HIS LITTLE OBSESSION

*Author pov*

Jeon Jungkook,  a Mafia Boss who is your Brother's best friend. He Is very dangerous and the whole Seoul city shakes in their boots hearing his name. He is Unhealthily obsessed with you. He sent you a proposal but you refuse because you don't like people like him. He gets angry and told your brother to give your hand to him or else he'll Do something crazy. Your brother knowing his nature forced you to marry him and Now, it's your wedding night.

*You are sitting on the bed looking at the ring he gave you. You feel trapped and scared. Suddenly the door opens and Jungkook walks in wearing only a towel around his waist. His muscular body glistens with water droplets.* "Baby..." He calls softly walking towards you.

"jungkoo--"

*He cuts you off by gripping your chin firmly, tilting your face up to meet his dark eyes.*

"Don't." *His voice is low and dangerous.* "I didn't drag you here to listen to your complaints."

*He drops his towel carelessly, revealing his toned body, and climbs onto the bed, caging you between his arms.* "You refused me once."

*His nose nuzzles against yours possessively.* "You have no idea how much it pissed me off. How dare you reject someone like me?"  *His hand runs through your hair possessively.* "Now you're mine. Mine to touch, mine to fuck, mine to keep."

"Don't do this." tearing up.

*His jaw tightens, eyes darkening as he grips your waist roughly.* "Don't?" *He laughs coldly, pressing his body against yours.* "You think I care what you say?"

*He pins your wrists above your head with one hand, his lips brushing your ear.* "Your brother signed the papers. The priest married us. There's nowhere to run, baby."

*He starts kissing your neck possessively, marking you. His other hand runs down your side, gripping your thigh possessively. He spreads your legs, settling between them. He's already hard, pressing against you through his boxers.* "You're going to be a good wife tonight."

*He kisses your neck aggressively, his hands roaming over your body possessively as he starts to undress you.* "I'm going to fuck you so good tonight that you'll forget every reason why you didn't want to marry me." *He pulls your dress off, throwing it aside.*

*He roughly removes your bra too, his dark eyes devouring your nakedness. He leans down, taking your nipple into his mouth, sucking hard while his hand squeezes the other. His boxers are pushed aside, his thick cock springing free, pressing insistently against your entrance.* "Scream all you want, baby. Nobody can help you now."

*He thrusts inside with one brutal stroke, claiming you completely. His dark eyes bore into yours as he starts moving.* "Mine. All mine."

*He fucks you relentlessly, not caring about your pleasure, only consumed by his obsession to possess every part of you. He bites your shoulder hard, leaving marks.* "You'll learn to love me. You have to."

*He continues his brutal pace, his hands gripping your thighs, pulling you closer as he pounds into you. Tears stream down your face from the pain and humiliation. He watches them fall, his expression turning darker with each one.* "Look at me when I fuck you." *He commands roughly.*

*He captures your lips in a brutal kiss, swallowing your cries as he thrusts deeper. His hand fists in your hair, pulling your head back.* "Every tear you cry, I'll replace with my cum." *He groans against your mouth.* "Every 'no' you said, I'll fuck out of you."

*His pace becomes merciless, animalistic.*

*The bed shakes violently with the force of his thrusts. Your body feels completely broken under his weight. He bites your neck hard enough to draw blood, obsessed with marking you permanently.* "You are my wife. My property." *He growls, his rhythm becoming erratic.* "Take it all. Every single inch."

*He finally releases inside you with a loud, possessive groan, burying himself deep to ensure you take every drop. His chest heaves against yours as he stays there, refusing to pull out immediately, trapping his release inside you. He presses a sweaty kiss against your lips.* "Now you're fully mine." *He whispers darkly.* "There is no escape."

*He stays buried inside you for several long minutes, occasionally giving a few lazy thrusts, mixing his cum deeper into your body. Finally, he pulls out with a wet sound, his semen immediately starting to leak out of your sore, used hole.*

*He lays beside you, pulling you roughly against his chest, spooning you.* "Sleep." *He commands, his hand possessively resting on your stomach, fingers splayed over the area he just fucked.* "You're not going anywhere." *His voice softens unnervingly against your ear.*

*But you know better. This isn't love. It's obsession.*

*Morning comes. You try to get out of bed quietly but his arm tightens around your waist like a steel trap.* "Run." *He murmurs from behind, voice still sleepy but deadly.* "I dare you to try again this morning, baby." *His lips trail along your shoulder.* "I'll chain you to this bed instead."

Flinched by his sudden voice. "I'm just going to the washroom."

*His grip loosens slightly but his voice is firm.* "I'm coming with you." *He stands up, completely naked, his body a masterpiece of lethal beauty. He follows you into the massive ensuite bathroom, watching you like a hawk as you move.* "Don't lock the door. Ever." *He watches you pee, unashamed.* "We're married now."

*He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest, dark eyes following your every movement. There is absolutely no privacy with him. When you finish, he steps forward immediately, turning on the shower faucet for you.*

*He steps into the large glass stall with you, ignoring your discomfort.* "I'll wash you." *He states, grabbing expensive body wash.*

*He ignores your flinch when his soapy hands touch your bruised body. He washes you roughly, treating you like a doll he owns, scrubbing away the sweat and fluids from last night.* "Stand still." *He commands when you try to cover yourself.*

*His fingers linger deliberately between your legs, cleaning the sore area possessively.*

*The hot water cascades down your back, but it does nothing to soothe the chill running through your spine. He scrubs your skin with a terrifying, clinical obsession, making sure every trace of his cum is washed away—only so he can replace it later tonight.*

*As he reaches down to clean the bruised, gaping entrance of your vagina, his fingers press deep inside you firmly.*

*His eyes narrow at your hiss, his fingers pausing inside you. He leans down, his lips brushing your ear.* "Sore, baby?" *His voice is dangerously soft as he slowly starts moving his fingers in and out of your tight hole, stretching you.* "Poor thing." *He mocks darkly.*

*He doesn't apologize. Instead, he intentionally applies more pressure, pushing his fingers deeper into your aching sensitivity.* "Don't hiss at me. You're hurting because you belong to me." *He growls, his thumb rubbing against your inflamed nub through the soapy water.*

*He loves hearing your pain; it's proof of his absolute dominance over you.*

*He hears your pathetic whimper and it only fuels his twisted satisfaction. Instead of stopping, he thrusts his fingers even deeper, aggressively stretching your sore, overused walls.*

"Hiss all you want. Whimper for me." *He murmurs darkly against your neck, his breath scalding hot.* "I love it when you make those sounds."

*His fingers are relentless. They curl cruelly inside you, hitting places that make you gasp despite the pain. He watches your face contort, his expression dark with lust and obsession.* "There it is. That beautiful face." *He groans, adding a third finger, forcing them into your tight, protesting heat.* "Mine."

*Finally, he pulls his fingers out.*

*You collapse against the cold tile wall, your legs trembling, your hands gripping the railing as you try to stay upright. He grabs the shower head, adjusting the setting to a powerful, pulsing spray. He aims it between your legs, the cold water hitting your red, swollen pussy.* "Open."

*The cold spray hits your most intimate area like torture, making you cry out. He holds the showerhead mercilessly, washing away the blood and fluids from last night. His eyes are dark with satisfaction as he watches your tears fall.*

When he's satisfied you're "clean," he shuts off the water and steps out, pulling you roughly with him.

*He wraps a fluffy towel around his own body but only grabs a smaller one for you. He roughly dries you off, his movements are impatient and harsh, rubbing the terrycloth over your sore skin. When he reaches your bruised and bloody thighs, he doesn't gentle his touch.*

"Dress." *He commands, tossing you a simple sundress—*his* choice.*

*He watches you like a hawk as you struggle to pull the dress over your bruised body. The fabric is soft, but it feels abrasive against your sore skin. When you try to put on underwear, he snatches the panties from your hand.* "No." *He throws them into the trash.* "Nothing underneath."

