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focusonkayjay · 23 days ago

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between the ride and the roses (14)

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: biker/ motorcycle shop owner! jungkook x flower shop owner! reader, enemies to lovers, opposites attract, slow burn, angst, smut, fluff

Word count: 7.2k+

Series summary: There's an insane turn of events when your calm and peaceful life is intruded by Jungkook, a biker boy who sets up his loud business right next to your own. Your paths cross under unlikely circumstances, starting with a clash of personalities but gradually you find yourself establishing a deeper connection with the annoyingly attractive biker jerk. You both have no idea what's in store for you guys as you try your best to put up with each other.

Chapter Warnings: breaking in, mentions of blood, cuts, injuries, stitches, physical fight, violence, strong language

A/N: heyyy bbies, how are you all doing? jungkook went live yesterday, and I swear, I cried when I got the notification. it literally felt like life was worth living again. I missed him so much. anyways, this year is almost over, and next year, all the members will be together again. I can’t wait !!!

part 14: gearshift to wilting petals

5:46 am You yawn softly as you unlock the door to your shop, the faint chill of the early morning curling around you. The streets are still cloaked in quietness, a gentle hush lingering in the air as if the world itself hasn’t quite woken up yet. You slip inside, flipping on the lights one by one, their warm glow slowly illuminating your shop.

It’s unusual for you to be here this early. But today’s an exception, an urgent order for the school fair nearby has you here hours before your usual routine. The arrangements still need finishing touches and you want everything to be perfect.

Sitting down at your workbench, you roll up your sleeves, the familiar scent of fresh blooms calming you instantly. As your hands move with practiced precision, carefully arranging delicate petals, a small smile creeps onto your lips.

It’s unbidden, but welcomed as you immediately think of Jungkook. Somehow, even in the stillness of dawn, his face, his voice, the way he laughs... it all occupies the edges of your mind.

Thinking of him has become almost habitual now, slipping into your thoughts during moments like this... when the world is still, and your heart has room to breathe. The thought of him anchors you, a quiet comfort in the early hours.

A soft chuckle escapes as you tie a ribbon around a bundle of daisies, your mind wandering to him. Maybe he’s still asleep, hair tousled, soft snores slipping past his lips, one leg inevitably thrown off the bed like always.

But then just as your thoughts begin to drift, a loud crash interrupts you out of nowhere. The sharp sound shatters your calm, like a mirror dropped from a great height. Your fingers freeze, the flowers slipping from your hands as your head jerks towards the source.

A cold chill washes over you as your eyes land on the huge front window of your shop. The glass, once pristine and clear, now has a jagged, gaping hole right in its center. Shards glitter on the floor like cruel stars scattered across the surface, and lying amongst them, lifeless and heavy, is a rock.

And before you can process the moment, another rock comes flying through the broken pane, the violent impact splintering the remaining glass further. The sound is deafening, a crack of thunder in the stillness. Instinct takes over and you quickly cover your ears, squeezing your eyes shut as you flinch back.

Your heart plummets, sinking to the pit of your stomach, a hollow weight of dread pressing against your ribs.

After a few agonizing seconds, you cautiously open your eyes, your breath shallow as you take in the chaos before you. The giant broken window now yawns like an open wound, letting the chill of the dark morning seep into your shop.

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, each thud louder than the last, as your trembling fingers hover above the workbench. Your mind races, spiraling into a panic that your body can barely keep up with.

Your eyes dart towards the door, a fleeting thought of escape flashing through your mind, but the sound of crunching glass snaps your attention back to the shattered window.

Three men step out of the shadows, their figures looming larger than life as they approach. They're tall, broad-shouldered, and unmistakably menacing, each of them casually resting a baseball bat against their shoulder. The dim light of your shop catches on the jagged edges of the glass, framing their sinister grins in a way that sends a chill down your spine.

They don't hesitate. With practiced ease, one of them vaults through the broken window, the others following close behind, their boots crunching on the scattered pieces of glass. Your legs tremble as you instinctively stand up, your knees threatening to give away beneath you.

You don’t know these men... you’ve never seen them before. But their presence is oppressive, their sharp, predatory gazes pinning you in place. Their leather jackets are heavy, their style loud and aggressive, mirroring the wicked expressions carved into their faces.

Despite the faint glow of dawn creeping in, they seem to bring darkness with them, filling your shop with a suffocating sense of danger.

"Well, well, well…” the man in front drawls, his voice smooth and venomous, laced with an undercurrent of malice. He steps closer as his dark eyes rake over you, lingering too long, and your stomach twists in revulsion. You want to turn away, to retreat, but fear roots you to the spot.

"Didn’t know Jungkook’s little girlfriend was this pretty." he sneers, his grin stretching too wide, too cruel. The men behind him chuckle, a low, guttural sound that feels like claws dragging across your skin. But when you hear Jungkook's name, it cuts through your panic, your mind stumbling over the implications. These men knew him?

The air feels heavy, as if the shadows in the room are closing in around you. You take a cautious step back, your pulse thundering in your ears, but the man only smirks wider, his teeth gleaming in the dim light. He’s savoring this, feeding off your fear.

"Who… who are you?" you stammer, your voice trembling like a fragile thread about to snap. “Oh, how terribly rude of me..." he quickly says, mockery dripping from his tone as he places a hand dramatically over his chest.

"Forgive me, sweetheart. I forgot my manners." His sarcasm is a knife, twisting deep with every word. He takes another step closer, and your instincts scream at you to run, but you’re frozen, trapped by the weight of his presence.

“I’m Mingyu.” he says finally, his grin sharpening as he gestures lazily over his shoulder. “And these fine gentlemen are... Kihyun… and Jaemin.” He names them like they’re old friends, but the glint in his eyes is anything but friendly.

You glance at the others. Kihyun leans casually against one of your displays, his gaze cold and calculating, while Jaemin’s smile is twisted, his hand firmly gripping the baseball bat that glints ominously under the faint light of your shop.

"What... do you want?" you demand, trying to sound braver than you feel, but your voice wavers, betraying you. Mingyu tilts his head, feigning curiosity. “What do we want?” he echoes. "Didn’t Jungkook ever tell you about us?” He arches a brow, his smirk growing darker. You curtly shake your head, your throat tightening.

“No?” he questions, pretending to be surprised. "Well, that’s a shame. We’re his… let's just say... his very good friends." The way he says it makes your blood run cold.

You don't respond, you don't know how to respond but before you can even process everything, you suddenly notice Jaemin moving. Without a word, he lifts his bat and swings it with terrifying force, smashing into the wooden shelves against the wall behind him. The sound is deafening, splintering wood and shattering pottery echoing like gunfire in the small space.

You flinch violently, caught completely off guard by his sudden actions. The delicate plants you’d lovingly cared for tumble to the ground, their pots exploding into shards, soil spilling like blood across the floor.

“Stop… STOP IT!” you scream, your voice cracking as you lurch forward, desperation overpowering your fear. But before you can reach Jaemin, Mingyu’s hand snaps out, gripping your arm like a steel trap and yanking you back.

His fingers dig into your arm with bruising force, and you gasp, struggling against his hold. “Oh, sweetheart...” Mingyu says in a low, taunting voice, leaning in closer. The heat of his breath brushes against your cheek, and you shudder. “We didn’t want to do this, you know.”

His words are laced with venom, and your heart pounds in your chest as his gaze pins you in place. “But your boyfriend...” he spits the word like it’s poison, his smirk twisting into something darker. “He doesn’t know how to stay out of my way.”

Tears blur your vision as you stare at him, your mind racing to make sense of what he's saying. “He’s always picking fights...” Mingyu continues, his tone growing colder with every word. “Always thinking he can win. Like some kind of hero. But heroes…”” He leans closer, his face inches from yours now. “Heroes make the worst enemies.”

Behind him, Jaemin swings his bat again, sending another shelf crashing down. The sound shatters what’s left of your composure, and you choke back a sob as you watch your shop... the place you’d poured your heart into, reduce to ruins.

"Jungkook brought this on you." Mingyu hisses, his voice a venomous promise as his grip tightens “And if he doesn’t learn his lesson soon…” His words trail off, and his grin transforms into something grotesque, almost close to a nightmare. “Well, let’s just say this is only the beginning.”

The unspoken threat lingers in the air, oppressive and choking, like the weight of a storm ready to burst. Tears spill hot and unchecked down your cheeks as Mingyu shoves you backwards. You stumble, your knees buckling, the ground seeming to tilt beneath you.

For a moment, the world blurs with your tears, but the sound of splintering wood snaps you back. Kihyun moves like a shadow, his boots crunching over broken pots as he kicks a large ceramic planter. The crash echoes in your chest like a hammer against your ribs.

You don’t hesitate. Fueled by desperation again, you lunge towards Kihyun, grabbing at his arm with trembling hands. “Stop !!” you cry, your voice raw and broken. But he barely acknowledges you, his strength overwhelming yours as he harshly shrugs you off like you’re nothing more than a fly.

The force of his shove sends you sprawling backwards. The edge of the workbench hits your head as you fall, pain lancing through your skull like a hot knife. A sharp hiss escapes your lips as your palm lands on a jagged shard of glass on the ground, slicing through your skin.

You gasp, the sting of the cut mingling with the wet warmth of blood trickling down the side of your face. Your vision blurs, but not enough to fade the destruction unfolding around you. The sound of your beloved shop, the place you’d built with love and care, being torn apart is a symphony of horrors.

