Obsession

The first time Jungkook saw you, you were reading a book in that pretentious little coffee shop in Gangnam—the one with the overpriced lattes and the velvet armchairs that tried too hard to look vintage. He was used to screams, to girls fainting when he walked by, to hands reaching out to touch the fabric of his designer jacket like he was some kind of deity.

You didn't even look up.

You turned the page, sipped your coffee, and continued reading while the entire café lost its collective mind around him. Your indifference was a knife to his ego, sharp and unexpected. He was twenty-eight, a billionaire several times over from record sales and investments, and he had never—never—been ignored.

That was three months ago.

Now, you wake up to darkness. A silk blindfold covers your eyes, soft but secure. The bed beneath you is impossibly plush, Egyptian cotton sheets that cost more than your monthly rent. You try to move, but velvet cuffs—padded, expensive, thoughtful in their cruelty—keep your wrists bound to the headboard.

"You're awake."

His voice is honey and smoke, familiar from every radio, every billboard, every corner of the world. You freeze, terror flooding your veins because you know that voice, and you know what this is.

"Don't scream," Jungkook says, and you hear him moving closer, the shift of fabric, the expensive cologne that hits your senses before his fingers do. "The room is soundproof. No one will hear you. But I'd prefer you didn't ruin your voice. I have plans for it."

"Let me go," you demand, your voice steadier than you feel. "You can't do this. People will look for me."

"They won't." His fingers trace your jaw, feather-light, reverent. "I own the private security firm your building uses. I own the cameras on your street. I own the investigators your mother will eventually hire when she realizes you've vanished." He leans close, his breath warm against your ear. "I own everything, y/n. Including you now."

You jerk away from his touch. "You're insane. I don't even know you."

"That's the problem." His voice drops, losing its polish, revealing something ragged underneath. "You looked through me. Three months, I've watched you. Three months of you walking past my car, past my bodyguards, past me, like I was furniture. Do you know what that does to a man who's had everything handed to him since he was fifteen?"

His hand slides down your throat, not choking, just holding, feeling your pulse race against his palm. "You go to work at that little publishing house. You eat lunch alone in the park. You refuse every man who approaches you." His thumb presses against your fluttering jugular. "I thought maybe you were a lesbian. I hoped for it, actually. It would have been easier to accept than the truth."

"What truth?" you spit, trying to sound brave.

"That you're just busy," he laughs, and it's broken, desperate. "That you're building your career, that you don't have time for romance, that you're 'focused on yourself.' I read your diary, y/n. I know everything. Your fears. Your hopes. The fact that you've never—" He stops, and you can hear the smile in his voice, dark and possessive. "Never been touched."

Your blood runs cold. "How—"

"You wrote it. Page forty-seven. 'Sometimes I wonder if I'm broken. Twenty-six and no one's ever made me want to surrender.'" He recites it like scripture. "I read those words and I knew. I knew I was meant to be the one to change that."

The bed dips as he climbs onto it, his weight settling over you. He's dressed, you realize—slacks, a button-down, the uniform of wealth—but you can feel the heat of him through the thin blanket covering your body.

"I can't see you with someone else," he admits, his hands finding the edge of the blanket, drawing it down. You're naked beneath it, stripped while you were unconscious, and the air hits your skin like a violation. "I can't imagine you laughing with some office worker, letting him kiss you, letting him have what I can't stop dreaming about. So I took you. I brought you here. And I'm going to ruin you for anyone else."

"Please," you whisper, and you hate how small you sound. "Please don't."

"Don't what?" He's tracing your collarbone, your shoulder, his touch mapping your body like he's memorizing geography. "Don't make you feel what you've been missing? Don't give you what your body was built for?" His hand slides lower, over your breast, and you gasp at the contact—unwanted but electric, your nerves betraying you. "You're already wet, y/n. Your body knows even if your mind is screaming."

"I hate you," you choke out, tears finally escaping beneath the blindfold.

"I know." He sounds almost tender. "You can hate me. You can scream at me. You can try to kill me in your sleep. But you will never ignore me again."