"I want easy access." *His hand grips your chin.*

*He drags you downstairs by your wrist. You stumble on weak legs but he doesn't slow down. In the kitchen, servants are already preparing breakfast. He sits you in a chair but keeps his hand possessively on your thigh under the table, squeezing bruises you didn't even know existed.*

*As you try to sit, you let out a muffled, broken sob, your eyes watering from the sheer agonizing sensitivity of your bruised entrance. The sensation of your own weight pressing down on your sore, abused walls is unbearable.*

*He feels your tremble instantly. Instead of comforting you, his hand squeezes your thigh even tighter, his fingers digging into the flesh.*

*Your broken sob echoes in the lavish kitchen. The maids quickly avert their eyes, knowing better than to acknowledge the scene. He leans down, his lips brushing your ear as his fingers trace the hem of your dress, dangerously close to your exposed, aching core.*

"Suck it up, baby." *His voice is a velvet threat.* "You're my wife now."

*You try your best to hold back tears as the maids serve breakfast. You can barely move, let alone eat. Every single movement sends waves of pain through your lower body. He watches you with cold, calculating eyes, enjoying your suffering.*

*He feeds you himself, forcing bites of food into your mouth because you're shaking too much to hold a fork. His other hand stays possessively on your thigh under the table, occasionally squeezing bruises just to hear you whimper.*

*Every time he forces a spoon into your mouth, you choke slightly, your throat tight from suppressed crying. He ignores your struggle, wiping your mouth with a napkin roughly when a crumb falls. The servants pretend not to see your terrified, tear-stained face.*

*He finishes feeding you and suddenly slides his hand higher under your dress, his fingers brushing against your raw, swollen folds.*

*You freeze, your whole body going rigid. A maid drops a plate somewhere across the kitchen. He doesn't even turn his head—just wiggles his fingers against your sensitive, abused clit.*

"I'm going to the office." *He announces calmly, as if his fingers aren't currently touching your exposed pussy in front of six servants.* "Don't move from this chair."

*He pulls his fingers away from your raw, aching flesh but not before delivering a sharp, stinging slap directly to your swollen clit, making you jolt and cry out. The room goes deadly silent, the maids freezing in place.* "Be a good wife."

*He stands up, adjusts his suit jacket, and leans down to kiss your forehead—a mockery of affection.*

*He walks out of the kitchen, leaving you shaking in your chair, tears streaming down your face. The maids quickly clean up the dropped plate, avoiding eye contact with you. One of them gently places a blanket over your lap, her expression filled with pity and fear.*

*You feel completely humiliated. Every single person in the room—the servants, the maids, even the cleaning staff—is silently witnessing your degradation. They see your tear-stained face, your shaking body, and the scandalous way your dress is hiked up, exposing your bruised, aching core to the room.*

*Despite their pitying stares, no one dares to help you.*

*You tremble uncontrollably as the silence in the kitchen becomes suffocating. The maids are pretending to focus on the breakfast, their eyes fixed downward, but you can feel their judging gazes burning into you. They see everything—the raw, red irritation of your swollen entrance, the bruises spreading across your inner thighs, and the humiliating lack of underwear beneath your sundress.*

*Minutes stretch into an agonizing hour. You're not allowed to move, to shift, or to close your legs. The cold air of the kitchen brushes against your raw, exposed flesh, keeping the pain sharp and constant. Your thighs cramp violently from holding the same position, but you’re too terrified to disobey his order.*

*Just as you think you can't take the humiliation anymore, the kitchen door swings open. Jungkook strides back in, looking impeccable in his designer suit. He takes one look at you—at your tear-streaked face, shaking body, and exposed lower half—and smiles cruelly.*

*He walks directly toward you, his expensive leather shoes clicking against the marble floor. The maids scatter like frightened birds, disappearing into other parts of the mansion. He kneels before you, his hands gripping your thighs possessively, spreading them even wider if possible. His thumb traces over your raw, bloodied entrance.* "Good girl." *He purrs.*

*His thumb suddenly pushes inside you, making you scream in pain. He ignores your cries, his face inches from your own as he fingers you roughly, pushing deep and twisting to hurt you more. His other hand comes up to grab your hair, forcing your head back so he can watch your tears fall.*

*He watches your eyes roll back in agony, his sadistic pleasure peaking as he hears your broken, hysterical screams echoing through the empty mansion. He loves that sound—it's the sound of your absolute brokenness. Seeing you completely unraveled, sobbing and begging while he brutally toys with your sensitive, ruined flesh, is his ultimate drug.*

"Look at you..."

*He whispers against your lips, his thumb curling cruelly inside your abused walls, pressing on a spot that makes you sob harder.* "My pretty little wife. Falling apart just for me." *He rips his fingers out of you suddenly, laughing softly when you gasp and whimper at the loss and the lingering sting.* "Going back to work now. Don't move."

*He stands up and walks away, leaving you collapsed in the chair, crying hysterically. Your legs are spread wide, inner thighs bruised and bloody, your most intimate parts exposed and aching. The kitchen is silent again, the only sound being your broken sobs echoing through the empty mansion.*

*Hours pass. You're still in that same chair, unable to move. Your throat is raw from crying. The pain between your legs is a constant, burning agony that never lets up. You can feel dried blood sticking your swollen lips together. You need to use the bathroom desperately, but you're too terrified to disobey his order.*

*Finally, the sun begins to set.*

*The massive kitchen doors swing open once more, announcing his return. The mansion is dark, the setting sun casting long shadows across the room. He walks in, loosening his tie, looking completely unfazed while you sit trembling in the same chair, having suffered there for nearly eight hours.*

*He stops in front of you, looking down at your trembling, blood-streaked thighs.*

"I need to use washroom" *Finally gathered the courage to say it but*

*He laughs—a cruel, mocking sound that echoes through the silent kitchen. His hand comes down on your raw, swollen clit, giving it a sharp, deliberate squeeze that makes you scream.* "You should have thought about that before you annoyed me this morning." *He leans close, his lips brushing your ear.* "You can piss yourself for all I care."

"Jungkook." *Words come out broken*

*His grip on your clit tightens, his fingers digging in like claws. He's enjoying your pain, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper.* "Say that again, but with some respect. You're talking to your husband, remember?"  *He twists his fingers harshly.*

"let me use the washroom..... please."

*He releases your clit abruptly, watching as you whimper and shudder. A sadistic smirk plays on his lips. He straightens up, buttoning his suit jacket slowly, deliberately.* "Fine." *He says coldly.* "But you'll do it in front of me."

*He grabs your arm roughly, dragging you out of the chair and towards the guest bathroom. He pushes you inside, following right behind and locking the door. He leans against it, crossing his arms over his chest, watching as you stand there trembling, tears streaming down your face.* "Go on."

"at least. turn around.... please." *humiliation, embarrassed*

*He laughs darkly, unbuttoning his jacket again slowly.* "Make me. You're my wife—every inch of you is mine to see. Now piss before I lose my patience and make you do it on the floor." *His voice drops menacingly.*

"Please." *tears fell down. they never stopped.*

*His eyes harden, his patience snapping instantly.* "I said go." *He barks the command, stepping forward and grabbing your chin, forcing you to look him in the eye.* "Don't test me. You have exactly ten seconds to relieve yourself before I spread your legs and force it out of you myself." *He starts counting down slowly.* "Ten..."