“Please.” you breathe out, your voice barely audible over the chaos. But they don’t hear you. Or worse, they don’t care. The men laugh and hoot, their voices cruel and mocking as they wreck everything in sight.

Your chest heaves with sobs as you press your uninjured hand to the ground, trying to steady yourself, trying to stand, but your legs tremble beneath you.

From the corner of your eye, you see Mingyu approaching, his bat swinging with terrifying precision as he breaks more pots. He doesn't even spare the lamp that stands near your counter. He’s grinning and so focused, as if destruction is his art.

Your head throbs, the glass shard in your palm burns, and the crushing weight in your heart feels like you're going to stop breathing. The tears come faster now, mixing with the blood dripping down your face.

You’re gasping, choking on sobs, your hands trembling as you try to stand up, but it's like all the strength in your body is gone. Everything hurts... your body, your heart, your very soul as you helplessly watch your world crumble into ruins right in front of you.

Above the ringing in your ears, the laughter of the men echoes, cruel and victorious. The destruction of your sanctuary is their triumph, and you, broken and bleeding on the floor, are their prize.

Thankfully, Yoongi’s got his car today, a rare stroke of convenience Jungkook barely registers in his rush to get to the hospital. He throws himself into the passenger seat, slamming the door with a force that rattles the frame. His elbow presses against the window, fingers tugging restlessly at his lower lip as his thoughts churn like a relentless storm, each wave crashing harder than the last.

He can’t stop thinking about you. How terrified you must have been, how much pain you must be in, and then there’s also your shop. Your haven, the place you poured your heart into. Now in ruins.

The image grips his chest like a vice, tightening with every thought. His breaths grow shallow, each one scraping against the ache that claws at him, raw and unrelenting. It’s not just the destruction of a place... it’s the invasion of your world, your safety, and a sharp reminder of the danger you never deserved to face.

"You okay, Kook?" Hoseok’s voice comes from the backseat, hesitant, like he already knows the answer. Jungkook doesn’t respond. His jaw clenches so tightly it aches, his nails digging crescents into his palms. Whoever did this crossed a line they’ll wish they hadn’t. And when he finds out who it was, he’s not going to hold back.

"This is insane." Hoseok mutters, louder this time. "Who the hell would do something like this?" The question lingers in the air, unanswered, heavy. The hum of the engine is the only sound for a moment, its monotony doing nothing to ease the tension coiled in the car.

Yoongi grips the wheel tighter, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. He exhales, the sound cutting through the silence like a warning. "I think it’s Mingyu and his gang." he says, his voice low. Jimin’s sharp intake of breath is immediate. "Mingyu?" he echoes, the pieces clicking together in real time. "Holy shit. That actually makes sense."

Hoseok leans forward, his brows knitted together. "Why would they go after Y/n though? She has nothing to do with them."

Jimin shakes his head, frustration bleeding into his tone. "Come on, Hobi. Mingyu’s not stupid. He probably saw Kook and Y/n together and figured out she’s important to him. So, what does he do? He goes after her to provoke Jungkook. Classic move."

Hoseok leans back, the weight of the realization settling over him. "That’s so fucking messed up."

Jungkook’s grip on his knee tightens as the conversation continues. His mind spirals deeper into the truth, piecing together the fragments with a clarity that only fuels his anger. Of course, it’s Mingyu. It had to be. Their rivalry has simmered for years, a powder keg of animosity threatening to explode at the slightest spark.

Since that day at the beach, when you’d looked at him with those pleading eyes and told him to stop getting into fights, he’d done his best to stay out of trouble. For you. Almost three weeks without a single fight, no retaliations, no confrontations. He thought it would be enough to keep the peace.

But Mingyu couldn’t leave it alone. And now you’ve paid the price for Jungkook’s history.

The enmity between them? Petty, childish even, born from the sort of ego-driven posturing that only bikers like them could indulge in. It started over something laughably insignificant... a race at the local strip, where Jungkook’s sleek, custom-built bike had left Mingyu’s way behind in a trail of dust.

It should’ve been a one time thing, but Mingyu couldn’t let it go. Accusations of foul play, whispered insults about engines and riding skills... what should’ve been harmless banter escalated into full-blown hostility.

Then there were the encounters at the garage... a neutral ground that turned into a battlefield. Jungkook’s gang and Mingyu’s gang would throw thinly veiled barbs at each other while tuning up their bikes, always on the edge of a brawl.

There was the infamous night when Mingyu “accidentally” tipped over Jungkook’s bike during a meet-up, scratching the custom paint job Jungkook had painstakingly worked on for weeks. Retaliation came swiftly, with Jungkook swapping Mingyu’s high-octane fuel for regular gas before a major race.

It was a constant game of one-upmanship, a cycle of pranks and punches that spiraled into something darker over time. What began as silly biker squabbles grew into a deep-seated hatred, their clashes no longer confined to the track or the garage.

Jungkook’s lost count of how many times they’ve fought... fists flying, adrenaline pumping, bruises and bloody knuckles carried home like badges of pride. Each altercation was a declaration of dominance, neither willing to back down, each fight feeding the fire between them. But this... this is different.

This isn’t about scratched paint jobs or petty insults. This is calculated, cruel... a planned attack meant to hurt not just him, but you. Mingyu’s crossed a line, dragging you into their feud, and the thought is enough to make Jungkook’s jaw tighten, his breath coming short and sharp.

He’s never felt this kind of fury before, not even in their ugliest moments. It’s not the usual anger that comes from a bruised ego or a lost fight. It’s deeper, heavier, a protective rage that simmers just beneath his skin, threatening to boil over.

Jungkook leans his head back against the seat, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Mingyu might have thought this was just another move in their twisted game, another way to provoke him. But this isn’t just a game anymore.

This is war.

"Stop the car." Jungkook suddenly demands, his voice low but carrying the weight of a storm brewing inside him.

Yoongi’s head snaps towards him, his hands tightening on the wheel as he glances at Jungkook in alarm. “Kook—?” he starts, but the look in Jungkook’s eyes silences him, his sharp glare cutting through the space between them. “Stop the damn car, hyung.” His voice is deeper now, rough with barely contained rage.

Yoongi swallows hard, inhaling sharply before checking the mirrors. Reluctantly, he signals and pulls over, the tires crunching against the pavement.

The car barely comes to a halt before Jungkook throws the door open, stepping out without a word. His strides are long and purposeful, his body radiating with a kind of anger that demands release.

“Jungkook!” Yoongi shouts, quickly unbuckling his seatbelt and getting out as well. He jogs after him, his shoes scraping against the uneven ground. “Kook, stop!” But Jungkook doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even glance back, his shoulders set, his focus sharp.

“Where the hell are you going?” Yoongi yells, his voice filled with frustration as he quickens his pace. Finally, he reaches out, grabbing Jungkook’s arm and spinning him around.

Jungkook's jaw is clenched, his eyes burning with fury that seems to pulse under his skin. “I’m going to Mingyu.” he states flatly, his tone devoid of hesitation or remorse. Yoongi’s eyes widen, his grip on Jungkook’s arm tightening.

“Kook, no.” he says firmly, his voice laced with urgency. “What about Y/n? You need to see her first. She’s hurt, Jungkook. You can’t just—”

“How the hell am I supposed to face her?” Jungkook cuts him off, his voice loud and raw, his chest heaving as he steps closer to Yoongi.

Yoongi’s breath catches, startled by the sudden outburst, his gaze searching Jungkook’s face. The younger man’s features are tight, his lips trembling just slightly, betraying the storm of emotion threatening to consume him.

"How can I face her, hyung?" he asks again, quieter now, the rage giving way to something deeper, more vulnerable. "How can I see her and pretend like it’s not my fault she went through something like this?" His voice wavers, thick with guilt. "How can I act like I’m not responsible for her injuries? For her shop getting destroyed?"

Yoongi’s heart aches at the sight of his friend, the usually unshakable Jungkook now on the verge of breaking. He tightens his grip on Jungkook’s arm, grounding him as he searches for the right words.

"Kook, this isn’t your fault." Yoongi says firmly, his voice steady, each word carefully chosen to pierce through the storm of guilt swirling around Jungkook. "Mingyu did this... he’s the one to blame. Not you."

Jungkook shakes his head, his jaw tightening, lips pressing into a thin line as if trying to physically hold back the wave of emotion threatening to take over him. "But if I wasn’t in her life..." His voice falters, raw and unsteady. "If Mingyu didn’t have a reason to target her, none of this would’ve happened."

Yoongi steps closer, his eyes softening, but his tone remains resolute, unwavering. "Don’t do that." he says quietly, yet there’s a firmness that anchors his words. "Don’t let Mingyu’s actions make you question your worth in her life. Y/N needs you now more than ever, Kook—"

"I can’t, hyung." Jungkook cuts him off, his voice cracking under the weight of his turmoil. He looks away, fists clenched at his sides as he battles the war raging within. "I just... I can’t." His chest heaves as he takes a shaky breath, forcing his gaze back to Yoongi, resolve hardening in his eyes. "I need to go to Mingyu first."

Yoongi lets out a heavy sigh, a mix of frustration and resignation etched into his features. He knows there’s no stopping Jungkook when he’s like this... when his emotions burn too brightly, blinding him to anything else. "Kook..." he tries again, softer this time, but Jungkook is already turning on his heels.

