t close your eyes again. Something’s pressing against the edge of your thoughts. A wrongness you can’t place. The birdsong has stopped. The trees outside barely move. Even the wind feels like it’s holding its breath.

You slip from the blanket slowly, not waking him, and dress in silence. Tuck the laces of your boots. Pull your hair back. Open the door, and freeze.

There’s smoke on the horizon.

You don’t scream, don’t run, but your heart picks up like it’s been startled out of sleep. The smoke is black. Not the gentle gray of a chimney, not the ashy brown of old brushfire. This is something deeper.

Thick, moving fast, coming from the west. The direction you’d come days ago, the trail you thought was safe. You shut the door softly and turn to wake Jin.

His eyes open before you speak, already reading your face.

“What is it?”

You swallow.

“Fire.”

You don’t leave right away. There’s still water to purify, supplies to gather, things to pack. Jin moves quickly, but he’s quiet. He keeps glancing at you, like he’s trying to memorize you again, just in case.

You find him in the bedroom, folding the blanket you’d shared. He stops when he sees you watching.

“I thought we’d have more time,” he says.

You nod. “Me too.”

You step forward and wrap your arms around his waist, letting your forehead rest against his chest. He doesn’t hesitate. His arms come around you instantly, holding you tighter than he did even last night. Like he’s trying to seal the warmth between your bodies and keep it burning forever.

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

He presses his lips to your temple. “Me too.”

The smoke reaches the ridge by nightfall. You’re two hours out, cutting through backwoods, retracing your old steps a little faster now. The silence between you shifts. Not distance, focus.

Jin’s jaw is tight as scans every shadow, keeping you close. His hand brushes yours often, not by accident.

You make camp beneath a cliff face, tucked into a natural crevice. You’re too tired to speak but when you lie down, your back to his chest, Jin doesn’t sleep. You feel his hand settle low on your hip, and his breath warm against the back of your neck.

“I should’ve left that book,” he murmurs.

You blink.

“What?”

“The cookbook. I don’t know why I took it. I think I wanted to pretend we’d have time to use it.”

Your chest tightens.

“We still might.”

He exhales, long and quiet. “Maybe.”

You cover his hand with yours.

“I liked pretending.”

“Yeah.” His voice breaks. “Me too.”

—

You reach the road by morning, or what’s left of it. Charred branches litter the ground of the blackened earth. A deer lies still in the ditch, its legs tucked beneath it like it laid down for sleep and never woke.

You walk faster, neither of you speak until the wind shifts and brings the smoke in thick, choking waves until Jin stops, silently holding up a hand and you freeze.

There’s movement ahead.

It’s not fire but something else, a sound…a voice? No—voices.

Low.

Male.

Several.

Jin turns to you, voice like steel. “Off the road. Now.”

You duck behind him without question and through the trees, you see them. Four men, carrying packs and weapons. Laughing with one one swinging a machete loosely by his side. They’re not soldiers, not survivors.

They’re hunters. Of what, you don’t want to know.

Jin waits until they’re out of earshot before pulling you deeper into the woods. You don’t ask if he’s been near men like that before. You don’t ask what they would’ve done if they saw you.

You already know.

You find an old stone culvert by the riverbank that’s collapsed on one side, half swallowed by roots. You crawl inside, your knees scraping the earth, your hands trembling with Jin following after you. Once you’re tucked into the shadow, he reaches for you.

You flinch, not from him but the fear is still in your skin, and his touch softens.

“I’ve got you.”

You nod, but your breath still shakes. So he cups your face in both hands, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Look at me. We’re okay. You’re okay.”

You want to believe him, you do. But your throat burns and your heart won’t slow.

He leans in, pressing his lips to your forehead, your cheek, then your mouth. This kiss is different, slow, but heavy. Like a promise he’s trying to push past your fear, past the pounding of your heart, past the part of you that’s still running.

You kiss him back, harder than you mean to. There’s desperation in it now. Salt on your lips. A kind of trembling that has nothing to do with cold and everything to do with how much you want this moment to hold, to last. To mean something before it all gets taken away again.

Jin’s hands are in your hair. Yours are fisted in his jacket. And for a second, nothing else exists.

Then, you hear a crack.

Not thunder or wind.

A snap that’s close.

Too close.

Jin pulls back instantly, his eyes sharpened, head tilted toward the sound.

“Shit,” he breathes.

You don’t even see the figure until it’s almost on him. One of the men from earlier with his knife raised, shirt filthy, eyes wild with panic or hunger or both.

Jin shoves you sideways with his full weight and you hit the ground hard. He swings first, the blade catching his arm and he grunts but doesn’t fall. He grabs the stranger by the collar, slams him back into the tree, and lands a punch so hard you feel it in your chest.

The man goes down and doesn’t move again.

You scramble to Jin’s side, breath stuttered.

“Your arm—” He waves you off. “It’s nothing.”

But blood’s already soaking through the sleeve of his jacket, a lot of it. You press your hands to the wound.

“Don’t lie to me,” you whisper. “Please.”

His mouth twitches in not quite a smile but not quite a grimace.

“You’re not supposed to be the one scared,” he murmurs.

“Well, I am,” you snap, voice cracking. “So deal with it.”

You help him sit and tear open his sleeve. It’s worse than you thought. Deep and jagged, already swelling. You work fast, your hands slick with blood, wrapping the wound with trembling fingers and the last clean bandage in your pack. He winces but doesn’t stop you.

When it’s done, you look up at him. His face is pale, his breathing tight, but his eyes are still on you.

Still soft.

Still clear.

“You’re okay,” you whisper. He nods slowly.

“You’re okay.”

You don’t believe it but you say it again anyway. Like a prayer you’re daring the world not to break.

You walk the next two hours in silence, Jin’s arm slung over your shoulders, your pace slowed to a crawl. He leans into you heavier than he means to and you let him. You let yourself practically carry him. And you don’t cry until the moment you see another abandoned house in the clearing with a half collapsed barn beside it, a busted porch, a chance to rest.

You guide him there and lay him down. Hold his hand until his grip goes slack, from exhaustion.

You sit beside him the entire night, jaw clenched, fingers curled into the hem of his shirt, watching the rise and fall of his chest like it’s the only thing keeping yours moving too. And when the dawn breaks gray and cold across the floor you whisper the words he once said to you, barely audible.

“I’ve got you.”

—

Jin sleeps through most of the next day.

You make a fire in the busted woodstove to boil water. Sift through what little you have left in your pack. The house is bare, a hollowed rib cage of a place with nothing left but dust and a few sun warped photo frames turned facedown on the floor.

He doesn’t stir when you clean the wound again, but you whisper to him anyway.

This might sting.

You’re okay.

You’re still here.

He flinches once, just barely but never wakes.

You sit beside him as the sun makes its slow crawl across the floor, casting long shadows over his face. His lashes twitch in dreams. His breathing stays shallow. You count every breath like it’s a bead on a rosary. By dusk, you start to wonder what you’ll do if he doesn’t wake up again.

That’s when your fingers find the journal.

Tucked under the blanket beside him. The spine soft and worn from use. You hadn’t noticed it before, he must’ve kept it hidden in his coat, or maybe he pulled it out sometime during the night when you were half asleep and holding on to his wrist.

You hesitate.

He’s never let you read it.

You almost put it back.

But then you think about the blood soaking through your shirt and the knife. The weight of him slumped over your shoulder, the way he smiled at you right before his knees buckled and he whispered, “You’re not supposed to be the one scared.”

And the fact that, right now, you are. So you open it to find the first page dated nearly a year ago. The handwriting is neat, maybe a little blocky. There’s nothing poetic about it. Just thoughts, cataloged and clipped.

May 13 — The first quake lasted six minutes. Lost service around 3:15pm. Grocery store was full of arguments. Took a jar of peanut butter and left cash on the counter. Felt pointless.

May 28 — Jimin told me I should write things down or I’ll lose them. Tried to laugh it off but couldn’t sleep. Started this.

June 2 — Still no word from my brother. Pinged me from somewhere in Red Ridge. Said “don’t wait.” I haven���t stopped waiting since.

You turn page after page. Names. Places. Scraps of dialogue. Recipes. Tiny, human things he refused to let disappear. Then months later, you find your name. Or rather, a description.

Train. Window reflection. She didn’t smile. Looked like she was pretending not to fall apart. I saw her before she saw me.

Your chest tightens as you flip another page. There’s more.

Four days later. Found her near the guardrail. Dehydrated. Looked at me like I might vanish if she blinked. Didn’t ask for anything. Took the water. Drank like it hurt. I should’ve walked away.

Didn’t.

Day 11 — She laughed at my egg story. Real laugh. First one I’ve heard in weeks. Sounded like a present I didn’t deserve.

Day 13 — I think I’d follow her anywhere. I think I’m already doing it.

Day 15 — She said I’d be a good dad. I didn’t realize how much I needed someone to believe that.

Your hand trembles as you reach the final pages. The last one is written in a shakier hand, maybe from the fever or fear. But the words are still his, still steady.

If I don’t make it—

You stop, heart stuttering, and then keep reading.

If I don’t make it, I hope she remembers how to build something anyway. I hope she stays stubborn. Keeps fighting. I hope she lets someone see her the way I did.

And if she ever reads this, I’m glad it was you. I’d start over with you. From scratch. A thousand times.

You close the journal slowly. Your eyes are wet even though you didn’t remember when you started crying. The world feels stiller than it ever has, and heavier.

You look at him still sleeping. When you take his hand, he squeezes, then blinks his eyes open. You don’t say anything at first. Just lean forward to press your forehead to his and breathe him in.

He’s burning up, but awake.

“I read it,” you whisper.

His gaze searches yours, unfocused.

“The journal,” you say. “I read it.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the day he wrote your name. “Okay,” he murmurs.