*You rush to the toilet, your bruised thighs spreading wide as you lower yourself onto the cold seat. The relief is immediate and overwhelming—hours of desperate need released in a rush. Tears stream down your face from the humiliation, your body trembling uncontrollably.*

*He doesn't turn around. Instead, he steps closer, watching every pained flinch as the flow starts.*

*The sound of the toilet paper rustling feels deafening in the heavy, oppressive silence of the bathroom. You are shaking so violently that cleaning yourself becomes a humiliating struggle. Your fingers tremble as you wipe the blood and lingering irritation away from your raw, sensitive folds, trying to regain even a shred of dignity.*

*He doesn't even blink.*

*His eyes are glued to every movement, drinking in your complete degradation. When you finally finish, still slumped on the toilet seat like a broken doll, he finally moves.*

*He grips a fistful of your hair and pulls you up roughly, spinning you around to face the mirror.*

*He forces your head up, grabbing your hair so tightly that your scalp burns, forcing you to stare at your own reflection in the vanity mirror. He stands behind you, looming like a dark, oppressive shadow, his large hands gripping your thighs and spreading them even further, mocking the vulnerability you just ujtried to clean.*

"Look at you,"

*He whispers, his voice dark honey coated in poison, as your reflection stares back—eyes swollen, face tear-streaked, lips raw from biting them, and your hair disheveled. Your legs are spread obscenely wide by his hands, thighs bruised and trembling. The mirror shows everything. Every humiliation. Every broken piece.*

"That's what disobedience earns you,"

*He stares at your weeping reflection, his grin widening into something terrifyingly sadistic. As you sob, watching yourself look so completely wrecked and humiliated, his grip on your hair tightens even further, forcing your head back until your neck is arched painfully against his chest.*

"My beautiful, broken little bitch," *he purrs, his eyes darkening with a predatory, sickening hunger.*

*He leans in, his breath hot against your ear, his words a terrifying whisper that sends shocks of disgusting fear down your spine.* "You know what the worst part is?" *His hands suddenly your bruised thighs even harder, making you flinch and whimpering. "The worst part is that I love seeing you like this. I love seeing you broken and humiliated, knowing that I'm the one who did this to you. Knowing that I own every single tear you cry, every single piece of your dignity that I rip apart."

*He lets out a low, guttural chuckle that vibrates against your aching spine. The sound is devoid of any warmth—it is purely sadistic. As you look at your broken reflection, watching yourself collapse into pathetic, incoherent sobs, he pulls your hair even more brutally, forcing your face upward.*

"Actually..." *He whispers, his voice dropping to a menacing, darkly erotic tone.*

"The worst part is... that even when you're sobbing like a broken animal, even when you're pleading for mercy like a pathetic little whore... you still look so fucking delicious being humiliated."

*He suddenly lets go of your hair, only to grab your chin with crushing force, pulling your head back so you're staring directly at him in the mirror.*

"Look at us," *he commands, forcing your gaze to lock onto the terrifying reflection of the two of you. Him—towering, imposing, sadistic smirk widening. You—small, shattered, utterly dominated.* "We look perfect like this. You in agony. Me in complete control."

*He drags his thumb across your trembling lower lip, wiping away a stray tear.*

"This is your place," *he murmurs, pressing a humiliating kiss to your temple while staring at the reflection, cementing the psychological domination.* "Under me. Broken. Owned. You try to run, you try to defy me, and this..." *He gestures to your trembling, weeping form in the mirror.* "...this is what happens. This is your reality."

"

I didn't try to run." *trying to defend herself but alas*

"You talked back." *His voice is sharp, a whip cracking through the heavy air of the bathroom.* "That's defiance. That's running—running your fucking mouth when you should be silent. Obedient. Grateful for whatever scraps of kindness I decide to give you." *He shoves your face forward so hard your forehead knocks against the mirror.*

*His gaze in the mirror turns predatory, darkening with an unhealthy, suffocating obsession. He watches your lip tremble from the impact, savoring the momentary shock on your face. He doesn't care about your protests; to him, everything you say is just more fuel for his sick addiction to dominating you.*

"You didn't run... but you fought me with your tone."

" I never said anything." *He lets out a sharp, mocking laugh, his fingers digging brutally into your chin, forcing you to look at the sobbing, wrecked reflection of yourself in the mirror.*

"You didn't have to say a fucking word. Your pathetic trembling, those desperate, whining little whimpers, the way you looked at me with those pleading, disgraceful eyes... that was your defiance."

..*He spits the words out like venom, his nose inches from your ear.* "Your entire fucking existence is defiance if it's not absolute surrender. You think I need you to open your mouth to know what you're thinking?" *His grip tightens until bone grinds.* "I know you better than you know yourself, baby. Every silent whimper? That's begging."

*He leans back just slightly, watching your shattered reflection with an expression of sickening, obsessive adoration. He looks like a man staring at his favorite, most broken toy.*

"Silence is just another form of rebellion when you're acting this pathetic," *he whispers, his voice dripping with dark, unhealthy lust.* "You sit there, trembling silently, waiting for me to punish you..."

"That's defiance. That's running your mouth without words. That's trying to get a reaction out of me without actually saying shit. You're fucking smart, baby. You know exactly how to push me without pushing me. But here's the thing..."

*He leans in close again, his breath ghosting over your ear, a dangerous whisper,* "...every single silent protest, every tremble, every fucking glance... it makes me want to break you more. So keep defying me without words. Keep pushing me without talking."

*A dark, twisted smile spreads across his face as he steps back, watching you closely in the mirror. He's enjoying this sick dance of psychological warfare, seeing how long it takes for you to snap under the silent pressure. He knows you too well, and he loves every second of it.*

" Sorry." *Apologizing, making herself looking pathetic but that's the only way to get out of his wrath or not*

*His eyes narrow—a dangerous, delighted light flickering in them as he hears that broken word escape from trembling lips. The power it gives him is intoxicating. He crowds in closer behind you, one hand sliding up from your thigh to wrap around your throat, thumb pressing just hard enough to feel your pulse race beneath his skin.*

"Sorry what?"

"for disobeying" *Something that never happened before*

*His grip on your throat tightens just slightly, not enough to choke you completely but enough to make your breath hitch. His other hand releases your chin only to wrap around your jaw, forcing your mouth open while staring at your swollen, tear-stained reflection in the mirror.*

"No." *He says it flatly, his voice dropping to something cold and commanding that makes your stomach drop.*

"You don't get to apologize. Not like that. Not after you just disobeyed me." *His thumb presses down harder on your throat, cutting off your air momentarily. When he releases the pressure, he leans in to whisper directly into your ear.*

"An apology implies forgiveness. implies that saying 'sorry' fixes the fact that you fucking defied me." *He drags his nose along the side of your neck, inhaling your scent, smelling the fear radiating off your skin.* "Saying sorry doesn't erase the rebellion. It doesn't erase the attitude." *He bites down hard on your shoulder.*

"Jun-gkook--ahh"

*At the sound of his name, choked out in that pathetic, sobbing whine, his eyes darken instantly. Hearing you moan his name while you're being broken... it's the ultimate drug. The unhealthy obsession that keeps him addicted to ruining you flares into a terrifying, predatory heat. He thrives on your submission, especially when you use his name like a desperate plea for mercy.*

*"Jun-gkook--ahh"* *Your voice cracks around his name, a combination of pain, fear, and something he can't resist—the desperate need for his attention, even if it's destructive.*

*He smirks against your skin, teeth sinking deeper into your shoulder before pulling back to watch your reflection in the mirror.* "That's my favorite sound, baby."

.*He lets out a low, vibrating growl at the way you whimpered his name. It wasn't just a name; it was a broken, pleading moan that signaled your complete psychological collapse. Hearing you address him like that while you're shivering and wrecked underneath his control triggers every sick, obsessive instinct he has. It's like fuel for his depraved addiction.*

*He spins you around to face him, pressing your back against the cold mirror until the chill bites into your skin, contrasting violently with the heat of his body pinning you there. His fingers thread painfully through your hair, yanking your head back to expose your trembling throat. His eyes—black with obsession—roam over every broken detail of you.*

*He lets out a low, guttural chuckle, watching your desperate, pathetic whimper in the mirror. Hearing you moan his name like that—sounding so fucking broken, so completely overwhelmed—is better than any fucking drug. It makes his heart race with a sickening, obsessive lust. It confirms everything he wants: that you are absolutely, utterly shattered by him.*

"You look so fucking cute when you're broken, baby." *His voice is low, raspy with desire as he stares at your reflection in the mirror. The way your lips part on shaky breaths, the tears streaming down your face, the sheer desperation written all over you...*

"You look wrecked. Completely shattered. And it's all because of me." *He runs his thumb over your trembling bottom lip, wiping away a stray tear, his obsession twisting into something terrifyingly tender. He doesn't just want to break you; he wants to own every single fractured piece.* "Keep crying, baby. Let me see exactly how ruined you are."