Without another word, Jungkook walks away. Yoongi watches him go, his hand falling limply to his side, the weight of helplessness settling over him. He knows he can’t follow, knows that right now, Jungkook needs to burn through his rage before anything or anyone can reach him.

You sit on the hospital bed, your fingers absentmindedly twisting the hem of the thin blanket draped over your legs. Your gaze is fixed on the sterile white wall ahead, but your mind is far from the confines of the hospital room.

The doctors have done their part... stitched the gash on your head and cleaned the cut on your hand. Nothing serious, they said, but the dull ache lingers, a reminder of the chaos you just survived.

The cops had come not long after, their questions forcing you to relive the nightmare. You had described everything, each word had felt like reopening a wound. The images play on a loop in your head petals scattered like confetti among shards of glass, shelves overturned, your sanctuary turned into ruins.

But your physical injuries and the investigation feel like background noise compared to the turmoil inside you. Your thoughts keep circling back to Jungkook. Where is he? Is he okay?

You replay his voice in your mind, his touch, the way his presence always makes you feel safe. You miss him, desperately. The fear from earlier still clings to you like a shadow, refusing to let go, and you know nothing would feel right until you see him.

The sound of the door creaking open breaks through your spiral of thoughts. Your heart leaps, and you snap your head towards the door, expecting him. Your chest tightens in anticipation, only for it to deflate when you see your friends step in.

Seokjin, Namjoon, Taehyung, and Juwon rush in, their faces etched with panic and concern. “Y/n !!” Seokjin exclaims, his voice strained as he strides towards you with quick steps.

His sharp gaze sweeps over you, lingering on the bandage wrapped around your head and the way your injured hand rests gingerly on your lap. His lips press into a thin line, betraying the anger and worry simmering beneath the surface.

“We came as soon as Mr. Kwon called and told us about the break-in.” Juwon says, her voice trembling slightly. She steps closer, her hands clutching the strap of her bag tightly, as though grounding herself. The others nod in silent agreement, their faces reflecting the same whirlwind of emotions... shock, worry, and relief that you’re still here.

You offer them a faint smile, the corners of your lips barely lifting. It’s small and fragile, weighed down by exhaustion and the lingering fear that coils tightly around your chest. Words seem unnecessary, you don’t know what to say that could make the moment any less heavy.

Taehyung moves to sit beside your legs, careful not to jostle the bed. His hand gently rests on your knee, his touch warm and soothing. “We’re sorry this happened to you, Y/n.” he says gently, his deep voice carrying a tenderness that makes your throat tighten. His dark eyes search for yours, silently offering comfort and understanding.

Your friends exchange glances, their unspoken agreement clear. They won’t overwhelm you with questions, not now. They don’t need to hear every detail to see the toll the day has taken on you. For now, they’re just thankful that you’re here, alive and whole, and that nothing worse has happened.

Namjoon pulls up a chair, sitting across from you. “You don’t have to say anything.” he says carefully, his calm voice like a steady anchor. “We’re just here for you, okay?” Seokjin nods, his stern demeanor softening as he stands at the foot of your bed. “We’ll figure this out together... we'll get your shop fixed and take care of everything. You’re not alone in this.”

Their presence fills the room with a sense of warmth and safety, a stark contrast to the sterile hospital walls and the cold reality of everything you’ve endured. But even as they surround you with their love and reassurance, a hollow ache persists in your chest, growing with each passing second.

Because unfortunately, they’re not the person you've been waiting for.

Jungkook stops by the familiar garage, the scent of motor oil and burnt rubber instantly hitting him. The dimly lit space is alive with a raucous energy... Jaemin and Kihyun are horsing around by a row of bikes, Kihyun laughing as he sprays Jaemin with a hose meant for cleaning the vehicles.

Jaemin swats at him, water splattering across the concrete floor as their voices echo off the walls. Mingyu lounges casually on a sleek black bike, his posture oozing arrogance as he scrolls through his phone, entirely unbothered by the chaos around him.

Jungkook’s rage flares at the sight of them, his vision narrowing on Mingyu like a predator locking onto its prey. Without a moment’s hesitation, Jungkook strides towards him, his steps echoing with purpose.

Mingyu glances up, sensing a presence approaching him, but he’s too slow to react. Jungkook’s hand shoots out, grabbing Mingyu by the collar and yanking him upright with a force that makes the bike creak behind him.

The sound startles Jaemin and Kihyun, their playful banter cut off as they turn to see their leader in Jungkook’s grasp. They spring into action, fists clenching as they move towards Jungkook, their expressions dark with intent. But before they can get too close, Mingyu raises a hand, signaling them to stop.

Jaemin hesitates, his jaw tightening as he looks to Kihyun for confirmation. Kihyun, equally tense, eventually takes a step back, though his sharp gaze remains locked on Jungkook, ready to jump in at the slightest provocation.

Mingyu meets Jungkook’s furious glare with an infuriatingly calm expression, his lips curling into a smirk. “Well, well...” he drawls, his voice dripping with mockery. “What’s the occasion, Jeon? Finally decided to drop by for a friendly chat?”

The smugness in Mingyu’s tone and the amused glint in his eyes only fuel Jungkook’s fury. His grip tightens on Mingyu’s collar, pulling him closer. “Cut the crap.” he snarls, his voice low. “You think I wouldn’t find out it was you? What the hell were you trying to prove?”

Mingyu raises an eyebrow, feigning innocence as he tilts his head, almost uninterested. “You’re going to have to be more specific. I’ve been very busy lately.”

Jungkook’s patience snaps. He slams Mingyu back against the bike, the impact making the metal groan under the force. “Don’t play dumb with me, Mingyu!!” he shouts, his voice echoing through the garage like thunder.

“You went after Y/n. You hurt her... you destroyed... you destroyed her shop!” His voice cracks slightly, the raw pain seeping through his otherwise firm tone. Mingyu doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he smirks, a cold expression that only fuels Jungkook’s rage.

“Yeah, and?” Mingyu asks, his voice calm and almost mocking, as if Jungkook’s accusations were trivial.

Jungkook grabs Mingyu's collar again, his knuckles whitening with the effort to hold back. “You’ve gone too far this time, Mingyu!” he barks, his breath hitching. “You couldn’t get to me, so you used her? You dragged her into our feud?!” The veins in his arms bulge as his fists curl even tighter.

It’s taking everything in him to not just drop everything and swing a punch across Mingyu’s smug face, but he remembers the promise he made to you... the one thing keeping him from unleashing the storm brewing inside.

Mingyu scoffs and with a quick shove, pushes Jungkook back. The smirk on his face deepens as he adjusts his jacket, standing straighter. “You’re wrong, Jungkook.” he says, his voice laced with mockery. “I didn’t get her in between us. You did.”

Jungkook freezes, his chest heaving as Mingyu takes a step closer, the smirk on his face as smug as ever. “You’re always acting so high and mighty...” Mingyu continues, his words dripping with venom.

“Like you’re untouchable, like the world revolves around you. But here’s the truth, Jungkook... you’re predictable. You’re weak. All it took to shake your world was her... your little girlfriend. One small push, and you’re crumbling.” he laughs.

Jungkook’s jaw tightens, his breaths coming out in short, ragged bursts as Mingyu circles him like a predator savoring his victory. “Damn, biker boy got too soft, huh?” Mingyu taunts, leaning in closer, his voice low and mocking.

“The great Jungkook, protector of the weak, savior of the helpless... brought to his knees because of one girl. And for what? To prove a point? To show you how easily I can get under your skin?” he scoffs.

Jungkook’s fists tremble, every fiber of his being screaming at him to swing, to hit, to make Mingyu regret every word spilling from his mouth. But he clenches his jaw, trying to control himself.

But then Mingyu tilts his head, his voice low and venomous, cutting through the air like a blade. "You should’ve seen her face…" he starts, his tone dripping with malice.

"The way she cried, the way she trembled when I kicked over her stupid pots. Smashed her shelves. Oh, the look in her eyes when she begged me to stop... it was priceless." he giggles like he's telling something funny.

Jungkook freezes, the world narrowing to Mingyu’s face and those cruel words. His vision blurs, red creeping into the edges of his sight. The storm he’s been holding back finally roars to life, shattering the fragile restraint he clung to.

"You son of a bitch !!" Jungkook yells, his voice raw with fury as he lunges forward. His fist connects with Mingyu’s jaw, the force sending the man stumbling back against the bike. The metallic crash echoes through the garage as tools scatter to the ground. Mingyu groans, clutching his face, but Jungkook doesn’t stop.

"You think this is a game?" Jungkook shouts, grabbing Mingyu by the collar again and slamming him against the bike once more. His knuckles ache, blood smeared across his hand, he doesn’t even know if it’s his or Mingyu’s. "She begged you to stop, and you kept going? You’re nothing but a fucking coward Mingyu, using her to get to me !!"

Kihyun and Jaemin exchange uneasy glances, their instincts screaming to intervene, but Mingyu raises a trembling hand yet again, his bloodied smirk unwavering. “Stand down.” he mutters, his voice laced with defiance despite the crimson streak trailing from his lips.