You brush the hair from his forehead. “I’d start over with you too.”

Jin smiles softly, weak as hell, but real. And when he closes his eyes again, this time, he sleeps like someone who knows they’re not alone.

Outside, the smoke has thinned. The sky is bruised violet, stretched wide over a world that’s still broken but not hopeless, not empty.

And in the house that should’ve been rubble, you sit on the floor beside the man who saved you, the man you’re starting to love, with a pen in your hand and a blank page in his journal.

Day 29 — He’s still here.

So am I.

And tomorrow, we’ll try again.

masterlist

[mrsvante]

thank you for reading 💜✨ i’m debating writing an epilogue or another installment for this story

Stolen Orbit

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: alien au, yandere jk, dark horror, enemies to lovers,

summary: you were meant for eradication with the rest of your planet—erased without a trace, just another speck in the galaxy's endless purge. but jeongguk saw you. fragile, insignificant... human. and something his kind had long forgotten stirred in him. Instead of erasing your existence, he took you, stole you from extinction and made you his.

now you live in a celestial cage, adored and possessed by something not quite capable of love, but desperate to keep you. he doesn't understand your fear, your resistance, but he craves your surrender all the more because of it. and if it takes breaking you to make you his completely... he will.

warnings: slow burn, mass extermination, alien jungkook forced captivity/proximity, psychological manipulation, stockholm syndrome, dubcon, smut, ritualistic copulation

word count: 5,857

The Beginning

The sky split open the night they came. You didn’t see it at first, no one did.

You brushed your teeth that night. Standing in your tiny bathroom beneath flickering fluorescent lights, humming faintly to music you can’t remember anymore. A song that cut out mid chorus when everything else did.

You paused, frowned, the mirror vibrated faintly, a shiver running across your reflection. Confused, you flicked the light switch. Nothing.

Reach for your phone. Dead.

Outside, the city dimmed as though someone had thrown a heavy blanket over the world. Buildings blinked out, window by window. Cars stalled silently in the streets.

Then came the sirens. Low and unearthly, vibrating deep in your chest rather than ringing in your ears.

You pressed your palms to the vanity, trying to pinpoint the source.

No alarms.

No helicopters.

No dogs barking or people yelling in the distance.

Just… stillness.

Until the sky broke.

You saw it from your window, face pale in the glass as blackness carved itself across the heavens like a wound tearing through flesh.

It didn’t glow or rage, it hummed.

And through that terrible void came beams of sterile white light.

You watched—paralyzed—as they swept through the streets, swallowing people whole. No fire, no blood, they simply ceased.

Your neighbor clutching her husband on the balcony. The delivery boy halfway up the stairs. A child pedaling frantically on his bicycle.

Gone.

Your mouth moved, but no sound came out. By the time your legs remembered how to function, chaos had bloomed outside.

Screams.

Desperate, useless prayers. People running without knowing where safety even existed.

It didn’t matter.

Your chest crushed inward as panic overtook you. You grabbed your phone, screaming into dead silence, dialing numbers that wouldn’t connect.

Your father’s voicemail.

Your sister’s disconnected line.

The beams moved without emotion, erasing everything they touched as easily as wiping chalk from a board. You don’t remember deciding to run. You don’t remember leaving your apartment. You only remember the maintenance tunnels.

You shoved yourself beneath concrete and metal, nails splitting and bleeding as you slammed the hatch shut above you.

And there you stayed.

For minutes.

Hours.

Days.

Time broke.

The silence that followed was not peaceful.

It was dead.

::::::::::::

When you woke, it was worse. Not because you survived. Not even because the world was gone.

But because you weren’t there anymore.

Your eyes opened to sterility. Smooth, seamless walls of faintly glowing white, like pearl carved from bone. No corners or seams. Just endless smoothness in every direction, as though the room itself were grown rather than built.

There were no windows.

No doors.

Only a faint humming, familiar and yet not. Not the gentle whir of an AC or the buzz of old light bulbs. This was deeper, vibrating at a frequency that scraped against the base of your skull. It sounded like something alive.

You sat up too fast, your breath catching painfully in your throat.

The bed beneath you was impossibly soft, molding to your shape like memory foam, but it didn’t feel right. It smelled faintly of something sweet and sterile, like a flower that had never known dirt.

You clutched the sheets tighter to your chest, your head spinning.

“Hello?” you rasped. No answer, just the never ending hum.

You tried again.

“HELLO?”

Your voice echoed strangely, rebounding without substance, as though the room itself were swallowing the sound.

A prickling sensation raced down your spine as you scrambled to your feet. Your legs were weak and shaky, like you hadn’t used them in days. You stumbled toward the nearest wall and pressed your palms flat against it.

It was warm.

Not cold like metal. Not smooth like glass.

Warm, as though the structure around you was some kind of living skin.

You recoiled instinctively.

“What the fuck,” you whispered.

Your chest heaved as you tried to remember.

Where were you?

Where was your family?

Had you died?

The last thing you remembered was hiding. Listening to the world end. And then— nothing. Your stomach twisted violently. Panic set in like lead poisoning, slow but lethal. You began slamming your fists against the wall.

“LET ME OUT!”

“WHERE AM I?!”

Nothing. No doors appeared, no voices responded. But the hum grew louder, though, it didn’t feel or sound angry. Not mechanical.

It sounded oddly interested.

You froze, pressing your back against the bed as a low chime resonated throughout the space. The wall directly across from you rippled, like the surface of a pond disturbed by a stone, and opened.

A doorway formed from nothing, and something stepped through.

At first, you thought he was wrong. Everything about him felt off in ways your mind couldn’t fully process.

Tall—towering—with limbs too graceful and too fluid to be comforting.

Skin pale and luminous, glowing softly from within, threaded with faint iridescence that shifted as he moved. Hair dark and weightless, littered with braids adorned with glimmering otherworldly metals, drifting as though underwater. Framing features too symmetrical, too perfect.

And his eyes.

They were unsettling, solid black at first glance.

But as he drew closer, they shifted—illuminated galaxies of silver, violet, and deep cosmic blues, swirling softly in patterns that hurt to stare at for too long.

You stumbled backward, your legs colliding with the bed as your pulse thundered.

He did not flinch, but instead stepped closer.

Graceful. Effortless.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Every primitive instinct screamed at you to run, but your body betrayed you. He tilted his head as he regarded you.

Not cruelly, not kindly. Curiously.

His voice slid across your mind rather than your ears.

“You are… fragile.”

You flinched, shaking your head as if a bug was caught in your hair. The words felt invasive, sliding into your consciousness without permission.

He stepped closer.

“I am Jeongguk.”

The name thrums with alien cadence, yet tastes almost familiar in your mind. His glowing eyes flicker faintly, as if pleased by your terror.

“You reside aboard Virexum,” he continues calmly. “This vessel collects and preserves what remains after eradication.”

“Eradication?” you whisper, voice hollow.

“Earth was terminated.”

A pause, as if considering how much you can process. “Your species had reached decay. Pollution. War. Rot. The Kaereth do not preserve weakness. We cleanse.”

The words hit harder than any weapon. You shake your head violently, sobbing openly now.

Your father, your sister. They’re…gone?

“No. No, you can’t— you didn’t—”

“It was mercy.”

His voice softens slightly, but not kindly. “Existence without evolution is entropy. The Kaereth do not allow suffering. We end it.”

You can’t breathe.

You drop to your knees, pressing your palms to your face as the horror swells and breaks inside you.

But he does not.

Tears flooded your vision, hot and blinding as your sobs shattered the sterile silence, ugly and helpless.

He watches you the way one might watch a dying star—quietly admiring, deeply fascinated.

When you finally stilled, he crouched before you, his claws retracting as he reached out. You recoiled instinctively, but he only touched your hair, brushing it back from your damp face with a tenderness that felt foreign.

“I did not erase you,” he murmurs.

You flinch, but his hand cradles your face delicately, tipping it up so you have no choice but to meet his gaze.

“You glowed,” he says, softer now. Almost enthralled.

“Amidst destruction, you clung to life. You burned brighter than the dying world around you. You will not suffer,” he said quietly. “You are mine now. You will be kept.”

Kept.

The word echoed as he stood again, gesturing to the room around you. “This is yours. Safe. Nourishing. You will adjust.”

You choked on disbelief.

“Why me?”

He paused.

And for the first time since he arrived, his expression shifted. His eyes darkened. His lips parted just slightly, almost pious.

“Because,” he murmured, as though speaking to himself, “you glowed brightest before death.”

With that, he turned and left, the wall sealing behind him in silence.

Leaving you alone with the hum, and the terrible, hollow truth that you were the last of your kind. And you were his now.

Whatever that meant.

Whatever that would become.

::::::::::::

You don’t remember sleeping, but when your eyes open again, raw and heavy from hours of silent sobbing, the room is dimmer. The walls, once glowing faintly like a moonlit sea, have softened to a deep, low shimmer, as though mimicking the concept of nighttime.

You’re still here.

Still locked in this dreamless nightmare of seamless walls and soundless air.

Still wearing the thin, pale shift you woke up in, neither warm nor cold, but irritating in its neutrality.

Still alone.

Except… you aren’t.

You feel him before you see him. The hum of the room changes. Deepens, sharpens as though the ship itself reacts to his presence.

You sit up slowly, wiping your face, throat dry from hours of ragged breathing.

When the wall ripples open again, it’s almost gentle. Less like a command, and more like the way curtains are drawn back to allow moonlight in.

And there he stands.

Jeongguk.

Alien. Impossibly elegant.

Unfathomably tall, framed in the soft glow as though carved from the bones of dying stars.

You freeze when his eyes meet yours, not because they’re cruel. But because they are intent.

Hungry.

Unblinking.

“You are awake.”

His voice slides across your mind again, as smooth as silk and as cold as space.