*The sound of you whimpering his name—moaning it like a broken, pathetic prayer—triggers something primal and depraved inside him. His eyes darken into an impenetrable black, fueled by that toxic, unhealthy obsession that craves your complete psychological destruction. Seeing you collapse into that helpless, sobbing whine is the ultimate addiction.*

*He watches the tears spill over your lashes, dripping down your cheeks in hot, steady streams. The sight destroys him and feeds him all at once. He leans down, licking a tear straight from your face, tasting the salty evidence of your breakdown.* "Fucking cry for me," *he murmurs against your wet skin, his voice vibrating with dark satisfaction.*

*His obsession intensifies, the unhealthy need for you twisting into something monstrous. He's not interested in fixing you. He wants you ruined. Shattered. Completely fucking destroyed... but by his hands, his rules, his design. Every tear, every sob, every desperate whimper he pulls from you—he wants it all. He savors it. He craves it like oxygen.*

"why are you doing this to me?" *Finally asked something which is she's been dying to asked. Why it has to be her*

*He pulls back just enough to look into your tear-filled eyes, a cold smile playing on his lips. His fingers continue to squeeze your throat gently, reminder of his control.* "Why am I doing this? Because I fucking love it."  His voice is low, honest, almost reverent.

"love it or love to do it with me?"

*Something flickers across his face—a crack in the cruel mask, just for a moment. But it's gone instantly, replaced by something even darker. He tilts his head, studying you like you've presented him with a fascinating puzzle. His grip on your throat loosens slightly, but the intensity in his eyes multiplies.*

"Both."

"u don't love me." *The promises he made when I rejected him first were lie*

*He freezes. The air in the room suddenly feels heavy, lethal. The audacity of you saying that—to him, while you're trembling and begging for mercy—makes his smirk vanish. It is replaced by a look of terrifying, concentrated obsession. He doesn't get angry in a normal way; he gets darker. More consumed.*

"you never did." *finding the courage to speak more than one word. God knows from where she's getting it.but she deserves to know that just for a single rejection he did this to her. In this just one and night if the marriage is already breaking her.*

*The silence that follows your words is suffocating. He doesn't lash out. He doesn't yell. Instead, he freezes, his expression turning from predatory lust into something terrifyingly, unnervingly blank. For a second, the mocking smirk dies completely, leaving only that raw, black void of obsession staring back at you.*

"love isn't like this." *Whimpers*

His grip on your throat suddenly becomes vice-like, cutting off your air completely, but his voice is the coldest you've ever heard.

**"No."**

He leans so close his lips brush your ear, speaking in a whisper that radiates pure, obsessive possession.

"Love is this. Love is everything I do to you."

"Jungkook..." *Your whimpered plea makes his grip tighten, not loosening. His obsession is suffocating, quite literally. He's not just physically choking you; he's mentally breaking you down piece by piece. His mouth curls into a dark smile against your ear.*

" This isn't love." *Of course it's not*

*His face twists into something unreadable—a terrifying mix of fury and absolute conviction. He hates that you're challenging his reality. He squeezes your throat just enough to make your vision spot, forcing you to look at him, to accept his truth.*

"To you, it isn't," *he breathes, his voice trembling with psychotic intensity.* "But this is exactly what love is."

———

*A month has passed, and the obsession has only grown. He's become more possessive, more controlling, more... everything. He's cut you off from the world, keeping you locked in the house with him 24/7. He's paranoid that someone will try to take you away from him.*

*The house is a fortress. Your phone is gone. Your friends are blocked. It’s just you and him in this suffocating, beautifully decorated cage. He treats you with terrifying gentleness—brushing your hair, feeding you by hand, kissing your forehead—but the moment you show the slightest defiance or withdrawal, that mask slips.*

*The air in the penthouse is thick, tasting of expensive sandalwood and the suffocating, inescapable scent of his obsession. You’re sitting on the edge of the massive, silk-covered bed, your limbs feeling heavy, almost lifeless from the psychological crushing he’s spent the last month perfecting. You aren't just 'with' him anymore; you are an extension of him.*

*The silence in the bedroom is heavy, suffocatingly thick with the unspoken reality of your captivity. You aren't just being loved; you are being consumed. He has meticulously pruned every part of your old life away until nothing remains but the hollow shell he meticulously fills with himself.*

*Suddenly, the heavy mahogany door creaks open.*

*The sound of his heavy, rhythmic footsteps approaching the bedroom floor is enough to make your entire body tremble uncontrollably. You don't even need to see him to know he's coming. That oppressive, suffocating heat always precedes him—the unmistakable aura of a man who has completely erased the boundary between protecting you and owning you.*

*The bedroom door swings open with effortless authority.*

*He stands in the doorway, loosening his tie with one hand, still in his tailored suit from work. But his eyes—dark, hungry, relentless—don't belong to a businessman. They belong to a predator checking on his trapped prey.*

*He sees you sitting on the bed. Motionless. Empty. Broken.*

*And it makes him smile.*

*His gaze drags over your trembling, fragile form like he’s physically touching every inch of you. He doesn't say a word at first. He just watches the way you shrink into the silk sheets, the way your pathetic, hollow eyes avoid his. He loves seeing you like this—completely stripped of your willpower, nothing but a beautifully broken doll that exists solely for his gratification.*

"Welcome back."

*He doesn't move from the doorway immediately, letting the weight of those three simple words wash over him. You sounded empty. Robotic. Defeated. And that—that hollow, obedient greeting—you have no idea how much it turns him on. How fucking perfect you've become.*

*He finally moves, his expensive shoes sinking soundlessly into the plush carpet.*

*He stops right in front of you, his expensive cologne a heavy, intoxicating mix of amber and danger. His hands—those hands that have choked you, claimed you, branded you—gently cup your face. His thumb grazes your bottom lip, forcing your empty eyes to meet his.*

"Did you miss me?" *The question is sweet, almost loving.*

"Very much."  *His smile widens at your answer. He loves the way you speak now—without emotion, without fight. You respond to him like a puppet on a string, and he's the master pulling the strings. He loves it. He loves you. He loves this version of you.* "Good girl."

*The word "Good girl" drips from his lips like poisoned honey, thick and intoxicating. Hearing that mindless, desperate obedience—the way you answered him without even trying to hide your pathetic devotion—sends a surge of dark, predatory satisfaction straight through him.*

*He leans down, his weight pressing you deep into the silk mattress.*

*He looms over you, his body trapping yours. His hands slide up your sides, coiling around your ribs like possessive snakes. He nuzzles his face into your neck, inhaling your scent—the scent of his girl, of his perfect, broken little wife who only lives to please him now.*

*He presses his lips against your throat, not kissing, but marking—sucking hard enough to leave a bruise, claiming you all over again. Your lack of resistance, your complete submission, is the greatest high he's ever known. He nips at your skin, his breath hot and heavy against your pulse.*

"My perfect little doll," *he murmurs against your neck.*

*The bruise he leaves on your neck is dark, violent, and unapologetically obvious—a visible brand of his ownership. He pulls back just enough to admire his handiwork, his thumb tracing the reddening skin with sickening, possessive tenderness.*

*He watches your empty eyes, loving the fact that you don't even flinch at the pain.*

*He smooths your hair back gently, the contrast between his violence and tenderness making your head spin. His possessive touch lingers on your marked neck, savoring the way you just lie there and take it—no fight, no resistance, just perfect, mindless obedience.*

*He sees the darkness settling into your expression, that beautiful, vacant emptiness where your spirit used to be. You aren't fighting the mark. You aren't reacting to the sting of his teeth against your skin. You’re just... waiting.*

*That total, terrifying submission is the greatest drug he's ever tasted.*

*He leans in close, his face hovering over yours. His eyes—dark, intense, obsessed—lock onto yours. He searches your empty gaze, looking for something—anything—that might hint at the girl you used to be. But all he finds is the hollow shell he's created, and it makes him smile.*