The air crackles with tension, and his gaze locks on Jungkook. “There he is.” Mingyu rasps. “That’s the Jungkook I’ve been waiting for. Knew you couldn’t keep the beast caged for too long.”

Every ounce of self-restraint dissolves as Jungkook lunges forward again, his fist colliding with Mingyu’s jaw with a sickening crack. Mingyu staggers but barely has time to recover before another punch lands, followed by another. The garage echoes with the sounds of brutal impact, knuckles against flesh, the crunch of bone, and Mingyu’s muffled grunts of pain.

Jungkook doesn’t stop. He’s lost in the storm of his anger, each punch fueled by the image of your tears, your trembling hands, and the shattered remnants of your beloved shop. But the movement behind him pulls him back to reality... Kihyun and Jaemin. They can’t stay idle any longer.

“Enough!” Jaemin shouts, springing into action alongside Kihyun. They grab Jungkook from behind, dragging him away. Jaemin lands a blow to the side of Jungkook’s face, causing him to stumble, while Kihyun strikes his ribs, knocking the breath out of him.

But Jungkook fights back, his movements fueled by pure adrenaline. He elbows Jaemin in the chest, sending him reeling, and swings a swift kick at Kihyun, who dodges just in time.

The fight descends into chaos. Jungkook takes hits from every direction but keeps charging forward, his sheer determination to make Mingyu pay outweighing the searing pain in his body. Blood drips from a split lip, his knuckles are raw, and his breathing is ragged, but he refuses to fall.

Finally, with a burst of strength, Jungkook shoves Kihyun aside, his glare pinning Mingyu in place. "This ends now." Jungkook states, his voice shaking with a dangerous edge. He steps back, his entire body trembling as he takes a moment to collect himself, his fists curling at his sides.

Mingyu groans as he pushes himself off the ground with his elbows, blood streaking his face. Despite his battered state, his smirk remains, a mocking ghost of triumph. “This isn’t over.” he croaks, his words barely audible over his labored breathing. “You think I’m going to let her off that easily? You think this little tantrum changes anything?”

Jungkook freezes, his breath hitching. Slowly, he turns back to face Mingyu. “Don’t you dare touch her again.” he warns, his voice low but laced with venom. Mingyu chuckles, spitting blood onto the ground. “Ah, ah, ah.” he drawls, his words slurred.

"Not so easily." he sneers, the corners of his bloodied lips curling into a triumphant smirk. Jungkook's breath stills, his fists clenching as he glares at the man in front of him. For a moment, the only sound is the faint echo of their ragged breathing in the dimly lit space, the weight of unspoken tension suffocating.

“You want her safe?” Mingyu questions, his eyes glinting like a predator savoring its prey. “Fine.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightens, his breath hitching as he processes the words. He doesn’t break eye contact, his gaze fixed on the smug figure before him, trying to decipher his next move.

“Give me your bike, then.” Mingyu finally demands, his voice sharper now, the smirk on his face growing wider as he watches the flicker of hesitation cross Jungkook's features.

Jungkook freezes, the words crashing over him like a thunderclap. His bike. The one thing he held close, his most prized possession. Memories rush forward... scraping together allowances, working grueling hours, enduring the endless grind just to afford it. That bike wasn’t just metal and wheels... it was freedom, pride, and a testament to everything he had fought for.

But then, your face eclipses it all... your smile, your warmth, your safety. Somehow, even in this moment, as blood drips from his split lip and his body aches from the fight, all he can think about is you.

The memory of your laugh filters through his mind like a lifeline, grounding him in the chaos. If giving up his bike guarantees your safety, if it means sparing you even a fraction of pain, then there’s no question. The bike he worked so hard for... the sacrifices, the late nights, the endless grind, it all pales in comparison to what you mean to him.

Jungkook swallows hard, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him, but he doesn’t let the weight of the moment linger. He digs into his pocket without a word, pulling out the keys to his most cherished possession.

With a flick of his wrist, he throws them towards Mingyu on the floor, the sound of the metal clattering against the concrete echoing in the tense stillness. Mingyu’s smirk widens as he looks down at the keys, the glint of victory in his eyes unmistakable.

“Didn’t think she meant that much to you.” Mingyu sneers but Jungkook doesn’t answer as he finally walks away and doesn’t look back.

With each step away, his heart grows heavier... not because of the pain radiating through his body or the loss of his bike but because of the crushing realization that as long as Mingyu exists and as long as you’re part of Jungkook’s world, you’ll never truly be safe.

"Here." Juwon says softly, guiding you carefully to your couch. Her grip is steady, her expression lined with worry. Finally back from the hospital, you sink into the cushions, exhaustion pulling at every muscle. The day has drained you... physically, mentally, emotionally. Every moment felt like a battle, and now that you're home, the weight of it all feels unbearable.

Your friends linger, their eyes filled with unspoken concern. Namjoon hesitates by the door, his reluctance mirrored by the others. "Are you sure you'll be okay?" he asks for the third time, his voice low, almost pleading.

You force a small smile, trying to reassure them even though your heart isn’t in it. "I'll be fine." you mutter, your voice barely audible. "I just need some rest."

With heavy hearts and reluctant nods, they eventually leave, each of them urging you to call if you need anything. The door clicks shut behind them, and for the first time in hours, you're alone again.

The quietness of your apartment wraps around you like a heavy blanket, the silence amplifying the whirlwind in your mind. You sit there for a moment, staring at nothing, the events of the day replaying in a loop. The fear, the pain, the worry... all of it feels suffocating.

Your hand instinctively reaches for your phone. Scrolling through the unanswered texts and missed calls you've made to Jungkook, the ache in your chest deepens. Did he not know what happened to you today? Or worse, did he know and choose not to come?

The thought tugs sharply at your heart. At the hospital, every sound of approaching footsteps, every faint knock on the door, had sparked a flicker of hope. You kept anticipating his arrival, imagining his face breaking through the chaos to bring you the comfort you so desperately needed. But he never came.

You shake your head, trying to dismiss the hurt that creeps in. Maybe it’s not a big deal, you tell yourself. Maybe he had a reason.

But even as you try to convince yourself, your fingers betray you, dialing his number again. Pressing the phone against your ear, you hold your breath, clinging to a sliver of hope that this time, he’ll pick up. But like every other call before, there’s no answer.

The emptiness of the line mirrors the void in your chest, and finally, the tears you’ve held back all day spill over, hot and relentless. You miss him so much it feels like a physical ache, a wound that refuses to heal. All you need, to forget the horrors of the day is to hear his voice, to feel the comfort of his arms wrapped around you, grounding you in a way only he can.

Your resolve crumbles, and before you know it, you’re rising from the couch. The stillness of your apartment feels unbearable, the walls closing in with every passing second. Moving on instinct, you shuffle across the living room, your hands fumbling to grab your coat from the hook by the door.

The fabric is cold as you drape it hastily over your shoulders, but the chill doesn’t register. Your mind is already miles ahead, focused on one thing. Him.

You step out of your apartment, the quiet click of the door behind you echoing in the hallway. The night air greets you, sharp and biting, but it barely matters. Your legs carry you forward as if they have a will of their own, a magnetic pull guiding you straight to the one place you know you need to go.

Jungkook stands under the relentless cascade of cold water, the chill biting into his bruised skin. His eyes are tightly shut, the shower a harsh contrast to the storm swirling inside him. The events of the day repeat in his mind like an endless loop, each image sharper than the last.

He doesn't think he can ever face you again. Not with the way he's failed you, not with the guilt that’s suffocating him. He feels responsible for everything, as if every bad thing in your life has somehow traced back to him. He thinks of the walk he took after leaving the garage, stopping by your flower shop.

It was still the same, nothing but destruction. The windows were shattered, the shelves smashed, petals scattered across the floor. Caution tape blocked the entrance, a painful reminder of how his presence had only ever brought disaster.

He stood there, at the threshold of your shop, staring at the wreckage, and all he could think about was how much of this was his fault.

He had been the chaos in your life from the moment he moved in next to your shop. He remembers how he disrupted your peace when you were just trying to get by, how he was rude to you at the town fair meetings, how he pushed you away despite wanting nothing more than to get close.

He remembers every harsh word, every inconsiderate act, and now this... the one thing he never could have imagined. His fists clench in frustration as he curses himself. He wanted to protect you, to shield you from harm, but all he’s done is drag you deeper into a mess that has nothing to do with you.

With a sigh of exhaustion, Jungkook steps out of the shower, the water dripping from his hair as he grabs for his usual tshirt and sweatpants. He glances at his reflection in the mirror, noting the bruises still visible on his face, the cuts that refuse to heal. His body aches, but it’s the weight in his chest that hurts the most... the guilt, the shame. His own reflection seems to mock him.

He hears the familiar buzz of his phone vibrating on the nightstand. He doesn’t need to check to know it’s you. His heart clenches as he stares at the phone, each vibration a painful reminder of the distance he’s created between you and him.

He should be comforting you right now, he should be easing your fears, yet here he is... avoiding you, unable to face you without feeling like the one who’s hurt you the most.

He lets the phone continue to buzz, drowning in the weight of his own failure. His hands tremble as he looks down at the floor, wondering if you’ll ever forgive him, if there’s even a chance for him to make things right.

The silence in his apartment is deafening, the kind of silence that gnaws at the edges of his thoughts, until there's a series of bangs on his front door. The sound rips through the stillness of his apartment like a thunderclap, shaking him from his spiral.