You swallow tightly, sitting rigid on the edge of the bed. Your legs are weak, but you fight to keep your spine straight.

“Please,” you whisper hoarsely, the word tasting hollow in your mouth. “Please just tell me what you want from me.”

He pauses.

“I have told you,” he says, moving forward, soundless as shadow. “You are mine. You will be kept. That is what I want.”

His words make your stomach twist violently. You push up from the bed, backing away until your shoulder blades press into the wall behind you.

“You can’t just— keep me!”

Your voice cracks, teetering between hysteria and disbelief.

“I’m not some… some thing you can collect!”

He stops mid step, considering.

His expression doesn’t change and yet, you can feel the weight of his scrutiny press down on you.

“Incorrect,” he says softly, as though correcting a child. “You are precious. Not a ‘thing’. Not to me.”

You open your mouth to argue, to scream, but your breath catches as something changes.

The bioluminescent lines across his body shift subtly. They pulse gently.

You don’t know why, but the sight makes your heart stutter.

Is that emotion?

Before you can question it, he raises one hand.

A low chime echoes through the room, and from the far wall, a smooth panel unfolds. It reveals a strange, device that emits fragrant steam.

Your stomach clenches painfully as your senses recognize what it is before your mind does.

Food.

Or, at least, something meant to replicate it. Soft, pale orbs float in an iridescent broth, giving off a smell not unlike fresh bread and honey.

It should be comforting.

But in this place, nothing feels comforting.

“You have not consumed nourishment in sixteen of your planet’s hours,” Jeongguk says calmly, gesturing toward the offering.

“Your body weakens. This is inefficient.”

You hesitate, eyeing the bowl warily.

“I’m not hungry,” you lie.

His head tilts, faintly reptilian in the gesture, and for the first time, a flicker of something sharper edges into his tone.

“You will eat.”

The words are not barked.

Not threatening.

But absolute.

You stare back at him, shaking slightly.

And when you make no move to comply, he steps forward and takes the bowl himself, walking closer until he is far too near. He crouches, folding gracefully in front of you like a predator settling in for the kill.

But instead of violence, he offers you the bowl directly.

Holding it out, waiting patiently.

“Eat,” he murmurs.

His eyes glow faintly as they fix on your face.

“For me.”

Your lips part helplessly. Something in the way he says it. Quiet, almost intimately, sends your skin crawling and burning at once.

You hate him.

You hate him.

You hate him.

And yet…

Your body obeys. Your fingers tremble as you accept the bowl, lifting one of the pale orbs to your lips.

It tastes… nothing like food.

But it dissolves softly on your tongue, leaving behind warmth that creeps slowly down your throat.

Not unpleasant, not pleasurable. Just… filling.

Sustaining.

You eat in silence, aware of his unwavering gaze as you do. When the bowl empties, he takes it back carefully, setting it aside.

“Better,” he says quietly.

You can’t meet his eyes.

The tears come again without permission, sliding hot and heavy down your face. You curl in on yourself, trying to muffle the broken sounds that escape your throat.

And then… a touch.

Featherlight at first, fingers ghosting against your temple, sliding into your hair.

You tense, but he does not press.

“You fear me.” His words are not questioning. “Good. It is natural. You are fragile.”

Your breath hitches painfully.

His hand slips lower, knuckles grazing your cheek with maddening delicacy.

“But fear will fade,” he continues softly. “In time, you will see. I am not cruel. I am constant. You will not be harmed. You will be… cherished.”

You turn your head away sharply and his fingers slip free, but you feel the weight of his focus intensify.

“You misunderstand your position,” he murmurs. “Earth is gone. You are alone in a universe that has no place for you. No one will come for you. No one can.”

You clench your fists tightly in your lap, the truth cutting deeper than his touch ever could.

“Why me?” you ask, voice breaking. “Why not let me die with the rest?”

He leans in slightly, his presence invading your every sense.

“Because when others knelt and wept… you raged,” he whispers. “You burned. You clung to life with ferocity. That is rare.”

His eyes soften, if such a thing is possible for something so alien.

“I collect what should not exist.” A faint smile, too serene, too knowing. “You are an anomaly. You are mine.”

You bite down hard on your lower lip, forcing back another sob.

“This isn’t cherishing,” you whisper bitterly.

“This is prison.”

He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he rises slowly, towering over you once more. His hands fold neatly behind his back. The perfect image of composed, regal authority.

“No,” he agrees softly. “This is preservation.”

He steps back toward the door, but his voice reaches you again as it ripples open to accept him.

“Rest. I will return when you are calmer.”

A pause.

“And eventually… you will thank me.”

Then he is gone.

And you’re eft in the silence once more—but not alone.

Not really.

Because his scent still lingers. His voice still hums faintly in your mind. And worse, you realize part of you is already listening for his return.

::::::::::::

You don’t see him again for three cycles. You don’t know how you know this. There’s no sun here, no night and day, no ticking clock on sterile walls—but your body remembers.

It remembers the ache of hunger.

The slow unraveling of sanity when left in isolation. The bone deep dread that blooms in the absence of any other voice but your own.

For seventy two hours, maybe more, maybe less, you are alone.

The ship hums softly at all hours, the walls glowing faintly like a slumbering beast. Your room, if you can even call it that, remains locked.

No doors.

No windows.

Just blank, seamless walls and a bed that conforms to your every restless shift.

Food appears twice, delivered silently through a hidden panel in the wall, but you ignore it. You sit curled on the bed, stomach clenching painfully, but you refuse to give in.

Not again, not after last time.

He’d fed you like a child.

Watched you with something sickly tender in his eyes while you cried and ate and fell apart in front of him.

No.

You will not make this easy for him. Your anger is all you have left. The only shield between you and the quiet, desperate terror that creeps in when you allow yourself to feel anything else.

So you don’t eat.

You don’t sleep.

You don’t talk to the empty room, no matter how loud the silence becomes.

You wait.

Because you know he’ll come back, of course he will.

Men like him, things like him, always come back.

And when he does, you are ready.

—

He appears on the fourth cycle.

Not like before, there’s no grand entrance. No rippling doors or ominous hums.

You wake to find him already there, standing at the foot of the bed like a phantom who has always belonged in your nightmares. He watches you in silence, arms folded behind his back, eyes glowing softly in the low light.

You glare at him, lips cracked from dehydration.

He says nothing.

“Fuck you.”

Your voice scrapes like gravel against your raw throat, but it feels good to say.

Good to bite, even if your teeth barely graze.

His head tilts slightly, that same alien gesture that makes your stomach turn.

“You are weakening,” he observes softly, almost clinically. “Your refusal to consume nourishment endangers your cellular structure. This is illogical.”

You laugh, sharp and brittle.

“Good. Let me die, then.”

For the first time, his expression shifts, not dramatically, but his brows knit slightly, his mouth drawing in the faintest sliver.

He doesn’t like that.

“Negative,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “I will not allow termination.”

You push yourself up on shaking arms, baring your teeth in something that feels more animal than human.

“I don’t belong to you. You can’t keep me like this. Feeding me, locking me in this—this cage! I’ll starve before I let you win.”

His eyes narrow faintly, glowing brighter. “You misunderstand,” he murmurs, his voice lowering dangerously.

“This is not a contest,” he moves closer, slow, deliberate steps that make your pulse spike and your limbs tremble. “This is inevitability.”

You scramble off the bed, stumbling backward until your spine hits the wall. His presence consumes the room, filling every atom of available space, as though the ship itself responds to his shifting mood.

He stands before you now, towering and still.

“You may resist,” he allows softly. “You may cry, scream, refuse… for a time.”

His hand rises, not threatening, but steady as his fingers gently, maddeningly, brush your jaw. The touch sends a bolt of revulsion and something more complicated spiraling through you.

“But you will acclimate.”

His voice vibrates softly in your bones, dangerous in its certainty.

You slap his hand away, the sound cracking through the air like gunfire.

For a moment, nothing happens.

He simply stares at you, the tips of his fingers still poised where they had been, motionless, as though stunned.

And then…he withdraws, silently. Without anger or words. Simply steps back, gaze unreadable, and turns for the door.

Panic flashes hot and instant through your chest. “No—” you gasp, confused by your own terror at his sudden departure.

He stops just before the wall seals behind him. For the first time, his voice emerges aloud, not through your mind, but spoken.

Low.

Flat.

Cold.

“You have chosen isolation.”

Then he’s gone, and so is everything else.

The hum of the ship fades, the lights dim to near darkness. The temperature drops, not enough to freeze, but enough to chill your skin, to make your breath puff faintly in the air.

The bed retracts into the wall.

The food panel vanishes.

You are left standing in nothing.

Cold.

Alone.

—

For hours—maybe days—you are abandoned to the hollow, oppressive silence.

Your tears dry.

Your voice fades from hoarseness to nothing. Your legs give out, and you curl on the hard floor, clutching yourself tightly as sleep eludes you in the endless dark.

You hate him.

You hate him.

You hate him.

But when the wall finally ripples open again, soft, warm light spilling through and his tall, silent figure appears in the doorway once more, you sob.

Relief.

Humiliation.

Rage.

You don’t understand which emotion is which anymore.

He crosses the threshold slowly, eyes glowing faintly in gentle shades of blue and pink. Soft, careful, like a predator soothing prey after the kill.

Without speaking, he kneels before you, gathering your shaking body into his arms. You don’t fight him this time.

You can’t.

You’re too cold.

Too broken.

His hand strokes your hair as he murmurs something low in his language, soft syllables that sound like lullabies from a galaxy you will never see.

“I will not harm you,” he whispers, pressing his lips against your temple. “Do not make me hurt you through absence again; I ache.”

Your fingers clutch his robe weakly, sobs muffled against his chest.

“I hate you,” you whisper, but it’s empty.

Weak.

He hums softly.

“I know.”