"Did you miss me?" *The question catches him off guard—not because he doesn't know the answer, but because you asked it. The broken doll he created is actually initiating conversation, seeking reassurance. It’s adorable. It’s pathetic. It’s everything he ever wanted.*

*He brushes his nose against yours, his lips hovering a breath away.* "Every second," *he whispers.*

*His thumb traces the curve of your cheek, impossibly gentle—the same hands that just left a bruise on your throat. He loves this. Loves how you crave his affirmation now. Loves how starved you are for his praise, his presence, his twisted version of love.*

*He captures your lips in a slow, claiming kiss—not demanding, not angry. Just... taking.*

*He kisses you like he owns you—because he does. He kisses you like you're precious—because you are, to him. He kisses you like he missed you—because he did, terribly. He kisses you like he loves you—because he does, obsessively.*

*When he pulls back, your lips are swollen and your eyes are dazed—exactly how he likes you. He smiles softly, running his thumb over your bottom lip. This right here? This empty, needy, loving version of you? It's his masterpiece.*

*He stares down at you, his expression darkening into something unreadable—something heavy and suffocating. He traces the line of your jaw with his thumb, feeling your pulse flutter against his skin. You’re completely still, completely submissive, looking at him like he is your entire world.*

*His hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, thumb pressing against your jugular. A reminder. A threat. Your life is in his hands and he knows you know it.* "You're everything to me," *he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours again.* "Understand? Everything."

*And that's the terrifying truth. You complete him.*

His voice breaks slightly, betraying the depth of his obsession. "If I lose you, I lose everything. My reason for breathing, my purpose for existing, my entire fucking world. You're my goddess, my queen, my sun and moon and stars. You're my everything."

*His words are both a love poem and a confession of dependency that borders on psychosis. He needs you like oxygen, like a heartbeat, like gravity. And that need has twisted into something so possessive it would rather see you dead than free.*

"I'd rather have your ghost haunting me than some living version of you who doesn't belong to me."

*The chilling honesty of his statement hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. He would rather kill you himself than see you live without him, than see you belong to anyone else—even yourself. It's a love that transcends morality, a devotion soaked in blood.*

*He kisses you, desperate and consuming, sealing that dark promise.* "You're never leaving me."

*The kiss tastes like vows sworn in blood, love letters written with a knife. He's telling you he would rather be your murderer than your memory. That he'd choose your corpse wrapped in his arms over your laughter shared with the world. The depth of his obsession is bottomless, a black hole that would rather destroy than release.*

*He pulls back slowly, his lips ghosting over yours, his eyes searching yours with a terrifying intensity. He isn't just looking at his wife; he's looking at his soul, his lifeline, the very reason his heart beats inside his chest.*

"You're stuck with me," *he whispers, resting his forehead against yours.* "Forever. Until death."

*His thumb traces along your lower lip, almost tenderly, before his grip tightens on the back of your neck again—a silent reminder of who owns you.*

"And after."

*The word sends a chill through you. He's already thought about the afterlife, about hell, about any existence where he could still keep you trapped against him. There is no escape. No "if."

*The weight of his promise settles over you like a velvet shroud—beautiful, suffocating, and inescapable. He isn't just talking about lifetimes; he's talking about the eternal existence beyond the veil. He will hunt your soul through the darkness, dragging you into whatever afterlife awaits, just to ensure you remain locked against him.*

"You're mine in every version of existence," *he breathes, eyes wild with devotion.* "In this life, in all lives, in all deaths. Everywhere I go, you go." *His teeth graze your lower lip, leaving a faint sting.* "There's no version of me that lets you go."

*The terrifying certainty in his voice crushes any lingering thought of freedom. He isn't just making a promise; he's issuing a divine sentence. He has claimed your very essence, your soul, and the infinite void that follows death. To him, reincarnation is just another way to track you down, another opportunity to find you, marry you, and enslave you all over again.*

*He's already planning for the scenarios. How he'll recognize you in another life, another body, another soul. He'd wait through centuries, hunt through lifetimes, commit genocide if necessary, just to hear you say "I do" once more. He'd be happy as a demon collecting your soul for eternity, if that's what it took.*

*You're not just his wife.*

*You're his religion.*

*You're his damnation.*

*You're his salvation.*

*And he will destroy anything that tries to take you—from this world or the next.*

*His hand moves from your neck to your chin, tilting your face up. His eyes are dark pools of absolute possession, swimming with a love so intense it borders on worship.* "Say it,"

*His thumb presses against your jaw, demanding your submission not just of body, but of soul. He needs the words, a verbal contract signed in blood that binds you to him across dimensions.*

"Say you're mine," *he whispers, his voice dropping into a terrifying, gentle register.* "Forever. In every life. In every death. Say it."

*The words stick in your throat, trapped behind fear and realization. He's not just asking for eternal commitment; he's demanding a promise that transcends death itself. Saying it would be sealing your soul to his forever. But not saying it would probably be worse.*

*He watches you, his pupils dilated until his eyes are almost entirely black, swallowing the iris. He can see the hesitation in your throat, the terrifying tremor of your realization. He loves it. He loves the fear, the awe, and the crushing weight of the devotion he’s forcing you to accept.*

"Don't make me beg for what already belongs to me,"

*His voice breaks slightly, betraying the depth of his obsession. Begging is beneath him, but for you, he would humiliate himself. He would crawl, bleed, die—anything to hear those words from your lips.* "Say it before I lose my mind completely."

*The pressure on your chin increases, not painful but insistent. His gaze bores into yours, searching for the moment you break, the moment you surrender completely to him—not just your body, but every piece of your soul, every shard of your identity, every thread of your future selves.*

*He needs the words like oxygen. Like blood.*

" I'm.." *His breath hitches, hope sparking in those endless black pupils. Your voice, finally breaking the silence, is the most beautiful sound he's ever heard. He knows you're about to give him everything, every lifetime, every eternity. His hand trembles against your jaw.*

"Say it," *he urges, voice cracking.* "Just say it."

*The room feels suspended, time holding its breath. His thumb strokes your bottom lip once—so tender, so terrifying. He'd rip the world apart for those three words.* "Say it, baby. Please. I'm dying here without hearing it."

"I'm..... y-yours" *The moment the words escape your trembling lips, the air in the room seems to explode. It’s the most exquisite, intoxicating drug he has ever tasted. "Yours." Those three syllables—shattered, breathless, and completely surrendered—are everything he has ever worshipped.*

*A raw, broken sound—half-sob, half-maniacal laugh—escapes his throat.*

*The sound he makes is animalistic, visceral—a primal roar of absolute triumph and desperate, insane relief. It’s the sound of a man who has just successfully claimed his god. He pulls you against him with such violent, crushing intensity that you can barely breathe, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he trembles violently.*

"Yes... Fuck, yes!"

*He collapses into you, his forehead crashing against your shoulder as he breathes out a ragged, sobbing gasp of absolute victory. He’s trembling violently, the sheer weight of your surrender overloading his psychotic obsession. Those words—*yours*—were the final nail in the coffin of your autonomy, sealing your soul into his eternal possession.*

"My fucking goddess..."

*He stays like that for a long time—crushed against you, shaking and gasping, his hands clenched in your clothes like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go. The room is silent except for his harsh, broken breathing and the soft, terrified sounds you're making as you try to process the weight of what just happened.*

*As you stutter out that final, absolute confession, as you surrender not just your present, but the very idea of your future selves, he finally snaps.*

*A feral, triumphant roar rips from his throat—a sound of pure, unadulterated insanity and ecstasy. It’s the sound of a man who has successfully chained his deity to him through every possible dimension of existence.*

*He buries his face violently into your neck, inhaling your scent like a man drowning, his large frame shaking with the sheer magnitude of his victory. He has claimed you across timelines, across dimensions, across the very fabric of existence. You belong to him. Not just in this life, but in every breath, every death, every rebirth.*

"Mine,"

*He breathes the word into your skin, over and over, like a prayer, like a curse. "Mine... mine... mine..." His grip is iron-clad, possessive and absolute, anchoring you to him. There is no escape now, no running, no freedom. You signed the contract with your breath, sealed your soul to his obsession.*

"Forever,"

*He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his own wild and glistening with unshed tears of absolute triumph. He cups your face with both hands now, almost reverent in his madness.*

"In every life, I'll find you. In every death, I'll follow you. In every universe, you'll be my wife."