Jungkook’s heart stammers in his chest as he walks out of his room, his mind racing. As he stares at the front door, the banging resumes. It’s frantic now. "Kook..." your voice pierces through the chaos, fragile but clear. "Please.... please open the door, Kook."

<- part 13 // part 15 ->

series masterlist

taglist:@kimyishin @ghijkd @dolligguk @mimi1097 @jksusawife @yooforeaa @abbie1847 @myjungkookthighs @thesarcasmqueen-22 @fairypjminie @lovelytaes-blog @jjeonjjk7 @daddyjeonnn @vantelover1306 @jeeykey @shellyyy177 @daskewl @blackswan18 @korian97 @minimoninini @ericawantstoescape @rpwprpwprpwprw @tokkiggukie @jaytheatiny

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chokchokk · 1 year ago

Text

𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽, 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 | song mingi x fem!reader

an ao3 requested husband!mingi one-shot

"Are you trying to challenge me?"

𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜 : You come home stressed, feeling like the world wants only the worst from you. Good thing that your husband wants the best, right? Right...

"Baby, I would never do such a thing."

𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎 : fluff, smut

𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 : 7.3k

𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 : established relationship, girlboss office worker!reader, stay at home husband!mingi, praise kink, hand kink, size kink, service top!mingi, use of the pet-name “baby”, starts rougher but then gets really soft and gentle, cunnilingus, fingering, over-stimulation, passionate sex; reader and mingi are in their late 20s/early 30s, reader is a bit bratty but mingi is a brat as well, it pains writer mingi is not a sub in this FUCK, he puts reader in place just a tiny bit, but the dynamics are pretty even, reader and mingi love each other deeply

𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎 : i wanted to make mingi wear a tanktop but when i digged for it THERE WAS NOTHING???? we never got tanktop!mingi selcas???? how do yall not die of hunger, no, THIRST?

anyhow. this was an ao3 request!!! i had lots of loving fun with it and i hope you do as well babes and bbies xoxo

masterlist link | join my taglist

Did you know married employees are respected more?

Well, that’s what statistics say, but you certainly have never had this observation be proven true. It’s been almost a year since the first time you’ve worn your ring at your work-place, but you still get weird looks for having settled down “too early in the relationship” at such a “young age”, as if they knew anything about your private life— so no, you don’t. You wouldn’t know anything about being respected more as a married employee, even if you’re a few working hours away from being promoted to General Manager.

You throw your keys into their respective tray and hold your nose-bridge, when you enter your house with the sound of your shoes immediately falling to the floor after you shake them off in frustration. Yes, you may have earned your money, but at what cost? To hear old people pick you out because “such a fragile thing can’t possibly handle life”, despite being their lead director, have their hairy fingers pointed towards you since “someone like Y/N needs extra checking” despite you never having missed a dead-line, and to be eyed by them while you’re just trying to get your papers— oh, fucking hell; that is, by definition, not respect, that is horror, and one more reason to finally just quit your job and—

“Baby, you’re home!”

You take deep breath.

“Here I am.”

“Allow me,” your husband hums, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing his torso close to your back; he’s rubbing himself against you with the excuse that he’s helping you get that fucking bag from your hands, and you let out an exhale once the weight is removed from your grip and lands on the floor. He is masterfully not referring to the fact that you came a full hour later than the initial time you have texted him you would arrive, and rather focusing on the how your shoulders feel more tense than usual, massaging his strong thumbs into them.

“Thank you,” you sigh and lean the back of your head against his breast, for he’s towering over you like a guardian pressing gentle kisses onto your hair, making him one comfortable, cushioned wall. You feel a bit guilty for not having asked how his day went, but for all you know, he’s having a blast arranging his new studio that he wants to use in the future to produce with other music artists, but most importantly, help you earn money.

Your stay-at-home husband, Song Mingi. The man who makes it— the time, the work, the stress— all worth it.

“How do you feel, baby?”, he murmurs, kissing your temple while he’s at it. He brushed his teeth not too long ago, you can smell the remains of mint toothpaste at his lip. Is he being obvious? Yes, maybe. You're not complaining though. “Rough day?”

“Yeah,” you exhale and let yourself be touched by your husband, though it doesn’t make you as calm as it should in your heart. You’re not craving for any soft vicinity here, you want to smash something to the ground and stomp on it; you’ve spend the whole day surrounded by the loudest, noisy, dim-witted idiots who are certainly preying on your downfall if they don’t fucking—

“Tell me all about it, baby,” Mingi murmurs, his vocal chords vibrating against the back of your head, as he rests his chin on top of it. “I’m listening.”

Sometimes you ask yourself whether you would still be receiving the same comments, if your co-workers knew who Mingi was. Not because he’s some famous man to be afraid of, but because he is taller than all of them, has got a louder voice and could knock those douchebags out with his muscly arms— okay, maybe they should be afraid. Very afraid.

“No, it’s okay,” you breathe and turn around to get your arms around your husband’s waist and press your face into his collarbones that you didn’t realize were revealed. "Button up,” you murmur, almost annoyed that you can inhale Mingi’s comforting scent through the cleavage as well as you can. You wanted to stay angry for just a little bit longer, but your husband makes it nearly impossible. Not to say it doesn’t make feel you any less hot though.

“What do you mean?", Mingi pouts, "Is it not good? I showered! Just for you, baby.”

You chuckle and your lips graze his freshly-washed, freshly-lotioned baby-smooth skin. “No… It’s too good…”

Mingi gets his hands into your hair and rubs his finger tips across your scalp.

“What were you stressed about, baby?”, Mingi continues to ask you, applying a bit of pressure to his touch, his hand feeling like it’s ripping off the upper layer of your head in the best way possible.

“My co-workers hate me,” you murmur, teeth gritted. Your breast begins to slightly enflame at the thought of your co-workers’ faces, but your husband doesn’t seem to mind your tone as much, allowing your mind to roam freely.

“Hate you?”

“They, like, hate my existence.”

“What would they hate you for, baby?”, he asks, working his long fingers down to the lower side of your head, reaching for your neck to scratch it. His hand is well big enough to do all of it at the same time.

Preparing to answer his question, you inhale and exhale deeply, smelling the clothing and leaving it warm.

“They hate that… I’m already settled down at my age.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And that I am as confident about it and— and as hard-working as I am…”

Mingi chuckles and strokes your hair one time to get your hair in its right place after having mushed it. His touch expands warmly on your scalp and it spreads like a soothing wave of comfort.

“They hate that,” you inhale, and then —with revelation— exhale, “I’m such a strong, successful woman.”

“There you go. My strong,” Mingi murmurs, and he’s letting his hands glide down your back, “successful,” further down your ass, “wife.” Squeeze.

“Oh,” you chuckle, fully aware that nothing is on your husband’s mind rather than to persuade you to get into bed with him. Cleaning his teeth, showering, putting on fresh clothes— Did he even shave his beard by himself? Wow.

After almost a year of marriage, some clues become very self-explanatory.

His amazing hands work their amazing ways on your ass, and as it goes for Mingi, he always prides himself that he can make you melt under his touch, especially when you come home from work late on days like these.

“You should just let your anger out on them next time,” Mingi smiles, cupping your ass with the big surface of his hand and you can feel how he’s trying to figure out whether he can raise you up like this— spoiler: he can— and continues to encourage you. “Or on me.”

Were you implying your co-workers should be scared of Mingi? Yes, but also no. For someone your size, despite seemingly being ever-so tiny in your husband’s embrace, to make it so big in such a short time is astounding; ground-breaking, even. You may or may not know, but Mingi finds you are one cold-blooded woman whose blood only boils when she’s being provoked, and if there is one thing your husband wants you to prove to your co-workers, it’s that you won’t think twice once you’ve got the title of being their supervisor.

Too harsh? Maybe. But that’s something you can consider when they’re begging you to accept their apologies, no?

“Don’t edge me on, or I might actually turn into the Hulk or something,” you laugh hoarsely and raise your head up to him. Mingi looks down immediately and grins, continuously groping his hands into your butt.

“You can’t scare me,” he lulls and kisses your forehead, “because you’ll always be my little baby, Y/N.”

“Ohh, shut it,” you sneer and can’t deny that Mingi is the only one who can make you feel this small, “I wouldn’t be too sure I can’t scare you.”

“Do try, please,” Mingi insists with a cheeky smirk and gung-ho, you’re raised from the floor, being carried to the bedroom. Was that a challenge you heard?

“Be rough all you want tonight, alright? I don’t think your stress is gonna get away our traditional way today.”

“Really? ‘Traditional’?”, you huff and raise an eyebrow, Mingi kissing your cheek, as he opens the door to your bedroom.

“It’s almost our anniversary, let’s try something new, baby. I'll do anything you want. Don't care about me. I'll just be... you know. I don't know.”

“What? Is my husband getting bored of being in charge?”, you gasp theatrically, easing your hands into his shoulders, “Does hubby want me to order him around?”

“Let’s get rid of the terminology,” Mingi mutters, a bit sheepish, not wanting to admit that he read the term ‘service top’ somewhere in the deepest corners of the internet earlier this evening and had to ask you when you came home. You coming home an hour later just made him travel further the needy path, imagining how good he could make love to you, when his "own pleasure isn't the focus" (that's a quote from the website.)