He pulls you closer, cradling you as though you are delicate and rare, because to him, you are.

“And yet you need me.”

You can’t argue.

Not right now.

Not when his warmth is the only thing that feels real in this endless void of stars and silence.

::::::::::::

You don’t sleep, even when your body begs you to.

Sleep would mean trusting the silence, surrendering.

So you lay awake on the strange, pliant surface that the ship has provided. Not quite a bed, but softer than the floor that left your bones aching and cold during your punishment.

You are still recovering from that.

The ache of isolation.

The terror of being truly, utterly alone.

But more than that… you are recovering from the humiliation.

Because when he returned, when he found you curled and trembling, teeth chattering and face raw from tears, you clung to him.

You didn’t mean to.

Your body simply reacted, desperate and starved for anything warm and familiar.

Your fingers twisted into the dark folds of his robes, your face pressed into the cool planes of his chest, and you wept like a creature broken open.

And Jeongguk did nothing but hold you.

No words.

No threats.

No cruel satisfaction.

Just stillness.

Just presence.

His hands stroked your back, slow and repetitive, the way you imagine one might soothe a terrified animal.

His head bent low, his breath ghosting against your temple as he whispered words in a language your mind couldn’t translate, soft and melodic, making you feel drunk with the weight of them.

Even now, hours later, his scent still lingers on your skin.

Warm and metallic.

Alien and oddly sweet.

Like lightning woven into silk.

You hate that you find comfort in it now. You hate yourself more than you hate him, but the truth is suffocating in its simplicity.

You needed him.

And he knew it.

—

The door ripples again, seamlessly and without warning. You stiffen instinctively, heart leaping to your throat.

But when Jeongguk steps through, he does not bring the same oppressive energy he had before.

There is no towering, silent menace, or sharp glint of irritation or frustration in his starlit eyes.

Instead…he looks calm, serene, even.

His robes have changed. Still dark, but lighter now. Softer. He wears no armor, or sharp adornments. His hair hangs loose, gleaming faintly in the ship’s low bioluminescence.

He looks… domestic.

If such a word could ever apply to him.

The ship itself seems to respond, the walls brightening subtly, soft, ambient pulses that make the air feel warmer somehow.

More intimate.

Less clinical.

It unnerves you more than his previous coldness.

“Good,” he says quietly, his voice sliding into your consciousness with practiced ease. “You remain.”

You glare at him, but your body betrays you again, relaxing minutely at the familiar cadence of his presence.

“I didn’t exactly have a choice, did I?” you mutter bitterly.

Jeongguk tilts his head slightly, considering.

“No,” he agrees softly. “But you remained nonetheless.”

The phrasing makes something twist painfully low in your stomach. Before you can respond, he approaches, slow, careful steps as though approaching something fragile.

Which, in his eyes, you suppose you are.

He lowers himself gracefully beside you on the bed like surface, close enough that you feel the subtle hum of his energy brushing against your skin.

“I have observed,” he begins, tone thoughtful. “Prolonged isolation causes distress beyond simple physical discomfort in your species.”

You scoff, wrapping your arms around your knees protectively.

“Yeah. That’s called being human.”

He hums softly, as though filing the information away like a precious resource.

“I have no desire to harm you, little star,” he murmurs, and his hand lifts, pausing in the air between you, as if seeking silent permission.

You don’t give it.

But you don’t pull away when his fingers brush lightly across your hair, tucking it back from your face.

His touch is careful.

Maddening.

“I desire only your peace.”

You choke on a bitter laugh.

“Peace? You abducted me, destroyed my planet, locked me in this ship and act like that’s kindness.”

His expression softens, strangely fond despite your venom.

“You misunderstand,” he says gently.

“I did not destroy your planet. I spared you from its fate.”

His fingers trail down, brushing against the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw, and you shiver despite yourself.

“You were meant to end,” he continues softly, voice almost hypnotic. “But you burned. You raged. You survived.”

His thumb strokes softly against your lower lip, a touch so tender you forget, briefly, how much you despise him.

“You are rare,” he murmurs. “And rare things are not discarded. They are treasured.”

The words settle in your chest like poison wrapped in silk. You should recoil, should slap his hand away, curse him until your throat gives out.

But instead…you close your eyes.

Just for a moment.

Just long enough to feel the soft press of his palm against your cheek, anchoring you in this strange, terrible reality.

He takes your silence as permission.

Of course he does.

“Good,” he breathes, satisfaction humming softly in his voice. “You are learning.”

You force your eyes open, glaring weakly at him.

“Learning what?”

His lips curl faintly, not quite a smile, but something disturbingly close.

“To accept.”

You hate him.

You hate him.

But when he shifts closer, pressing his body flush to yours, wrapping an arm carefully around your shoulders, you don’t pull away.

You are cold.

You are tired.

You are alone.

And he is warm.

He is steady.

He is here.

You rest your head against his shoulder before you can think better of it, disgust warring with relief in your chest.

Jungkook says nothing, but the ship hums softly around you, glowing faintly in shades of rose and gold. Contentment radiating from every surface.

You don’t realize how tightly you’ve curled against him until his mouth brushes the crown of your head.

“You will see soon,” he murmurs, words sinking deep into your bones. “I am not your enemy. I am your only constant.”

You fall asleep before you can argue. And for the first time since Earth fell, you sleep through the cycle without waking to scream.

::::::::::::

You wake to warmth.

Not the clinical, neutral temperature of the ship. That engineered comfort that feels more like a lack of discomfort than real heat but true warmth.

Soft.

Heavy.

Alive.

For a moment, your mind refuses to grasp why.

You are tucked beneath something impossibly smooth and weighty , fabric like liquid silk draped over your body, cocooning you in decadent softness.

And behind you, against the curve of your spine, something solid.

Firm.

Breathing.

A heartbeat thrums, steady and deep, so close it vibrates through your back and into your bones.

Not the ship.

Him.

Jeongguk.

You go rigid before you can think. Your hands clench the sheets, alien and faintly iridescent m, as you strain to control your breathing.

You are being held, no, you are being kept.

His arm is heavy across your waist, claws retracted but still unsettling, his fingers resting just beneath your ribcage with terrifying intimacy. His face is pressed lightly to the crown of your head, long hair brushing against your temple like ghost silk.

For several agonizing seconds, you debate your options.

Pull away.

Wake him.

Escape—if that’s even possible anymore.

But as your heart hammers and your stomach twists, you realize something worse.

You don’t want to move.

Because for the first time in what feels like forever, you are not cold, you are not alone, or terrified of what silence might bring.

You are simply… held.

And that, somehow, feels more dangerous than anything he’s done so far.

He stirs before you can make a decision.

The shift is subtle, the faint tightening of his grip, the softening of his breath, the way the ship’s hum lifts faintly, mirroring the change in atmosphere.

Then his voice slides into your mind, quieter than usual.

Thicker.

“You are awake.”

You flinch slightly, but he does not move away. Instead, he exhales slowly, the sound almost… content.

“You slept well,” he murmurs aloud this time, his voice low and textured, as though speaking in words costs him more effort than using your mind.

“You did not cry.”

Shame burns through you instantly. You twist beneath his arm, trying to put space between your bodies, but his hold tightens slightly.

“No,” he says softly, head dipping lower so that his breath brushes the shell of your ear. “Stay.”

Your heart races painfully.

“Why?” you whisper, hating the smallness in your voice.

His answer is simple.

“Because you do not truly wish to leave.”

You freeze.

He doesn’t say it cruelly.

He doesn’t taunt or mock.

He speaks it as though it is a fact he has long since accepted and is merely waiting for you to do the same.

Before you can respond, he shifts, drawing back just enough to allow you to turn and face him. The sight steals the words from your throat.

Up close, he is devastating.

More than alien.

More than beautiful.

His features are carved from something you do not have words for, too elegant to be called soft, too precise to be human. His silver violet eyes glow faintly in the dimness, framed by dark lashes that cast delicate shadows across high cheekbones.

But it is the way he looks at you that truly leaves you breathless.

Not with desire.

Not with hunger.

With… possession. As though you are the first and only star in his universe.

You turn your face away, pulse hammering.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

He does not obey.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m—”

You falter, teeth sinking into your lower lip.

“Yours,” you finish bitterly.

His hand moves, fingers brushing your jaw, guiding you gently to meet his gaze again.

“You are mine,” he murmurs softly, as though stating something as mundane as the time of day. “You remain only because I desire it. You live because I allow it. You breathe because I have given you this sanctuary.”

The words are cruel in logic, yet his voice is gentle.

You tremble beneath the weight of them, but he only continues, thumb stroking softly against your cheekbone.

“But you do not need to fear that.” He leans closer, voice dropping lower, coaxing you like one would soothe a frightened animal.

“You do not need to fight so hard. You are cared for. Sheltered. Treasured.”

You want to scream. Want to tell him how wrong he is, how suffocating this is.

But your body remembers the days alone in the dark.

The cold.

The ache.

The crushing silence that left you frantic and desperate for any presence at all. And your body, traitorous and desperate, does not want to return to that.

So instead, you say nothing.

You simply let him hold you.

Let his touch stroke soothing patterns against your spine.

Let your eyes slip closed, not because you want him, but because for now… he feels safe.

—

The days that follow blur together.

Jeongguk becomes a near constant presence, no longer leaving for long stretches. He is always near. Quietly watching, quietly touching, quietly existing in every corner of your small world.

Meals are no longer delivered in silence.

Now, he brings them himself, sitting beside you as you eat, observing your reactions with soft fascination, as though memorizing every flicker of expression.

He asks questions, though never demands answers.

“Why do you frown when eating this?”

“Does this flavor please you more?”

“Do you enjoy these colors?”

It’s strange. Stranger still when you find yourself answering.

Not out of obligation or out of fear. But because the emptiness left by silence is worse.