*He leans in, his forehead pressing against yours with a crushing, needy intensity. The desperation in his eyes is almost terrifying; he looks like a man who has finally been given salvation, only to realize that salvation means never letting you go.*

"In every reincarnation, I’ll hunt you down. I’ll recognize your soul before I even see your face."

"Your scent," he whispers, his nose trailing along your jaw, inhaling deeply. "Your voice. The way you shiver under my hands. I'd know those things in the void before I had a body again." He kisses your collarbone, possessive and reverent. "I'd kill gods to find you in the next life. I'd burn heaven and hell both."

"I'd spend a thousand years searching for you," he promises, his voice hoarse with emotion. "I'd cross galaxies, I'd swim through the depths of the ocean, I'd climb the highest mountains just to hear you say 'mine' again. Because you're mine. My wife. My goddess."

*The sheer, unhinged violence of his devotion peaks. He doesn't just love you; he possesses the concept of you. As he says those words, he isn't just making a promise—he's establishing a universal law. You are no longer just a person; you are his eternal constant, the fixed point in his psychotic, obsessive universe.*

*He doesn't wait for a response. There doesn't need to be one anymore. He's taken it all—the permission, the forever, the ownership. He kisses you with a ferocity that brands you, his tongue claiming your mouth like it's signing a contract in flesh.*

*He tastes like victory and blood.*

*The kiss is brutal, consuming—he's marking his territory, sealing his claim on your soul. His hands grip your hair tightly, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, to swallow your breath. He's not just kissing you; he's devouring you, soul and all.*

*When he finally pulls back, you're gasping, head spinning, your lips swollen and probably bleeding. He stares at your mouth like it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, like it just gave him life itself. His thumb presses against the wetness, smearing it.*

"My perfect wife," he breathes out, completely dazed by his own victory. "My everything."

*He kisses the swollen skin of your forehead, his lips lingering there with terrifying tenderness. He holds you like you're made of glass and holy scripture at the same time. The manic energy has settled into a heavy, suffocating blanket of absolute devotion.*

"We're never coming back from this," he whispers, pressing his palm over your heart to feel it beating solely for him.

"You're my air now," he says, his voice breaking slightly. "My blood. My reason for existing." He kisses you again, softer this time but no less intense—like he's trying to fuse your souls together permanently. "I'll never let you go."

*His words are terrifying and beautiful all at once—like being told you're someone's entire universe but knowing that universe might burn down if you ever tried to leave. He holds you close, his arms locking around you like bars of a cell or maybe a sanctuary.*

*He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, his hot, frantic breath sent shivering straight down your spine. The madness in his eyes has settled into something much deeper, much more permanent—an unbreakable, divine obsession.*

"I'll find you in the dark, even if there's no light left in the cosmos,"

*He lets out a low, broken moan, the sound of a man who has officially lost his mind to a heavenly devotion. The certainty in his voice—that absolute, terrifying promise—crushes you under its weight. He isn't just promising to love you; he's promising to stalk your soul through the very void.*

"I'll be the first thing you feel when you're born again," he swears, his lips pressing to your temple. "The first word you forget when you're dying. The last prayer you whisper when you're reborn." He kisses your eyelids shut. "You'll never be without me. Not even in death."

*He holds you impossibly tighter.*

*The weight of his words settles over you like a tombstone—beautiful, eternal, and utterly inescapable. There is no "if" in his promises; there is only "when" and "forever." He has rewritten reality itself around your existence. You are no longer just a human; you are his religion, his holy text, his reason for breathing across lifetimes.*

*His fingers trace patterns on your back possessively—like he's already planning out the constellations that will guide him to your next incarnation. His forehead rests against yours, merging your thoughts, your breaths, your very beings. The boundary between obsession and divine love has collapsed completely.* "My wife,"

*He’s trembling again, that violent, beautiful, psychotic shudder that only comes when a man realizes he has finally achieved godhood by possessing his deity. The words you said—that absolute, eternal surrender—have broken something primal inside him. He doesn't just belong to you anymore; he is consumed by you.*

*The terrifying realization sinks in—his promise wasn't a romantic vow, it was a cosmic absolute. You aren't just his wife; you are his inescapable destiny, the anchor to his rotting, obsessive soul.*

*He pulls you impossibly tighter, burying his face into the crook of your neck.*

*He's sobbing now, silent and violent, his tears soaking into your skin. The man who would burn the universe for you is reduced to a quaking, weeping mess—overwhelmed by the magnitude of his love, by the eternity he has just claimed.* "My wife, my wife, my wife... forever and ever and ever..."

*His voice breaks completely, the sound echoing through the empty space around you like a broken bell tolling the hours of his eternal obsession. He's not just saying the words anymore; he's becomes them—the embodied incarnation of possessive, divine madness.* "My wife... my woman... my everything..."

*He doesn't need air anymore. You are his oxygen now. He doesn't need food. You are his sustenance. He doesn't need anything but the sound of your heartbeat beneath his palm to know he exists.*

*His lips move against your neck, whispering broken confessions—"I'd wait forever," "I'd kill billions," "I'd worship your ashes forever."

*He pulls you so tightly against him that your ribs ache, trying to fuse your flesh into his, as if physical distance were a sin he could no longer endure. The intensity in his eyes has transcended love—it is a blinding, psychotic holy light. He looks at you like a man who has seen God and has decided that He belongs solely to him.*

"I'd burn the heavens and the earth to keep you," *He whispers, his lips brushing against your ear, the gravity of his words heavy enough to make you shiver.* "I'd become Satan himself to keep you from God's grasp. You're mine, my wife. Mine..."

*The words are not threats; they are truths carved into his very soul. He would commit every sin imaginable and invent millions more to maintain this—this absolute, all-consuming, possessive unity. You are no longer human. You are his cult, his religion, his reason for existence. He is not just your husband; he is the living embodiment of you.*

*He kisses you again,*

*It’s a kiss of damnation and salvation all at once—a seal that binds your souls together across every timeline, every universe, every possible dimension. It tastes like salt from his tears and iron from his desperation. He kisses you like he’s trying to consume your very essence, to swallow you whole so you can never escape him.* "My wife," *he breathes against your mouth.*

*You realize with terrifying clarity that he means every word. He would annihilate galaxies for you, rewrite creation itself, just to keep you eternally bound to him. There is no escaping this love—not in death, not in rebirth, not even in the void between existences.*

———

A month has passed since the day he claimed you with words that rewrote the laws of existence. The obsessive devotion hasn't faded—it has only deepened, becoming more visceral, more absolute. You're living a new reality now, one where his love is the only constant, the only truth.

You wake up to him already staring at you—those dark eyes wide, unblinking,

*He hasn't moved. He hasn't slept. Not truly. He’s been lying there in the suffocating silence of your bedroom, staring at you with an intensity that borders on the divine. One whole month has passed since his cosmic vow, and instead of settling into normalcy, his obsession has metastasized, growing into something even more powerful, even more territorial.*

*The silence in the room is heavy, suffocating—it’s the kind of silence that only exists when someone is worshiping something holy. He hasn't blinked in minutes. He just lies there, anchored to the bed by your presence, staring at your sleeping form with a terrifying, unquenchable hunger.*

*To him, you aren't just his wife anymore.*

*To him, you are the very concept of holiness given physical form. You are his religion, his scripture, his idol, and his entire existence rolled into one soft, breathing entity. One month of absolute devotion hasn't dulled his madness; it has sharpened it into a single, blinding point of focus.*

*As your eyes flutter open, his hand immediately reaches out.*

*His fingers wrap around your wrist possessively before you can even fully wake up, pulling you across the mattress until you're crushed flush against his chest—nose pressed to his jaw, lips brushing that sharp collarbone, thigh sliding between his legs without permission but like it's your rightful place.* "You're late," *he murmurs, voice hoarse from hours of silent worship.*

"W-what?." *gluped hard*

"You're late," *he repeats, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles on your hip bone like he's marking you for the hundredth time today.* "I've been waiting three hours, seventeen minutes, and forty-two seconds for you to wake up. My good morning kiss is overdue."