“I just want my wonderful wife,” Mingi sighs, as he lets himself fall on the mattress backwards, with you landing on his hard-on, knees propped next to his hips, “And relieve you from all your stress.”

You’re still in your office attire, got your tie on tight around your neck, everything that screams ‘not ready for bed’, but Mingi doesn’t seem to care for your sheets to become dirty. In fact, he apparently wants you to be the dirtiest you’ve ever been, huh?

His long, slender fingers hold you by your jaw, as your husband roughly presses his lips into yours, immediately opening up his mouth to get a second taste with his tongue. While he tastes like mint toothpaste, you taste like bittersweet coffee, diligence and dedication; you are dancing heavenly on Mingi’s tastebuds, and his tongue laps over yours eagerly to not let any drop of your essence go to waste. He’s making you feel wanted, no, he wants you, and as Mingi takes your blazer off, your own desire to have him grows bigger with each passing second.

Your legs feel a bit tight due to the fabrics of your suit, but it doesn’t prevent you from grinding yourself into him, pants interrupting your greedy kiss. “Let’s get this off,” Mingi murmurs into your lips, hooking his finger into your tie, loosening it up, pulling it until he can wriggle your head through.

“Let’s get all of this off,” you reciprocate and his hands are on your waist, as Mingi watches you flawlessly open up the buttons of your blouse, tongue running over his lower lip. “Your co-workers don’t know you,” he chuckles, admiring you sitting on top of him with a look in your eyes that he could feast on for days, “But they should know that you are, fuck, breath-taking.”

You move your hips over his crotch, enjoying hearing your husband gutter out his thoughts.

“You are eye-candy in that, baby,” Mingi heaves, “I’m getting kinda jealous of your co-workers here.”

Cheeky, you let the blouse droop over your shoulders, revealing your lacy bra. Saying that you’re eye-candy doesn’t put it into words, Mingi thinks, and gulps at the sight of you stroking over your own torso and your breast that is just being so perfectly pushed by your lingerie, and— though it barely needs any convincing for him to swathe his tongue around your pretty nipples and get even more prettier sounds out of you— your slight gesture gets your husband’s head fuming with the things he wants to do to you to make you crumble and eat it all up deliciously, not leave anything behind.

“I bet they don’t get to see this though,” he grins and with a quick, studied flick of his fingers, the tightness around your torso is released and your tits are out for Mingi stare into. “Only I get to see this, don’t I?"

You nod and sigh, when he traces the red indents from your underwear with his thumbs and wets his lips; but before you think he's being too gentle, Mingi doesn't let you speak out the words 'yes, only you do' and interrupts you with his mouth, his hands holding you by your waist.

"Mingi," you pant. He has pushed you over on your back to the mattress without warning, caging you in with his frame. "Sorry, baby," he grins, pulls off his tank-top, throws it on the floor, quickly— he's got things to do here!— and then zips open your pants, kissing you from your cheek down to your collarbones, covering your body with his fresh breath. "Works better this way."

Mingi hooks his fingers into your trousers and pulls it off until your panties are revealed to him, but before he's able to wriggle it down to your calves and finally have it off your body, he's having a moment to look at his wife laying in front of him; your glowing eyes are glancing up, waiting, no, teasing, urging him on to do what Mingi has been planning to do since the first time he asked you when you would arrive back home.

"Please don't mention 'work'," you hiss, pushing your tongue against the inner space of your mouth.

He knows. He has never been there at your work-place, and he never asks you more about it than he should, because Mingi does think that his distraction works way better than to rant for hours, and he sees it, feels it— your anger, your frustration, your stress— but does he... well, how should he say this... care for it?

No.

"Why not?", is what Mingi whispers into your skin to make you roll your eyes and border him in with your thighs, the pants that aren't off yet keeping him between your legs. Fuck, you're so hot when you're stressed.

Okay, wait, wait, wait— hear him out.

First, please forgive him. You really have to. Mingi would never say this out loud, not under any circumstance that doesn't include you directly asking for it, but shit, look at yourself right now. Enveloped by your open blouse, your perfect breasts hanging out of it like a window luring him to peek like the shameful man he is, your facial expression judging him for his fawning— you are a goddess in his eyes, Y/N. And gods get angry. And then, when they're angry, they're the most powerful they ever are.

So there you go; Mingi, even though he's a husband that has never, ever throughout your marriage or your relationship, made you angrier for more than 24 hours, kinda enjoys it when you come home stressed, gritting your teeth, panting, groaning— talking to him with umph. The stress makes you riled up, makes you breathe fire, shoot flames out of your eyes that seduce him to be even more ignited, just for you.

"Are you trying to challenge me?", you huff and Mingi makes himself comfortable, placing his elbows around the sides of your body, anchoring himself on your lower abdomen with his forearm.

"Baby," he grins, kissing the inner sides of your thighs, "I would never do such a thing."

Except he is. When you get— and your husband thinks he's a genius to think of this— 'worked up', you become demanding, slightly sassy, playful, and there is nothing Mingi loves more than his wife to tell him exactly what she wants, because he knows he can be a bit dense sometimes. He tries his best, always, to do things according to your liking, but usually, you just let him do his thing since sometimes you need nothing more than his presence.

"I would never tease you like that, my," he pesters, "baby." With his lips stuck at the last inch before he's able to get it near your clothed cunt, you scoff, pressing your thighs together to squeeze his face.

"You better fucking not tease me tonight," you warn him and Mingi bites his lip, feeling his already-very-hard cock twitch inside his joggers at the cause of your tone.

"I love you too much," your husband answers and moves his head around, his pointy nose grazing against your covered clit. Like an automatic reaction, you gulp and throw your face to the side, your hand intertwining with Mingi's long fingers that are resting at the seam of your panties.

"Oh, please," you taunt, “dare to give me your worst performance,” and you think you're safe, since his hands are occupied with yours, but when you are in bed with him, and proceed to tease Mingi like this, then you are never safe with your husband.

(Except the part that you are safe, and safe with the thought Mingi is indeed going to relieve you.) Pressing his tongue against the fabric, Mingi curves it into the band, pushing it with ease, without any type of struggle to— and you should've seen this coming— plunge his tongue into your folds. "Fuck, Mingi," you breathe and he's chuckling against your wet cunt, as he laps his wet muscle over your slickness to gather what has been collecting in your underwear, slow and sensually, though his heavy breathing tells you that he's going to feast on it in no time.

He ‘loves you’, you know that, but ‘too much'? — Can there ever be too much?

"Ohh, fuck, that's good, right fucking there," you groan, gripping into Mingi's hand. With your feedback, Mingi continues to purl over your clit, sucking the fluid so it can spread on his tongue and melt in his mouth.

No. There could never be too much.

You taste so delicious, and it goes without saying that Mingi finds it fascinating that you look even better from this angle; he can see every lash of yours flutter with the slow flicking of his tongue, adding speed as he goes. “Yes,” you whimper, “‘feels so good.”

His heart and mouth are cooperating wonderfully, as his lips are spelling words of awe into your labia; He’s pronouncing how good it feels so good to be your husband, how good it feels to do good— and oh, it is so good to be yours, Y/N. You can’t even believe. The sounds you let out tingle all of his senses and he’s definitely going to have to hurry with his studio, if he wants to eternalise them.

Mingi holds the eye-contact to not miss any of your expressions, laving at your cunt with bizarre flexibility that makes you twist here and there, but his forearm is pressing you down to keep you on your back. "Squirmy," he grins, babying you while you are unable to open move your legs, since your own set of trousers is keeping them closed together, "am I doing you that well?”

Panting because of how constrained you are despite wanting to move around so much, you throw your head down on the soft mattress. "Uh-huh," you exhale, feeling his tongue circle around your clit and tease itself into your entrance, "so well."

Mingi's head is spinning. He wants to make you cum so fast, but he also wants you to beg for your orgasm until your voice is hoarse from the moaning, just so he can see your ribcage move up and down the bed one more time, no, please so many times, and maybe he could get his fingers in so he can— fuck, didn't he plan this out?

He makes it look easy, but in your husband’s mind, he's puzzling and figuring out the ways to pleasure you the best way he can. Mingi heaves and laughs, noticing how he's been cutting himself short of breath, too excited to be pleasuring you. "You’re so beautiful, baby," he says, voice having become raspy and an octave lower than usual; it appears to you that he's drunk on your taste, "you're making me insane with that view."

You inhale through your mouth with your lip-corners pointing upwards, a bit shy with your husband's praise, but you have no other way around than to listen to Mingi's dreamy words. "Unnh-huh," you react, but once your husband is laving at your cunt again, talking amidst of it, you are becoming a mindlessly noisy mess.

"My pretty baby," Mingi murmurs, and as he does so, his mouth is flocking in your slick, tickling your clit repeatedly, "my prettiest, loveliest baby, so whiny for me, fuck."

"More, Mingi," you grunt, feeling like the blouse is keeping you tight, so you push yourself up and get it off your arms— Mingi uses his chance to pull your panties over your knees— and after that, the male digs deeper into your crevice, thighs pressing him in which makes him gasp for dear air, "please."

Your pleads are meaningful to him, make his heart jump, make his head click like he's a dog being asked to obey, and okay, Mingi doesn't think he wants to be a pet, let alone an animal, but— you know what? Your pleads not only show what a considerate wife you are, it also makes Mingi know how much you want him, and that’s the best feeling in the entire world, and he would do everything to chase your pleasure and praise.