You talk quietly, giving short answers at first, but over time, they grow longer. You explain foods you miss. You describe music, books, seasons. You speak of snow and rain and laughter, and though he listens with alien detachment, he seems oddly enchanted by your words.

“You will show me,” he says one cycle, after you describe autumn leaves falling in lazy spirals.

You blink at him in confusion.

“Earth is gone.”

His head tilts.

“Virexum can make what you desire.”

You do not know whether to be horrified or grateful. But when the next cycle arrives, your room transforms.The walls ripple and shift until soft amber light filters through projected trees.

Illusions of wind rustle leaves that glow faintly gold and crimson.

You laugh, startled and disbelieving.

And Jeongguk…

He smiles.

Not wide.

Not human.

But soft, and faintly victorious.

As though every small inch you offer him, every smile, every word, every sigh, is another chain wound tightly around your wrists.

—

It happens one night as you sit side by side on the bed, eating quietly. Your hands brush when reaching for the same dish and you both freeze.

The contact is brief.

Innocent.

But it lingers. His fingers slide softly over yours, slow and intentional as though mapping the shape of them.

You don’t pull away, pulse racing, your cheeks flush, but still, you let it happen.

Something shifts in his gaze.

It’s not hunger, not cruelty…longing.

The moment stretches and the ship grows impossibly quiet, as though the walls themselves are holding their breath. You’re the one who breaks it, pulling your hand away with a nervous laugh that sounds too loud in the stillness.

Jeongguk says nothing.

But his eyes follow you all the same, glowing softly in the dim amber light.

Watching.

Always watching.

—

That night, as you lay down and let him pull you close, his arms wrapping securely around your body as though sealing you in, you don’t resist.

You let him tuck your head beneath his chin, your hands curl lightly against his chest.

And when he whispers against your hair, voice low and factual, “you are becoming mine.”

You don’t argue.

Because deep down, beneath the remnants of your rage and sorrow, beneath the tangled mess of shame and longing—

You know he is right.

two | masterlist

[mrsvante]

Absolutely love your Taehyung headcannons!! Will you do any for the other members? Daddy Bts holds a special place in my heart 💜

more headcanons?? i’m not opposed to that at all…i too love me some daddy bangtan (pun intended 😏) i’ll definitely add more headcanons to my list…thank you for reading & i’m glad you enjoyed by oddly specific hyper fixation 🙃💜✨

[mrsvante]

i don’t think it’ll ever not blow my mind when my work is recommended…hope you enjoy 💜

Here you go with the dark fic recs:

Perfect partner (jk) @peoniesnro

Pull over (jk) @jkwrites-m

Stolen orbit (jk) @mrsvante

Champagne confetti (jk) @pennyellee

Fucking you right (jk) @babystarbun

Pen pal (jk) @laughing-with-god

Every breath you take (jk) @junqkook

Darknets, graveyard shift (jk) @darkestcorners

Awake? (Jin), mistletoe (sope), solar eclipse (jhope) @deepdarkdelights

Autumn of terror (jin), visions (jk), sentient (rm) , family matters (yoongi) @trivia-yandere

Glory and gore (jm), unusual suspects (taejoon), survival (jin), seonbaenim! (jk), little doe (jhope) @explicit-tae

I think you've most probably read half of them but who knows? Hope you enjoy reading ❤️

A HUGE THANK YOU ANON! you are right I have read some of these already. everything from @/explicit-tae is read, I have read that best friend's boyfriend one from @/darkestcorners but not the one you suggested, I have also read forbidden fruit from @/deepdarkdelights, again, not the one you recommended. and also everything from @/trivia-yandere!!! I will quickly get down to your recommendations (let me start with solar eclipse first)!!!!

THANK YOU AGAIN!!!!!

[mrsvante]

authorrrr do u have any updates/sneak peaks for our (my) fav couple from tlg? 🫣

hmmmmmmm a sneak peek? i guess i could give you a lil’ something 🤭

You giggle, pressing your toes deeper into his side. “He’s excited to meet you, regardless of the almost threat on his life. You made quite the impression.”

Namjoon smirks and leans down to kiss your temple. “Good. Now he’ll know who you belong to.”

That makes you pause. The drama drones on in the background, but your mind drifts.

“Now that I think about it, I’ve never met any of your friends, you know,” you say, more curious than accusing. “Don’t you want me to?”

Namjoon’s brows lift in amusement. “I don’t have friends. I have colleagues. And you.”

You snort. “Okay, that’s not healthy.”

“It’s honest,” he counters. “Why would I want to spend time with anyone else when I can have all my time with you?”

You give him a look. “Because relationships need space. Healthy time apart.”

Namjoon scoffs. “So does a man’s sanity when he’s not balls deep in the love of his life.”

You swat his chest with a pillow, laughing through your blush. “You’re obsessed.”

“You’re goddamn right I am,” he mutters, abandoning your feet to tug you into his lap. His arms wrap tight around you as he buries kisses into your neck, collarbone, cheek. Everywhere he can reach.

You settle into him, smiling as he peppers your skin with affection. “Would you let me meet some of your colleagues?”

He hums, dragging his nose along your jaw. “They’ve been asking about you for years. Guess I should finally introduce them to my future wife and the mother of my children.”

[mrsvante]

wahhhhhh thank you for reading!!!! 50k of dad taehying???? my goodness, would i even survive writing that? 😵‍💫‼️

and it’s an unconventional trope, but divorcees finding their way back to each other after calling it a quits just does something for me. and if my ex-husband and baby daddy was taehyung i definitely wouldn’t turn him away 😍🥰

ex-husband taehyung head canons

your ex-husband is and was always in love, he just couldn’t properly expresss it. it comes to him too late, and he respects your wishes and agrees to the divorce; then you tell him you’re pregnant.

ex-husband taehyung still wears his wedding ring even after signing the papers. he tells himself it’s out of habit, but the way his thumb rubs over the band whenever he thinks of you says otherwise.

ex-husband taehyung never changes the passcode to the penthouse because it was your birthday. even after you move out, he still punches in those six familiar digits like a prayer.

ex-husband taehyung doesn’t touch the empty side of the bed. he sleeps stiff and angled, convinced the lingering warmth of your absence is the only part of you he still has permission to hold.

ex-husband taehyung rehearses conversations with you in the mirror, but always forgets the words when he sees you in person. he’s still trying to figure out how to say i’ve loved you the whole time without it sounding like too little, too late.

ex-husband taehyung finds out you’re pregnant from a voicemail. your voice is shaking, soft and steady like you rehearsed it a hundred times, but you hang up before the message is even complete. he listens to it twelve times that night. then he drives to your place and falls asleep in his car out front, just in case you want to talk.

ex-husband taehyung buys a small speaker and starts playing classical music against your belly. he doesn’t say why, just sits cross legged on the floor next to the couch while you nap, the soft sounds of violins floating between you like lullabies. sometimes, he hums along. and when your daughter kicks for the first time, she does it to the sound of his voice.

ex-husband taehyung starts holding your belly to ease the pressure on your back, it’s practical at first. his hands slide under your bump while you brush your teeth or stand too long in line, gently lifting and supporting. “i’ve got you,” he murmurs, grinning secretly into your hair as you sag against his chest with a groan.

ex-husband taehyung doesn’t let go of your hand once. not through the contractions, not through the screaming, not through the panicked moment when the nurse mentions an emergency c-section might be necessary. he’s there, foreheads pressed together, breath matching yours, his voice low and trembling as he repeats, “you’re okay, no matter what happens, i’ve got you.”

ex-husband taehyung never sleeps that first night. you’re sleeping from exhaustion, but he holds each baby like they’re stitched from gold thread, whispering apologies they won’t understand yet—i’m sorry i wasn’t softer, i’m sorry she didn’t know, i’m sorry it took this. then he kisses the tops of their heads and murmurs, but i love you. so much. and i love her too. still.

ex-husband taehyung learns to swaddle from a YouTube video at three in the morning, using one of the nurses’ clipboards as a makeshift changing table. when he finally gets it right, he lifts your daughter like a treasure and says, “there we go, sweetheart. appa’s got you,” with a smile that still aches around the edges.

ex-husband taehyung holds your hair back when the postpartum nausea kicks in. he wipes your mouth with a warm cloth. he rubs your back in slow, grounding circles. when you cry over nothing and everything, he says, “let it out, jagi.” and when you whisper, “i don’t think i’m strong enough for this,” he kisses your hand and replies, “then we’ll be weak together.”

ex-husband taehyung calls you every night he’s not there. asks if you’ve eaten, if you’ve slept, if you’re drinking enough water. when you tell him the babies are fussy and you’re too tired to shower, he shows up thirty minutes later with dinner, your favorite almond body wash, and fresh towels. “you take the first half of the night,” he says, already lifting your son from the bassinet. “i’ve got the second.”

ex-husband taehyung starts wearing the baby carrier everywhere. grocery store? baby on his chest. walking the dog? baby on his chest. brunch with his mother? both babies, one on his chest, one in a stroller, as he calmly explains the difference between breastmilk storage bags and formula. you watch him from the doorway and wonder how you ever thought this man didn’t love you.

ex-husband taehyung falls asleep on the couch with the twins tucked into his arms like they’ve always belonged there; your heart aches watching them. and when he stirs with bleary eyes, voice rough, he says, “you can come lay with us, if you want.” like he’s inviting you back into something you never really left.

ex-husband taehyung takes the twins to the park every sunday so you can have a moment to yourself. he packs snacks, wipes, toys, a change of clothes, even your daughter’s emergency glitter wand. when he sends you videos, it’s always your son stomping puddles in his little rain boots and taehyung’s laugh trailing behind like sunlight.