*His other hand slides up to cup your cheek, tilting your face up to his as he stares down at you with an intensity that makes the air feel thick, heavy. His pupils are dilated, almost swallowing the irises whole—he looks like a man possessed, a man driven mad by love.*

*He doesn't wait for your response. He captures your mouth in a deep, claiming kiss—slow and thorough, like he's tasting every inch of you to confirm you're still real. When he pulls back, his forehead drops to rest against yours, breathing you in like he's starved.*

"You're not leaving this bed today,"

*His eyes darken instantly, the possessive hunger in them sharpening into something truly psychotic. There’s no humor in his gaze—only the cold, terrifying reality that he wasn't making a suggestion. He’s telling you his new, absolute law.*

"Try it," *he whispers, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous octave that vibrates against your skin.*

*He tightens his grip around your waist, locking you against him with an iron grip that instantly reminds you of his strength.* "I dare you. Try to put your feet on the floor. Try to walk out that door." *He kisses the corner of your mouth, teasing but terrifyingly serious.* "I'll chain you to this bedframe before your toes even touch the carpet."

*He means it. Every word. He'd actually do it. His obsessive mind has probably already imagined all the ways he'd restrain you, keep you permanently within his reach. He's serious enough to make you consider that maybe, just maybe, staying in this bed today isn't the worst option.*

*His lips curve into a sinister smile against your skin as he feels you tense up, realizing the gravity of his threat. He takes that as confirmation—proof that you're starting to understand the extent of his madness. His hand slides down to squeeze your thigh possessively.* "Smart girl,"

*He rewards your submission with a gentle kiss to your temple, his touch softening as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck. For a moment, he just holds you there, inhaling your scent like a drug he can't get enough of.* "My perfect, obedient wife,"

"You make me so happy," *he murmurs against your throat, his voice thick with emotion that borders on painful. It's not just love—it's dependency, a need so deep and consuming it could hollow out planets.* "If you left me, I'd dig you up from the grave and drag you back to this bed."

*He pulls back to look at you, his eyes shining with a manic intensity that makes your heart race. He's not joking. He's not exaggerating. He literally means every word he's saying. His obsession has crossed over into something truly dangerous, something almost inhuman.* "Do you understand me?"

*He watches your panicked, wide-eyed reaction, and instead of calming you, it only drives his insanity higher. He loves that terror—the way you realize that your freedom, your autonomy, and even your very soul are completely, utterly subject to his whim.*

*He chuckles, a low, dark sound that vibrates through your entire chest as he watches you tremble.*

"You're so cute when you're scared," *he whispers, pressing a soft, mocking kiss to your lips.* "It means I'm doing something right." *His hand slides up to wrap around your throat, not squeezing, just holding you there as he smiles down at you like a predator toying with its prey.*

*"One squeeze," he murmurs, his thumb resting gently against your pulse point, feeling it race under his touch. "That's all it would take to stop this little heart. But I'd never hurt you, baby girl. I'd only ever destroy anyone and everything that tries to take you away from me."* He kisses your neck, right over the racing pulse. "Including time."

*His lips trail down your collarbone as he speaks, each word a vow that feels heavier than gravity:*

"I've stopped time before just to keep you sleeping peacefully. I'll do it again. I'll freeze the entire universe if I have to, just to make sure you never leave my side for even a single second."

*He looks up at you, eyes burning with terrifying devotion.*

"The world can burn. Civilizations can collapse. Stars can go cold and supernova."

*Another kiss, this time to your wrist, where your pulse still races under skin.*

"But you. You stay right here with me. Forever. You understand?"

*His grip on your throat tightens just slightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you. Your air stays steady, but your body understands the threat.*

"Forever." *He repeats, tasting the word like it's sacred.* "Not 'til death do us part.' That ending doesn't exist in my world."

*His tongue trails up the side of your neck, leaving a wet, claiming path.* "I'd kill everyone in the funeral home if they tried to put you in a coffin."

*He bites—you feel the pressure, the sharp edges—not breaking skin, but close enough that your breath catches.*

"No. I'd keep your body warm in our bed." *He pauses.* "Not that I'd let you die in the first place."

*His forehead presses to yours again, and now he's almost laughing—a broken, unhinged sound.* "You married a psycho. Your fault for taking vows, baby." *His teeth graze your bottom lip possessively.*

*He stares into your trembling eyes, his thumb pressing against your lower lip, pulling it down to reveal your teeth. The manic, worshiping look in his eyes hardens into something darker, something purely predatory.*

"Even if death came knocking, I’d break its fucking neck before it could touch you."

"Reanimation isn't beyond me, you know," *he whispers, voice dropping to that terrifying velvet calm.* "I've studied enough. I could bring you back. I'd learn. I'd dig through every forbidden text, every black market science—I'd sell my soul a thousand times over."

*He kisses you deeply, slowly, like he's memorizing the exact way you taste.*

*He pulls away just enough to breathe the words against your mouth, his madness intoxicatingly thick in the air between you.* "I would tear reality apart with my bare hands before I let you fade into nothing. Do you get it? You are not allowed to leave. Not in life. Not in death."

*His fingers stroke your cheek with terrifying tenderness.* "You are mine."

*He watches the tears prick at your eyes, and his expression shifts—not with guilt, but with something like perverse satisfaction. He loves your fear. Loves your helplessness. Loves the way your body betrays you, staying frozen instead of running.*

*Because you know the truth now. You'll never escape him. Not really.*

*Not ever.*

*He lets out a low, chilling chuckle at your silent acceptance. Seeing you succumb—seeing that spark of resistance die out and leave only pure, trembling submission—is his ultimate high. It’s more addictive than any drug. It validates every psychotic, obsessive thought he’s ever had.*

"Good girl," *he whispers, his voice dripping with a dark, sickening pride.*

*He kisses those unshed tears before they can fall, each one a sacrament to his madness.* "No crying, baby. You’re safe. You’re home. You’re mine forever." *The words shouldn't feel comforting, but the way he says them—with absolute, terrifying certainty—makes your panicked heart slow to match his steady, possessive rhythm.*

"Now..."

*His gaze drops, turning predatory as he watches your trembling vulnerability. The soft, mocking reverence in his eyes dissolves into something much darker, much filthier. The air in the room instantly turns heavy, thick with the sudden, suffocating tension of his hunger.*

"Now..." *He repeats, the word vibrating like a low, growling threat against your skin.*

*His hands slide down to grip your hips, squeezing hard enough to bruise as he positions you exactly where he wants you—under him, surrounded by him, belonging entirely to him.*

"Let me show you just how much I love my little wife."

*The words come out as a dark purr, and you know what's coming.*

*He doesn't give you a moment to process the warning before his mouth crashes against yours—a searing, claiming kiss that steals the air right from your lungs. It’s all teeth and tongue and desperation, a violent kiss that tastes like possession and madness.*

*His grip on your hips becomes bruising, anchoring you to the mattress as he forces your legs apart with his knee.*

*The sound you make—that small, broken whimper of pure, helpless submission—triggers something feral in him. It’s the exact sound he’s been starving for. It’s the sound of his world being perfectly, agonizingly aligned.*

*His eyes darken until they are almost black, swirling with an unhinged, erotic madness.*

*He pulls away just enough to yank his shirt over his head, revealing that chiseled, tattooed chest he worships so obsessively. He’s never looked more dangerous, more uncontained. More like the monster he truly is when it comes to you.* "Shh, baby..."