He removes the blindfold, and you blink against the soft light of a bedroom that could be in a magazine—minimalist, expensive, with floor-to-ceiling windows showing a cityscape you don't recognize. And above you, Jungkook—beautiful, terrible, his dark eyes consuming you like you're the only thing in the world.

"Look at me," he commands, and when you try to turn your face away, he catches your chin, forcing your gaze back. "Don't look away. I want to see your eyes when I take you. I want to watch you break."

He frees himself from his clothes, and you catch glimpses of inked skin, muscle carved from years of dance and discipline, and the heavy evidence of his arousal, thick and demanding against your thigh. He doesn't prepare you—there's no gentle stretching, no whispered apologies—just the blunt pressure of him against your entrance, pushing, insisting.

It hurts. You knew it would, but the stretch is burning, tearing, your body resisting the intrusion even as he groans above you, his forehead dropping to yours.

"Fuck," he grits out, his hips shaking with the effort to go slow. "You're so tight. So fucking perfect. This is mine now. This pain, this pleasure, this body—mine."

He thrusts forward, sheathing himself completely, and you scream because it feels like being split open, like dying and being born at the same time. He captures the sound with his mouth, kissing you deep and dirty, his tongue mimicking the rhythm he sets with his hips.

"Don't fight it," he pants against your lips, moving now, long strokes that drag against your walls and make your vision blur. "Take it. Take me."

You cry, tears streaming into your hair, your hands fisting the sheets because you can't push him away, can't stop the relentless drive of his body into yours. He's everywhere—his scent, his weight, the sound of skin slapping skin, the filthy praise he whispers in Korean and English, telling you how good you feel, how perfect you are, how he'll never let you go.

"Look at me," he demands again, his hand tangling in your hair, pulling until your neck arches. "Tell me you see me."

"I see you," you sob, because what else can you do? He's inside you, filling you, claimingyou in the most primitive way possible. "I hate you. I fucking hate you."

"I don't care." He drives deeper, angling his hips, and something changes—the pain shifts, morphing into a terrible, traitorous heat that coils in your belly. You gasp, your body betraying you completely as pleasure sparks through your nerves.

"Oh," he laughs, dark and victorious. "There it is. Your body knows its master."

He releases your wrists from the cuffs, and before you can fight, he flips you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up until you're on your knees, face pressed into the mattress. He enters you again from behind, deeper now, hitting places that make you moan despite your tears, despite your hatred.

"Touch yourself," he orders, his hand wrapping around your throat from behind, pulling you up until your back is against his chest. "I want to feel you come on my cock. I want to feel you milk me."

"I won't," you whimper, but his hand slides between your legs, his fingers finding your clit with devastating precision, circling, pressing.

"You will." He bites your shoulder, hard enough to mark. "You'll come for me, and then I'm going to fill you up, y/n. I'm going to put my child in you. You'll be round with my baby, tied to me forever, and you'll never be able to pretend I don't exist again."

The image is obscene, terrifying—and it pushes you over the edge. You come with a scream that tears your throat, your body clamping down on him, your nails scratching at the sheets. He groans, his thrusts becoming erratic, savage, as he chases his own release.

"That's it," he growls, his hand on your hips pulling you back onto him, meeting each thrust. "Take it. Take everything."

He buries himself to the hilt, his body going rigid, and you feel it—the hot, pulsing flood of him filling you, marking you from the inside. He stays there, locked inside you, his arms wrapping around you like chains.

"I love you," he whispers against your sweat-dampened hair, rocking you gently now, his touch almost soft compared to the violence of moments before. "I know you don't believe that. I know you think I'm a monster. But I love you more than my own life, and I will spend every day proving that to you."

You lie there, broken, his seed already beginning to leak down your thighs, and you know with a terrifying certainty that he's not lying about the pregnancy. He'll keep you here, breed you, turn you into exactly what he wants until you can't remember what it felt like to be free.

"I'll never love you," you whisper, your voice hollow.

"You don't have to," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice, content and possessive. "You just have to be mine."

He stays inside you through the night, hardening again and again, taking you until you're delirious, until the lines between hate and something darker begin to blur. And when the morning comes, and he feeds you breakfast from his own hand, you realize with dawning horror that he's already won.

Because you looked at him.

You couldn't look away.