ex-husband taehyung always waits in the entryway during drop offs. even when it’s a hectic day, or he’s running late. you asked why and he shrugged, eyes tender. “i like watching you say goodbye to them. it makes them feel safe.” what he didn’t say was, it makes him feel safe, too.

ex-husband taehyung asked if he could come with you to the twins’ first day of preschool. he waited downstairs for you in front of your apartment with your favorite chai latte and a bouquet of the same flowers he got on your first anniversary. neither of you said anything about that.

ex-husband taehyung never raises his voice in front of the twins. not even when they draw on the walls with crayons or pour orange juice into his shoe “to make it smell better.” instead, he crouches to their level, eyes gentle, and says, “let’s clean it together, okay?” like patience is stitched into his DNA.

ex-husband taehyung is the first to notice when you’re overwhelmed. a glance, a sigh, a slight slouch in your shoulders; he sees it all. and when you whisper “i’m okay,” he simply nods, picks up both toddlers with ease, and murmurs, “go take a bath. i’ve got them.” he always does.

ex-husband taehyung barely looks up when you ask if he’s planning to start dating soon. “no,” he says quickly, too quickly, brushing it off with a shrug. “i don’t want to confuse them.” but then there’s a pause, just a second too long, and his voice goes quieter when he asks, “are you?”

ex-husband taehyung doesn’t ask to stay the night anymore. he just… never really leaves. his toothbrush finds its way into your bathroom. his cologne sits quietly beside your perfume. the twins start asking why appa always comes back after he leaves, and neither of you really have an answer.

ex-husband taehyung confesses on a tuesday. not with a huge gesture, just over grilled mackerel and kimchi stew at the kitchen table, the twins snoring softly in the next room. “i think…” he says, staring at his bowl, “i was in love with you even when we were strangers. i just didn’t know how to say it without hurting you.”

ex-husband taehyung kisses you like he’s making up for every day he didn’t. slowly with both hands cradling your jaw like you’re fragile and a goddess and entirely his. and when you whisper, “maybe we don’t need the papers this time,” he smiles like it’s the first day of spring.

ex-husband taehyung still introduces you as the mother of my children when you’re out. even after he moves back in. even after you’ve started wearing his shirts to bed again. it’s not until your daughter blurts out, “eomma and appa kiss now,” to her teacher that you realize you’ve become his person again.

ex-husband taehyung buys a new ring. simple, elegant, no fanfare. he slips it onto your finger one night while you’re folding laundry, as if he’s just remembering something that’s always been true. “no grand ceremony,” he says, voice low. “just us. just this. forever, if you’ll let me.”

masterlist

[mrsvante]

yessssss!! i’m obsessed with daddy tae 🫠💕 just the softest, sweetest, and most understanding man

ex-husband taehyung head canons

your ex-husband is and was always in love, he just couldn’t properly expresss it. it comes to him too late, and he respects your wishes and agrees to the divorce; then you tell him you’re pregnant.

ex-husband taehyung still wears his wedding ring even after signing the papers. he tells himself it’s out of habit, but the way his thumb rubs over the band whenever he thinks of you says otherwise.

ex-husband taehyung never changes the passcode to the penthouse because it was your birthday. even after you move out, he still punches in those six familiar digits like a prayer.

ex-husband taehyung doesn’t touch the empty side of the bed. he sleeps stiff and angled, convinced the lingering warmth of your absence is the only part of you he still has permission to hold.

ex-husband taehyung rehearses conversations with you in the mirror, but always forgets the words when he sees you in person. he’s still trying to figure out how to say i’ve loved you the whole time without it sounding like too little, too late.

ex-husband taehyung finds out you’re pregnant from a voicemail. your voice is shaking, soft and steady like you rehearsed it a hundred times, but you hang up before the message is even complete. he listens to it twelve times that night. then he drives to your place and falls asleep in his car out front, just in case you want to talk.

ex-husband taehyung buys a small speaker and starts playing classical music against your belly. he doesn’t say why, just sits cross legged on the floor next to the couch while you nap, the soft sounds of violins floating between you like lullabies. sometimes, he hums along. and when your daughter kicks for the first time, she does it to the sound of his voice.

ex-husband taehyung starts holding your belly to ease the pressure on your back, it’s practical at first. his hands slide under your bump while you brush your teeth or stand too long in line, gently lifting and supporting. “i’ve got you,” he murmurs, grinning secretly into your hair as you sag against his chest with a groan.

ex-husband taehyung doesn’t let go of your hand once. not through the contractions, not through the screaming, not through the panicked moment when the nurse mentions an emergency c-section might be necessary. he’s there, foreheads pressed together, breath matching yours, his voice low and trembling as he repeats, “you’re okay, no matter what happens, i’ve got you.”

ex-husband taehyung never sleeps that first night. you’re sleeping from exhaustion, but he holds each baby like they’re stitched from gold thread, whispering apologies they won’t understand yet—i’m sorry i wasn’t softer, i’m sorry she didn’t know, i’m sorry it took this. then he kisses the tops of their heads and murmurs, but i love you. so much. and i love her too. still.

ex-husband taehyung learns to swaddle from a YouTube video at three in the morning, using one of the nurses’ clipboards as a makeshift changing table. when he finally gets it right, he lifts your daughter like a treasure and says, “there we go, sweetheart. appa’s got you,” with a smile that still aches around the edges.

ex-husband taehyung holds your hair back when the postpartum nausea kicks in. he wipes your mouth with a warm cloth. he rubs your back in slow, grounding circles. when you cry over nothing and everything, he says, “let it out, jagi.” and when you whisper, “i don’t think i’m strong enough for this,” he kisses your hand and replies, “then we’ll be weak together.”

ex-husband taehyung calls you every night he’s not there. asks if you’ve eaten, if you’ve slept, if you’re drinking enough water. when you tell him the babies are fussy and you’re too tired to shower, he shows up thirty minutes later with dinner, your favorite almond body wash, and fresh towels. “you take the first half of the night,” he says, already lifting your son from the bassinet. “i’ve got the second.”

ex-husband taehyung starts wearing the baby carrier everywhere. grocery store? baby on his chest. walking the dog? baby on his chest. brunch with his mother? both babies, one on his chest, one in a stroller, as he calmly explains the difference between breastmilk storage bags and formula. you watch him from the doorway and wonder how you ever thought this man didn’t love you.

ex-husband taehyung falls asleep on the couch with the twins tucked into his arms like they’ve always belonged there; your heart aches watching them. and when he stirs with bleary eyes, voice rough, he says, “you can come lay with us, if you want.” like he’s inviting you back into something you never really left.

ex-husband taehyung takes the twins to the park every sunday so you can have a moment to yourself. he packs snacks, wipes, toys, a change of clothes, even your daughter’s emergency glitter wand. when he sends you videos, it’s always your son stomping puddles in his little rain boots and taehyung’s laugh trailing behind like sunlight.

ex-husband taehyung always waits in the entryway during drop offs. even when it’s a hectic day, or he’s running late. you asked why and he shrugged, eyes tender. “i like watching you say goodbye to them. it makes them feel safe.” what he didn’t say was, it makes him feel safe, too.

ex-husband taehyung asked if he could come with you to the twins’ first day of preschool. he waited downstairs for you in front of your apartment with your favorite chai latte and a bouquet of the same flowers he got on your first anniversary. neither of you said anything about that.

ex-husband taehyung never raises his voice in front of the twins. not even when they draw on the walls with crayons or pour orange juice into his shoe “to make it smell better.” instead, he crouches to their level, eyes gentle, and says, “let’s clean it together, okay?” like patience is stitched into his DNA.

ex-husband taehyung is the first to notice when you’re overwhelmed. a glance, a sigh, a slight slouch in your shoulders; he sees it all. and when you whisper “i’m okay,” he simply nods, picks up both toddlers with ease, and murmurs, “go take a bath. i’ve got them.” he always does.

ex-husband taehyung barely looks up when you ask if he’s planning to start dating soon. “no,” he says quickly, too quickly, brushing it off with a shrug. “i don’t want to confuse them.” but then there’s a pause, just a second too long, and his voice goes quieter when he asks, “are you?”

ex-husband taehyung doesn’t ask to stay the night anymore. he just… never really leaves. his toothbrush finds its way into your bathroom. his cologne sits quietly beside your perfume. the twins start asking why appa always comes back after he leaves, and neither of you really have an answer.

ex-husband taehyung confesses on a tuesday. not with a huge gesture, just over grilled mackerel and kimchi stew at the kitchen table, the twins snoring softly in the next room. “i think…” he says, staring at his bowl, “i was in love with you even when we were strangers. i just didn’t know how to say it without hurting you.”

ex-husband taehyung kisses you like he’s making up for every day he didn’t. slowly with both hands cradling your jaw like you’re fragile and a goddess and entirely his. and when you whisper, “maybe we don’t need the papers this time,” he smiles like it’s the first day of spring.

ex-husband taehyung still introduces you as the mother of my children when you’re out. even after he moves back in. even after you’ve started wearing his shirts to bed again. it’s not until your daughter blurts out, “eomma and appa kiss now,” to her teacher that you realize you’ve become his person again.

ex-husband taehyung buys a new ring. simple, elegant, no fanfare. he slips it onto your finger one night while you’re folding laundry, as if he’s just remembering something that’s always been true. “no grand ceremony,” he says, voice low. “just us. just this. forever, if you’ll let me.”

masterlist

[mrsvante]

[mrsvante]

🐹: Although I didn't say much and all I did was eat, I at least came to report that I'm alive. 🫡❤️

[mrsvante]

i will NEVER be over ‘like crazy’ 😫😫😫💕💜✨

JIMIN x LIKE CRAZY (2023) – “I’m feelin’ so alive, wasting time. I’d rather be lost in the lights. I’m outta my mind. This is gonna break me. No, don’t you wake me. I wanna stay in this dream, don’t save me.”