“Oh, I got all night, baby,” your husband chuckles, he’s grinding himself against the bed, huffing and panting, tongue delving deep into you on your command.

He drags the intertwined hands of yours down the tiny bit it needs for his thumb to meet your clit, and as Mingi rubs extensively over it, your knuckles go white from how strongly you grip into his fingers.

Oh god, this is exactly what you wanted. His tongue, his lips, his hands, oh, his hands— his fingers; those ridiculously long fingers that cover your whole pelvic bone when extended— slender and rapid, frantically incautious over your cunt, so eager to push you over the edge, pull you back up and throw you over again and again; you love how they look against your body, on your head, on your neck, on your cunt, everywhere they travel during your desirous journeys.

"Aren't I so scarily good?", Mingi huffs, nervy and immodest, talking to get himself to breathe, clearly confident that you are feeling the best you've felt the whole day given the way your muscle was contracting around his tongue, when it was still in you; unfortunately you're unable to answer him with words, just letting out another gutsy "unnnh" as feedback.

"I know, oh, I know," he grins, his thumb rubbing over your clit like he's racing with your stuttered breath, but ultimately, he’s making you feel quite empty with the lack of his mouth at your cunt, and he’s making you feel that way on purpose, "I'm the best, I can do you the best—"

"Mingi! Your Tongue! Please."

After his pant, his mischievous little chuckle, you understand it, understand it all clearly: your naughty Mingi loves to be ordered around by his wife. Loves being ordered around knowing that, once his tongue is inside you, you'll do absolutely nothing to hold him back, and it does make you want to fuck him even more, doesn’t it? You love your husband, you feel so young with him, so undisturbedly yourself— and how loved you feel, too.

Humming a fond "I got you, baby", Mingi shuffles himself together one last time, your thighs sitting perfectly on his shoulders, and there he goes, driving his tongue into you, even more ecstatic than before; now, that you even begged him to, it's like your husband has taken enough of a back to duplicate the amount of vigor, exponentially getting faster and more impassioned. "Oh, fuck," you breathe out and with Mingi's tongue rubbing your inner walls wild and avidly, his thumb sprinting across your sensitive clit, you are heading straight to your first orgasm.

"Just like that," you whine, knowing very well that it gets your husband riled up well across his usual efforts, and you continue with it just to chase your high, "just like that, baby, just like—"

Hey now, did you just call him 'baby'? And how sneakily you did it, too! You know how crazy it gets him, you tease. Your husband’s tongue raves against your sweet spots and your slick gets combined with his saliva, his thumb using the moisture as lube to not miss any of the chances to make you squirm and spasm on his touches, but Mingi’s cock, his poor cock, twitches in the short moment his sweet, desirous pet-name is exhaled out of your pretty mouth he’s definitely going to need to kiss a thousand times until he can only taste the word “baby” on his lips.

His own pelvis is grinded deep into the mattress, and pearls of sweat form on both your foreheads, your eyes rolling to where you can’t see Mingi concentrating on your face, when it cums with a movement of your pelvis bucking up.

“… That!”, you moan, and Mingi pants, shovelling your come into his mouth, slurping it up so long until you physically have to wring with him to get his tongue off your pussy, but the trousers at your calves make it impossible. It’s Mingi’s choice here. And he’s not letting go.

“Ba—,” you squirm, rocking your body from side to side, “—by, please! Fuck!”

“Call me ‘baby’ one more time, just for me,” he lisps, laving his tongue against your throbbing, pulsating clit, all the while you try yank your ass down, overwhelmed by your prolonged pleasure.

“Baby! Baby, baby, baby—“, you whimper, and Mingi kisses your inner thigh, when he finally stops, satisfied by your calling. With one last peck on your clit, he lets go off your hands and slips out your chokehold, pulling off your pants by hooking his fingers in and sliding them off your feet. “Aww, look at you,” he beams, grinning, going through his hair and stroking his swollen lip, “all blushed away, reminds me of the older days, baby.”

“You are the worst,” you sob, and lay lax on the bed, legs once in for all extending and relaxing. Strangely enough, your head feels light, and your body that was straining and trying to get Mingi off of it, is now feeling warm and calming down from the high.

“Aw, you think so?” Mingi smiles, kissing up your leg, your hip-bone, pressing his lips on your abdomen, your tummy, your ribs, marking all of your body with his love-soaked mouth. "I adore you so much."

Having wrung with your husband, you got rid of some of the fighting needs, but— as you’re being smothered by him and his sweet antics— you sigh into the gentle, feathery contact with your skin, and play molten with his soft hair.

You remind yourself of his words, ‘don’t care about me’, but your husband would be a fool to assume that his wife doesn’t want to give him anything back. “Mingi,” you murmur— noticing that you’ve been closing your eyes due to the relaxation you are experiencing, and he immediately answers an attentive “yes, baby?” back, as he repeatedly kisses your jaw.

“Do you really want me to order you around?”, you hum.

“Haha, no, baby,” he chuckles, “it's just…”

Mingi harrumphes in his thoughts, wrapping his arms around your waist, laying his head on top of your tummy and looking up to you— whispering, "I want to do what's best for you. Especially on days like these."

Your heart throbs at the sight of your husband's hair being dishevelled, his already plump lips seemingly looking more peachy, rosy, kissable after he's eaten you out with more than greed and thirst; something that’s more valuable to a healthy marriage than the phrase ‘good sex, no ex’— Love. And the sweetest love there could ever be.

"You would do that for me, baby?", you ask him, your voice coming out sighed.

"Yes, of course," he insists, kissing you down your sternum, your ribcage moving up and down in a slow rhythm. “Baby, you work so much for us… I feel like this is something I can do for you in return, you know?”

“But what if I don’t make you cum?”

"Huh?"

Mingi stops kissing you and glances upwards. You grin. You wanted to catch him off-guard a little bit. (Though you don't know whether that's surprise in the white of his eyes or something like... intrigue.)

“… Uh,” he gutters, thinking about his words very carefully, but ultimately failing to find something good to say.

You smirk and go through his hair, gently grabbing a handful of it. “I think you’d find it hot."

"Really?", he asks, nervously huffing.

"Mingi, didn’t I edge you all during our early twenties?”

“Baby, don’t—“

“What? Well, I thought it was hot. I remember it being really hot.”

“Those were trying times.”

“We did try a lot of things during college.”

Reminiscing and visiting your rather youthful, spry days, Mingi pushes his head deeper into your hand and smiles, having calmed down from the rather exciting idea that you would suggest something so risqué to him. How long has it been? More than ten years, wow.

"Look at us now, baby," Mingi murmurs, sub-consciously wandering up the silhouette of your body with the backside of his hands, making you rather ticklish, but in a way that goosebumps find themselves on your skin, your breath feeling lighter with each stroke of his finger-tips, "Look at you." He inhales, and then exhales, your thumb resting at his ear, "You are trying to kill me, baby..."

"Ohh, Mingi, I'm not!", you giggle, and you may not know what your husband is talking about, but through his lenses— though you would be right to assume that these lenses are painted a deep, deep red— he's seeing his wife be tempered, moderate, relaxed. If he finds you so hot when you're fuming, Mingi finds you enthralling, when your eyes are barely open, the slightest of smile decorating your lips, and an even more hidden pink daubed on your cheeks... You're his wife, Mingi repeats to himself, and his heart grows double its size because of it.

"I love you," he murmurs, and for the moment, he doesn't even know he said that out loud, “I love you so much”, and means it more the second time.

And there you lay, on the mattress, your husband beginning to kiss you again, his hands cupping your head, your fingers interlaced in his hair. "I love you too," you whisper, and as Mingi grabs you by your back, inviting you to get your body up, you're right in the zone again.

Soft, smitten contact— it’s your lips this time to cover Mingi’s neck with kisses, down to his shoulders, his collarbones, your knee working against his crotch, arms swung behind his head.

“I want to take care of you, baby,” Mingi whispers, his thumb caressing your jawbone, as you peck away the sweat on his skin, he will need another shower. “I want to make love to you.”

You smile in awe of your husband lulling the loveliest of words into your ear, soft rustling from your sheets accompanying his voice. The room you decorated together, the home you fill, and even sooner, you'll start a family— with Mingi as a father to be proud of. Who has done so much to keep you happy.

"But sometimes I think—”

“No, baby,” you interrupt him, his voice was dropping and you know you are preventing Mingi from talking bad about himself. He feels guilty, though you've told him uncountable times that you don't feel like you're the only one under this roof.

"But—"

“Baby, no.”

"Okay... I guess I just love you, then." Mingi chuckles, when your fingernails trail down his breast, drawing a line along his muscle definition, “what did you think I was gonna say?”

“Something that’s gonna take me off my mood,” you hum, hooking yourself at his joggers. Mingi sighs, loudly, not yet relieved, but still at peace somehow.

“Make love to me, Mingi.”

A slight gasp leaves his mouth. Oh…

“Y/N… You can’t say things like that.”

With a smirk, your hand disappears in his joggers, and then in his boxers; his thick, throbbing, struggling cock slicking in your grip, as you wrap your fingers around it.

“I can, baby, and I will,” you sneer, “I thought you wanted the best for me?”