[mrsvante]

While we’re waiting, could we get more head canons? 🥺

fuck it why not :3 lowkey thinking of this post & had to do something immediately

thinking about the time you agreed to move into a new apartment. one apartment. three bedrooms. three people. two men. one woman. what could possibly happen under one roof…?

word count: 2.489

warning: smut, free use relationship, fingering, dirty talk, unprotected sex, and they were roommates, orgasm denial, edging, degradation, nipple sucking, more porn than plot, shower sex, face-slapping,

You recall staying in your room the majority of the time when you moved in with Jungkook and Taehyung - two childhood friends who were looking for someone to rent out their third bedroom in their apartment.

 Jimin, how you even met these two, was moving out and in with his girlfriend. He was the one who suggested you move into his room once he found out you were looking for a new (and cheaper) place to stay. “Kook and Tae aren’t going to deny you. They don’t want to pay my half.” he stated, insisting that even though you were a woman, it wouldn’t stop them from being who they normally were.

So, you moved in. You, however, didn’t want them to feel as though they had to change their regular routine and everyday way of living. You took your food to your room and ate alone. When there was company over, you didn’t mind only coming out if it was to use the bathroom or grab a quick snack. After work, you mostly stayed in your room, passing by Taehyung and Jungkook on the couch.

“You don’t have to be such a stranger.” Taehyung had told you one day, months into living together. He had managed to catch you right after a shower, your hair wet and smelling like cherry blossoms. “Are you this closed off with Jimin?” 

Over time, you three became close friends. You joined them on grocery shopping trips. You enjoyed movie nights where Jungkook almost always chose the movie - half the time a marvel movie that had you and Taehyung groaning. You’d cook together. With you washing the dishes as Jungkook cooked and Taehyung set the table - because that’s all he ever wanted to do.

Naturally, with three single people  - two men and one woman - there would be sexual tension. It’s subtle at times, with Jungkook grazing past you a little too close. He’d grab something that was too high in the cabinet, his back against yours, but not standing too close to make you too uncomfortable. 

Taehyung is always a touchy person, but his touches would linger for a second longer. He would glide his fingers against your soft skin before removing them, possibly testing the waters. 

There's no doubt that both men are attractive. They work out often. You couldn’t help but notice the way their shirts would cling to them with sweat as they come back from the gym. Jungkook would peel his shirt off without a care, full sleeve and chest tattoo on display. You swore he was doing it on purpose - as was Taehyung. He would wear his sweatpants so low at times, but he was at home and of course, was comfortable.

Jungkook was the first person to initiate anything. He had come home from work later than usual and you noticed the way he kicked off his shoes that today was anything but stressful. He had watched you turn around from your lying position on the couch, tank top strap hanging from one shoulder and shorts clinging to you. He peered down at you with a tilted head, his eyes so intense that it brought you to a seated position.

You couldn’t recall how it happened exactly. What you do know is that Jungkook is on the couch with you, calloused, yet soft, hands kneading your breast. He’s breathing just as heavy as you are, his thumb twirling against perky nipples.

 Jungkook’s mouth salivates to pluck a nipple into his mouth and suckle onto it until they’re swollen. His eyes meet yours, clouded with such lust and need - “Is this okay?” he asked you, coming closer. 

You nodded your head, face hot. It happens fast entirely, Jungkook’s mouth wrapped around your nipple and suckling onto it greedily. His body cages you between him and the couch, one hand kneading your free breast while his tongue twirls around your nipple.

It didn’t stop there. Every tension that lingered between you and Jungkook had come out right there on the couch - the same one you, he and Taehyung frequented. You’re naked before you know it with Jungkook pressing wet open mouth kisses down your body, forcing your thighs apart. “I knew you’d have a pretty pussy.” he grunted, pressing a kiss against your already throbbing clit.

Jungkook devoured your pussy hungerily, indeed showing you just how much he wanted you for all this time. He doesn’t come up for air and his hands are clenching onto your thighs so tightly. His head bobbed back and forth, tongue flickering between your folds to suckling onto your clit. You were squealing loudly, thankful that Taehyung hadn’t come home yet. Your legs quivered in his embrace, your chest rising and falling erratically. 

Jungkook’s fingers are as good as his tongue. They plunge inside your wet pussy and immediately pump. He marvels at how beautiful the sight is. You’re clenching around him messily, arousal pooling out of you and into his palm. How he couldn’t wait to feel you wrapped around his cock.

“Feels so good!” you gasped, your eyes watching the way Jungkook’s fingers plunge in and out of you.

“Your pussy’s so tight, baby.” Jungkook is knuckle deep in your pussy. Your pussy was pulling him in, begging him to be closer and closer. His fingers curl, hitting that spot that causes your toes to curl and your back to arch. You would think you and Jungkook had done this before by how comfortable he was fucking his fingers inside of you.

“W-What-” Jungkook pulled his fingers out of you, dark eyes dancing with mischief. “You’ve been toying with me for months, baby. Dressing so slutty.” Jungkook murmurs, fingers placing themselves onto your throbbing clit, rubbing teasingly. “It’s like you wanted me to do this for so long.”

Biting your lip, your eyes rolled for a moment. “You were doing the same thing.” you shot back, a moan rushing through your lips. “I’ve been waiting for you to say something.” Jungkook growled, slapping your clit. You yelp, pussy clenching around nothing. “Instead you walked around here with shorts that could be confused with panties. No bra…”

It’s a blur again. Your mouth is full of Jungkook’s cock, a hand wrapped around the base as you suckle onto the tip before bringing more and more of him in your mouth. Saliva pools from the corner of your lips as you take him, your head bobbing up and down.

Jungkook is slumped against the couch as he has a fistfull of your hair. His eyes watch you steadily, the sight so lewd yet breathtaking. His toes curl when you suck rougher, your eyes - glossy and intense - turn to look right at him. “Y-You’re good at this.” Jungkook moans.

You knew you were - you were never told otherwise. It’s been a few months since you’ve hooked up last, but you were certain that this skill would never die.

Jungkook continues to watch you, your mouth covering the entirety of his cock with such ease that he thinks he might be in love. You don’t stop, however, not until Jungkook’s sent completely over the edge. His head is drawn back against the couch, his thighs trembling with overstimulation - until you do.

Your warm mouth is replaced by something even warmer. You don’t bother to ask if it was alright - you knew it was. Your thighs are either side of Jungkook’s waist, his cock sliding into your pussy easily - and raw.

Jungkook would like to say this had to be the best ride of his life. You rise and fall on his cock, bouncing energetically on it. Your pussy is wet and tight, clenching and unclenching to further torture him. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, breasts bouncing in his face that he thinks he’s in heaven.

You and Jungkook fuck as if this wasn’t the first time. He has you bent over the same couch, your face shoved into the cushion, both hands clasp firmly on your waist as his cock drills into you with such vigorous need. Your pussy squelches louder and louder with each thrust.

So far, Jungkook’s favorite position is you on your back. He gets to see it all. Your wet, creaming pussy. Your bouncing breast with hardened, suckable nipples teasing him. Your face, drawn in pleasure, with those lustful eyes staring up at him, begging him for more and more and more.

Taehyung notices the change in the home instantly. That night, it’s hard to ignore the glances between you and Jungkook. The smiling, soft giggles over dinner time. The way that there appeared to be something he wasn’t a part of. Taehyung knows immediately what it was - and he’s pissed.

It’s Jungkook’s turn to wash the dishes tonight. Instead of shoving them in a dishwasher like Taehyung or you do, he washes them by hand. He always said they were cleaner that way - you or Taehyung never saw a difference, but you admired his efforts.

Taehyung doesn’t bother knocking on the bathroom door. The bathroom is warm as he enters, the mirror fogged up entirely with how hot the water was, steam covering the entirety of the small room. He manages to close the door behind him without you noticing. 

Taehyung watches your body through the wet glass. You’re underneath the water, subs of soapy water trailing down your naked body. His eyes go through every inch and curve of your body before you notice him - you nearly faint.

“You fucked him.” is all Taehyung says. You don’t respond at first, too stunned to find your other friend and roommate in the bathroom with you. His eyebrows, so thick and full, are knitted together in frustration. His dark eyes are hard, staring right at you.

“I’m…sorry?” is what you respond with, unsure of what else to say to Taehyung. Was he truly upset that you fucked Jungkook? Or was he just upset that you didn’t fuck him too? You weren’t truly sure - but what else did you have left to lose? “I want you to fuck me, too.”

Droplets of water flicker into your eyes, slamming off both the wall and Taehyung’s naked body. You’re on your knees, the tile hard against them but you don’t care one bit. Your mouth is full of Taehyung’s cock, a hand wrapping around the base as you take him.

You’re such a whore - you know this. Having two cocks in the same night was record breaking, but you don’t care. Anyone would be willing to hop on Taehyung and Jungkook, you were just the one that had the chance to.

Taehyung has to lean against the cold wall to stop himself from falling. Your mouth sucks him in so deep, your hand only pumping to further send him over the edge. His mind swirls with too many thoughts at once that he feels like he’s about to explode.

It doesn’t help that your eyes are watching him, ignoring the water flying into them. His face mirrors Jungkook’s, you think, the fluttering eyes, gasping mouth. You were far too  good at this for your own good.

Taehyung doesn’t want to cum - not in your mouth. Not now at least. You aren’t upset when he pushes you away and forces you against the glass door. You willingly spread your legs for him, your throbbing cunt already wishing for him to be deep inside of you.

“It’s ashamed I had to come to you.” Taehyung grunts, entering you so easily. You’re wet, pussy squeezing him lovingly. Your hands slide against the glass, your chest pressed firmly against it, as well. “Otherwise, you’d never let me fuck you.”

Taehyung’s thrusts are punishing and full of irritation. Irritation that you allowed Jungkook to fuck you first, even when they’ve both been silently pining after you. Maybe it was jealousy knowing that his friend got to feel the way your pussy clenches when you fuck it just right.

You, on the receiving end of Taehyung’s frustration, are more than accepting of the furious pounding. He doesn’t care about being silent - neither do you. You grunt and moan loudly, his skin slapping against yours. The shower water slams against the floor, adding to the noise that Jungkook would surely be hearing down the hall.

You do whatever you had to do to taunt Taehyung, his natural competitiveness coming out to display. “Is that all you got?”, “Jungkook was fucking me deeper.” “You’re not what I expected” was what drove him over the wall.

Taehyung yanks your hair, forcing you to turn around to face him. A hand,  large and beautiful as you always thought they were, slaps against your wet cheek. You’re dazed for a moment - Taehyung was always the loving type.

This Taehyung was the one that hides behind his soft, kind persona. The one that you forced out of him. The one that slams you against the glass once more and hikes your leg up to continue to fuck you.

This time, Taehyung doesn’t show you mercy. He shows you just how pissed he is that Jungkook got to you first. One hand lays around your neck while the other holds onto your thigh, keeping you right in place. If his pounding before was punishing, than this was brutal.

“You’re a lying little bitch,” Taehyung laughs, witnessing the creamy ring around his cock and the wet trail of arousal coating your thighs. “You just wanted me to fuck you harder.”

“It-” you began, holding onto his shoulder for support. His cock is so deep, slamming against that sweet spot that's gone through so much in just a short amount of hours. “-worked.”

You’re cumming before you know it, hot waves of pleasure pooling out of you. You’re creaming all over him, your tight cunt only becoming even wetter than before. Taehyung isn��t done with you yet - no. He has to have more of you. He hikes you up against the wall fully, your body in his full control. He drills his cock - deeper and deeper, angrily taking you as his.

Taehyung is pissed - absolutely livid. He was never going to live down that Jungkook got to feel this sweet pussy before him. How he got the chance to feel you cum around him, squeeze in his cock in such a heavenly embrace.

Taehyung is so livid that he cums right in you, so deep and so much. He trembles, forehead slamming against your neck and letting out such whiny groans that you find endearing.

Jungkook, on the other side of the glass, doesn’t. His eyes are hard and fiery as Taehyung’s was. Neither of you notice at first, not until he slams his knuckles against said glass. “No fair!” he grumbles.  “I didn’t get to cum in her!”

You bite your lip, adrenaline flowing through you. You’re sure you ignited a competition between both friends - one that you were going to be the receiving end of.

@sweetempathprunetree @investedreader @elmariajinn

[mrsvante]

ex-husband taehyung headcanons

your ex-husband is and was always in love, he just couldn’t properly expresss it. it comes to him too late, and he respects your wishes and agrees to the divorce; then you tell him you’re pregnant.

ex-husband taehyung still wears his wedding ring even after signing the papers. he tells himself it’s out of habit, but the way his thumb rubs over the band whenever he thinks of you says otherwise.

ex-husband taehyung never changes the passcode to the penthouse because it was your birthday. even after you move out, he still punches in those six familiar digits like a prayer.

ex-husband taehyung doesn’t touch the empty side of the bed. he sleeps stiff and angled, convinced the lingering warmth of your absence is the only part of you he still has permission to hold.

ex-husband taehyung rehearses conversations with you in the mirror, but always forgets the words when he sees you in person. he’s still trying to figure out how to say i’ve loved you the whole time without it sounding like too little, too late.

ex-husband taehyung finds out you’re pregnant from a voicemail. your voice is shaking, soft and steady like you rehearsed it a hundred times, but you hang up before the message is even complete. he listens to it twelve times that night. then he drives to your place and falls asleep in his car out front, just in case you want to talk.

ex-husband taehyung buys a small speaker and starts playing classical music against your belly. he doesn’t say why, just sits cross legged on the floor next to the couch while you nap, the soft sounds of violins floating between you like lullabies. sometimes, he hums along. and when your daughter kicks for the first time, she does it to the sound of his voice.

ex-husband taehyung starts holding your belly to ease the pressure on your back, it’s practical at first. his hands slide under your bump while you brush your teeth or stand too long in line, gently lifting and supporting. “i’ve got you,” he murmurs, grinning secretly into your hair as you sag against his chest with a groan.

ex-husband taehyung doesn’t let go of your hand once. not through the contractions, not through the screaming, not through the panicked moment when the nurse mentions an emergency c-section might be necessary. he’s there, foreheads pressed together, breath matching yours, his voice low and trembling as he repeats, “you’re okay, no matter what happens, i’ve got you.”

ex-husband taehyung never sleeps that first night. you’re sleeping from exhaustion, but he holds each baby like they’re stitched from gold thread, whispering apologies they won’t understand yet—i’m sorry i wasn’t softer, i’m sorry she didn’t know, i’m sorry it took this. then he kisses the tops of their heads and murmurs, but i love you. so much. and i love her too. still.

ex-husband taehyung learns to swaddle from a YouTube video at three in the morning, using one of the nurses’ clipboards as a makeshift changing table. when he finally gets it right, he lifts your daughter like a treasure and says, “there we go, sweetheart. appa’s got you,” with a smile that still aches around the edges.

ex-husband taehyung holds your hair back when the postpartum nausea kicks in. he wipes your mouth with a warm cloth. he rubs your back in slow, grounding circles. when you cry over nothing and everything, he says, “let it out, jagi.” and when you whisper, “i don’t think i’m strong enough for this,” he kisses your hand and replies, “then we’ll be weak together.”

ex-husband taehyung calls you every night he’s not there. asks if you’ve eaten, if you’ve slept, if you’re drinking enough water. when you tell him the babies are fussy and you’re too tired to shower, he shows up thirty minutes later with dinner, your favorite almond body wash, and fresh towels. “you take the first half of the night,” he says, already lifting your son from the bassinet. “i’ve got the second.”

ex-husband taehyung starts wearing the baby carrier everywhere. grocery store? baby on his chest. walking the dog? baby on his chest. brunch with his mother? both babies, one on his chest, one in a stroller, as he calmly explains the difference between breastmilk storage bags and formula. you watch him from the doorway and wonder how you ever thought this man didn’t love you.

ex-husband taehyung falls asleep on the couch with the twins tucked into his arms like they’ve always belonged there; your heart aches watching them. and when he stirs with bleary eyes, voice rough, he says, “you can come lay with us, if you want.” like he’s inviting you back into something you never really left.

ex-husband taehyung takes the twins to the park every sunday so you can have a moment to yourself. he packs snacks, wipes, toys, a change of clothes, even your daughter’s emergency glitter wand. when he sends you videos, it’s always your son stomping puddles in his little rain boots and taehyung’s laugh trailing behind like sunlight.

ex-husband taehyung always waits in the entryway during drop offs. even when it’s a hectic day, or he’s running late. you asked why and he shrugged, eyes tender. “i like watching you say goodbye to them. it makes them feel safe.” what he didn’t say was, it makes him feel safe, too.

ex-husband taehyung asked if he could come with you to the twins’ first day of preschool. he waited downstairs for you in front of your apartment with your favorite chai latte and a bouquet of the same flowers he got on your first anniversary. neither of you said anything about that.

ex-husband taehyung never raises his voice in front of the twins. not even when they draw on the walls with crayons or pour orange juice into his shoe “to make it smell better.” instead, he crouches to their level, eyes gentle, and says, “let’s clean it together, okay?” like patience is stitched into his DNA.

ex-husband taehyung is the first to notice when you’re overwhelmed. a glance, a sigh, a slight slouch in your shoulders; he sees it all. and when you whisper “i’m okay,” he simply nods, picks up both toddlers with ease, and murmurs, “go take a bath. i’ve got them.” he always does.

ex-husband taehyung barely looks up when you ask if he’s planning to start dating soon. “no,” he says quickly, too quickly, brushing it off with a shrug. “i don’t want to confuse them.” but then there’s a pause, just a second too long, and his voice goes quieter when he asks, “are you?”

ex-husband taehyung doesn’t ask to stay the night anymore. he just… never really leaves. his toothbrush finds its way into your bathroom. his cologne sits quietly beside your perfume. the twins start asking why appa always comes back after he leaves, and neither of you really have an answer.

ex-husband taehyung confesses on a tuesday. not with a huge gesture, just over grilled mackerel and kimchi stew at the kitchen table, the twins snoring softly in the next room. “i think…” he says, staring at his bowl, “i was in love with you even when we were strangers. i just didn’t know how to say it without hurting you.”

ex-husband taehyung kisses you like he’s making up for every day he didn’t. slowly with both hands cradling your jaw like you’re fragile and a goddess and entirely his. and when you whisper, “maybe we don’t need the papers this time,” he smiles like it’s the first day of spring.

ex-husband taehyung still introduces you as the mother of my children when you’re out. even after he moves back in. even after you’ve started wearing his shirts to bed again. it’s not until your daughter blurts out, “eomma and appa kiss now,” to her teacher that you realize you’ve become his person again.

ex-husband taehyung buys a new ring. simple, elegant, no fanfare. he slips it onto your finger one night while you’re folding laundry, as if he’s just remembering something that’s always been true. “no grand ceremony,” he says, voice low. “just us. just this. forever, if you’ll let me.”

masterlist

[mrsvante]

should i? i had a specific member and head canon in mind and went a little crazy ☺️ and thank you for your reading my work, it always means so much to me!! 😁💜💜💜

i want to try the writing head canons because i’m obsessed with them, but i keep getting carried away…how does everyone keep their posts short and sweet?? 😫😫😫

[mrsvante]

mind you, i’m supposed to be editing.

[mrsvante]

i want to try the writing head canons because i’m obsessed with them, but i keep getting carried away…how does everyone keep their posts short and sweet?? 😫😫😫