He grits his teeth, but Mingi smiles, finding himself at your service. “Am I the best?”, he asks you, leaning forwards to rest his head against your shoulder, pushing you down again.

“You’re the absolute best, Mingi.”

You slowly glide your hand up and down his length nibbling at his ear, exhaling, seducing him. “You’re the best husband,” you purr, “with the most handsome face,” kissing his temple, “and”, with your other finger hooked at the waist band of his joggers, you reveal “the best cock.”

Mingi is touched. A bit embarrassed, yes, it’s been a while since he’s heard you talk like this, but to hear from the best wife that he is deemed the best husband is the highest compliment he could have gotten. What, his face still charms you? His cock is still alluring to you? Don’t judge him, but even after ten years he will be moved by your words.

Moved.

“Come on, Mingi,” you coo, feeling your cunt pulsate between your legs, his cock twitch between your fingers; your husband gulps and, with your command, roams against your body, "let's get you to work."

Maybe he's really revisiting things from the past, after all the talk about your college endeavours, because you definitely recognise his canine teeth ever-so slightly sunken into your shoulder, as Mingi grabs you by your thighs and spreads your legs gently. Your body remembers, and his cock surely does as well, glistening in pre-cum as it is positioned at your cunt. "God, baby," Mingi grunts, and you lick over your lips in anticipation.

“You’re so beautiful,” he pouts, and in an almost reverent tone, Mingi brushes away a sweaty strand of hair from your face, “you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on.”

“Not even your mom?”, you giggle, and while you think of your mother in law with utmost respect, your husband smiles, unfazed; “She’ll agree.”

And with that, Mingi is inside you, all of his length gliding into you with utmost caution; he’s driving in his pelvis unhurriedly, slow and deliberate, just so you can feel every inch of you inside expand for his girth, stretch for his entrance. "Fuck," you gutter and grab Mingi by his hair, pulling him close to you just as he begins to move, your moan coming out muffled against his lip.

"Never growing tired of it, are you?", Mingi grins into the kiss, and he's right, he's so, totally right, but your face is strained together in ecstasy, lascivious— aphrodisical to your husband. He's throbbing and he can feel how warm his own cock is, as Mingi pulls himself out of your tightness in his entirety and then, "fuck," pushes himself right back in inside you to experience it all again.

"I could never grow tired of my hubby," you chuckle and fuck, feel him, physically feel how he's getting excited about your words, something so enrapturingly hot boiling inside him; but while your personal heat ends up being your devilish little voice encouraging you to tease him, Mingi's does nothing more than to whisper him the most delicate ways of loving.

If he sucks on the spot right here at your pretty, graceful collarbone, will you sigh out an even more graceful breath? (Yes!) If he slides his tongue across your neck, just until your sensitive jaw, will you pull his hair with some type of feistiness? (Oh, god yes!) If Mingi, looking at you with sunken eyes, catches you off-guard and pistons his pelvis in at this exact moment, will you— "Fuck, baby!"

Oh, he didn't even need a voice for that one. Your husband slithers his arms under your armpits, one hand holding you by your back, the other resting on top of your head, so you don't hit the bedframe and hurt yourself, as it falls to the back with his thrust.

"Want me to say sorry?", he hums, again slowly driving himself out, knowing very well that once Mingi changes the direction, he will hit your sweet-spot again, and you shake your head rather weakly, drunken on the feeling of him filling you out.

"Good," Mingi confirms your answer, peppering kisses all around your forehead, as he quickens up his pace, breathing throughout it all. "Y/N," he sighs, you sighing with him for all the same reasons, "you feel so good."

You get used to the rhythm and let loose of the sheets, lightly scratching his skin at his waist. "You feel so good, baby," Mingi repeats himself and his eyebrows are pushed together, his grunts vibrating down your cunt. "Do you feel good, baby?"

Nodding, whispering a wispy string of a lot of 'yes'es, Mingi flashes his eye-smile and digs his face deep into the nook of your neck. He doesn't say it, because he's too busy panting, moaning, breathing out to his own thrusts, but your husband is overjoyed. You feel so tiny under his body— and maybe it's because you are, and yet the place you have reserved in his even bigger heart— which even in this moment, is beating for you and nobody else— is inexplainably huge. He wants to be yours as much as he wants you to be him, be with him, have all his life painted in your pretty colours until his canvas drivels over.

His cock is slipping in and out of you at fast speed now, your whiny moans encouraging Mingi to hold this angle since you're not stopping with it; "Are you close?", he asks and gets one arm of his out to rest his hand on the bedframe, towering over you, hair falling in front of his eyes.

"Yes, I'm close," you answer and search for another kiss, raising your hand to his cheek, Mingi immediately plunging his face into yours. He's close too, has been for a while now, but he had to get your confirmation that he was finally able to release himself into you— and then, when you nibble at his lip while a heavenly note of a moan leaves your opened mouth, Mingi's pelvis moves by itself.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck," he cusses, having to install one hand at your hips so he doesn't rock you around too much, voice becoming high and needy, greed messing with the practiced way he thrusts into you, becoming sloppy and all the while passionate, chasing the speed it takes to make you feel the best and even better. His other hand slides onto your clit, and it does so by muscle memory, knowing exactly where to rub so you clench around him, scream out his name.

"I love you so much, baby, I want you so bad, and I'm— fuck," he heaves, his voice catching up with his movement, "I'm going to love you until we grow old, baby, I want to be with you until the end of our days— I," and Mingi is rambling his free mind here, his whole body, mind and soul at your service, "I want you to have me forever, Y/N."

"Mingi," you whine, and his cock doesn't stop hitting your soft-spot, your clit tingling from his thumb, making you dopey, skipping you through time, to a future where you lay with Mingi in bed at the same late hour, both heads fuming from work, trying to your steam off together now, worried that your kids will hear your words, grunting silently into each other's ears, the words being, "I'm gonna cum!"

Oh, what good days await you two, and how straight you're heading for it, too— with Mingi's breathing being cut short, coming out stuttered from how fast he's ramming himself into you, not too rough, but fluidly and ceaselessly until you are gasping for air, feeling the string be stretched further and further, pulled for release, spiralled by your husband's vigor and his panting; "I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum so fucking bad, fuck!"

Mingi soaks sweatily in your words, his hair chaotic, his abs glistening from the heat of it all— you yank your hand out his mouth, your lower body curling up— "Fuck, baby!"

And with your tightened cunt Mingi lets out a deep, whole-hearted grumble, falling flat on your body, as he spasms; his hot, thick semen shot seeps through along the tip of his cock out your cunt, needing to be fucked right back into you so it doesn’t get lost on your sheets— you seeing absolute bliss, as he pistons into you one last time, eyes focused on your husband.

“Baby,” Mingi pants, and with your gazes meeting, his lips rush over to your cheek, pecking you one, two, three times— and then, on your lips one, two— no, holding one long kiss with you, his plump, rosy softness making your body melt into the mattress, as it falls deeper in slumber. “I love you,” he whispers into your kiss, tucking some of your hair behind your ear, “my baby.”

He pulls out, infamously slow, making you heave on his length even after you both finished. “Mingi,” you exhale, feeling your eyelids close by themselves, your husband slightly chuckling.

“Sorry, baby,” he says, caressing your waist and cheek, “you need anything?”

“Oh, Mingi,” you laugh; Mingi can't help himself, can he? Will always ask for your wishes, wishing to grant them, like he's some wizard, a magician, a devoted believer of your enjoyment and happiness— "You did all you could have done, baby."

"Really?"

"Come on, Mingi, you big baby, c'mere."

He huffs, a bit sulky maybe, your silly husband, getting the blanket from the bed to throw it over his shoulder and wham, over you— cuddling you in, for now ignoring that the both of you need a hot, steamy shower, just breathing in and out your presence, your sweet, dulcet presence, which caramelizes in his warmth, against his body, melting.

"Thank you for being there for me, baby," you smile, voice dampened by the blanket, but Mingi understands you just well enough.

You don't need to thank him. Mingi knows you know that. He's obsessed with you, and though you could try and say you're just as obsessed, your husband will try everything to your favour to prove otherwise.

As Mingi throws his arm around your shoulder and pulls you close to his breast, making you listen to his heartbeat, beating just for you, you hear him whisper all kinds of affirmations. 'I'll never leave your side, I'll never make you feel lonely, I'll be yours forever.”

A career? A family? A happy life?

It's all waiting for you, patiently, each day and night you leave and come back home— in office clothes and a chaotic mind— watching, admiring, hoping to get the weight of responsibility off your shoulders, get you a taste of freedom, a taste of the fruits of your labour.

"Are you asleep?", he asks and you groan silently, pressing your face deeper down his armpit. "Baby..."

Mingi chuckles. You need this sleep, totally, but you also need to be cleaned up, which gives him the challenge to grab you by your leg the most gentle way he can, lift you up— and, when you lie in his embrace, head snuggled into his breast— he’s careful to not wake you up with the sounds of water splashing down his hand, as he soaps you in.

It’s difficult, this is difficult, it will all be so difficult— but Mingi, being your husband, your soul-mate, your everything, he’s putting his all on it to make it work.

(Work you up, make you work for it; until your voice is hoarse, until your body shakes, until your head is light and you can do it, all over again, the next day, evening and night.

“Happy wife, happy life!”

(Maybe Mingi embraces his new role as the father of your children too much.))

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