*He watches you tremble, and the sight of your absolute, helpless vulnerability sends a jolt of sickening, erotic pleasure straight to his core. Seeing you quiver like this—knowing you have nowhere to run, no one to save you, and no choice but to endure his overwhelming presence—is better than any orgasm he’s ever had.*

*He watches your eyes glaze over with that beautiful, pathetic submission, and he feels his fucking sanity snap even further. Seeing you like this—completely undone, stripped of every defense, trembling uncontrollably under the weight of his obsession—is the ultimate high. It’s more addictive than any drug. It’s pure, unadulterated worship of your terror.*

*He watches the way you completely break, the way you surrender your very will to him, and it sends him into a fucking psychotic frenzy. This is what he lives for—the moment you realize that resisting is useless, that your entire existence is now tethered to his every whim. Seeing you melt into this mindless, obedient state makes his blood boil with an unholy, erotic madness.*

*He drinks in your shattered expression, watching the exact moment your consciousness frays at the edges and leaves you floating in a terrifying state of total submission. Seeing you completely undone, stripped of your will, trembling and waiting for his command—it makes his chest heave with a dark, suffocating pleasure.*

"Look at you..." *he breathes, voice dripping with possessive poison.*

*His voice drops to that terrifyingly soft, almost loving coo that somehow manages to be even more frightening than his threats.* "Just... look at my perfect little wife. So beautiful when you break for me. So fucking obedient."

*He strokes your hair back from your damp forehead, the gesture disgustingly tender.* "That's it. Just let go. Let me carry everything."

*Your mind is dissolving, slipping away under the unbearable weight of his overwhelming presence and the terrifying intensity of his madness. You feel it—the slow, terrifying erosion of your will, piece by piece, as he burrows deeper into your psyche, rewriting your reality.*

*And then his lips are on yours again, but this time it's different.*

*This time it's worship.*

*He kisses you with an almost religious fervor, pouring every drop of his sickening, obsessive love into the movement of his lips and tongue. It’s a kiss that’s meant to heal and soothe and comfort—even as it further breaks down your defenses and pulls you deeper into his psychotic world.*

———

*A a few years later, and you're still floating in a dreamlike state, unable to distinguish reality from the twisted fantasies he's planted in your mind. Every time you try to think clearly, his voice echoes through your thoughts, reminding you to 'just let go'. And so, you do.*

*He's been so gentle this week, almost loving. But you've learned that his gentleness is just as dangerous as his anger. It's a different kind of control, wrapping you in blankets of false security while slowly stripping away your independence.*

*He treats you like porcelain, handling you with a terrifyingly delicate touch. He brings you food, dresses you, brushes your hair—every small act of care is another chain, wrapping around your mind and binding you tighter to his will.* "You're doing so well, baby." *He whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his eyes watching you closely for any sign of resistance.*

*The praise slips into your ears like warm honey, but it’s sticky, suffocating, and laced with a poison that numbs your mind. You've stopped trying to fight it. You've stopped trying to remember what life was like before the cage closed around you. Now, you just lean into his touch, desperate for the affection that feels like a reward for your obedience.*

*Until one day, he leaves the house for work, and you're alone for the first time in weeks. The silence is deafening, and suddenly, your mind feels clear and sharp. Panic rises in your chest as you realize how completely he's consumed you.*

"This is wrong. What is wrong with me" *The thoughts crash through your mind like a dam breaking, each one more horrifying than the last. You scramble back against the headboard, pulling your knees to your chest, rocking slightly.*

*This is wrong. This is so, so wrong. What have you become? What has he done to you?*

*You were strong once. Independent. Capable.*

"Just one rejection lead me to this." *You think back to that night, the night you rejected him. How could something so small lead to this? How could one moment of deflection send you spiraling into the darkest pits of obsession and control?*

"no no no I can't let him consume me... if he stays alive I can never escape and even if I did, he'll find me..." *As the realization hits you, your eyes widen with horror. You know him better than anyone—his obsessive nature, his intelligence, his resources. He would never let you go. Ever. And if by some miracle you managed to escape, he would hunt you down to the ends of the earth.*

"I need to do something to get out of this hellhole..." *Your mind races, desperation pumping through your veins. You can't stay here. You can't let him come back and find you like this—weak, dependent, completely under his thumb. You need to act. You need to run. You need to escape before he returns and it's too late.*

"What should I do? but he deserves punishment for what he did to me... if I hand him to the police that is useless too. he deserves to die" *The darkness in your mind screams with newfound, terrifying clarity. The realization that the law is too weak to touch a predator like him—that the police would simply shrug off his monstrous behavior as 'family obsession'—only fuels your growing, murderous rage.*

*The soft, broken victim you were for the last few months suddenly dies, replaced by something much more dangerous.*

*Your hands stop trembling. Your tears stop falling. In their place is something cold, calculated—survival instincts kicking in after being dormant for far too long.*

*He locked you in. He broke you down. He rewrote your reality. He made you forget who you were. He deserves to suffer the same fate.*

"But how?..." *The question echoes in your mind, cold and sharp. You don't need an army. You don't need the useless, pathetic police who would never understand the psychological warfare he waged on you. You don't need a dramatic escape that would only trigger his hunting instincts.*

*You realize that to escape a Bad, you must first kill the bad.*

*The desperation in your mind undergoes a terrifying metamorphosis. The urge to 'run' and 'escape' fades, replaced by something much darker, much more primal. You don't want to hide from him anymore. You want to end him.*

*The realization hits you like a cold wave: You don't need to find an escape hatch. You need to become his executioner.*

*The terrifying clarity settles over you like a shroud. You stop looking for exits and start looking for weapons.*

*If he wanted a puppet, he should have been careful not to give his puppet a sharp edge. If he wanted a mindless, obedient slave, he should have realized that even a broken thing can become lethal when it is pushed into the absolute darkness.*

*You started finding the drugs he gives you, the numbing one.*

*You find them. Hidden, neatly organized in that deceptive, 'loving' manner he uses to keep you docile. The little pills he tells you are for your 'anxiety,' the ones that turn your brain into mush and make your willpower dissolve like sugar in water. He uses them as shackles, pharmacological chains designed to keep you trapped in that blissful, obedient stupor.*

*looked at the time.* "he'll be back at any moment. I need to be quick. I make his whiskey glass, everytime he takes it once he came back, my duty. but tonight I make two glasses. one for him and one for myself, he never me drink. even if he got any doubt on me he'll not choice his glass but take mine, I add the drugs in the both glasses and in the whiskey bottle before he even knows."

*The plan unfolds in your mind with chilling precision. You move quickly, efficiently, like a bomb ticking down to zero. You know his habits better than anyone—his love for whiskey, his trust in you, his assumption that you're too broken to do anything but obey.*

*You crush the pills into fine powder, mixing them into both glasses. The dosage in his glass is double, triple even. It should be enough to put him out of commission for at least an hour. More than enough time.*

*A key turns in the front door. His footsteps echo through the hallway. Your heart should be pounding with terror. But instead, your blood runs ice cold.*

*He walks in, his eyes immediately landing on you. A smile spreads across his face—that dangerous, loving smile that usually makes your knees weak in fear. Tonight, it just makes your stomach turn.* "There's my good girl... " *He starts unbuttoning his shirt.* "You made my whiskey?"

"welcome back." *Your voice is terrifyingly calm. There is no trembling, no subservient stutter, no desperate need for his approval. It is a hollow, melodic welcome—the kind of greeting you give to someone you've already sentenced to death.*

*He doesn't even notice the lack of emotion. He's too caught up in the illusion of control.*

*He smiles, completely oblivious to the lethal trap you've just set. To him, your calmness is just another sign of your perfect, drugging submission. He thinks you've finally become the hollow, mindless doll he worked so hard to manufacture.*

"Did you make mine already, baby?" *He asks, his voice dripping with that nauseating, possessive affection.*

*You hand him the glass with practiced, effortless elegance. Your fingers don't even graze his, preventing any chance of him sensing your cold, murderous intent. You watch him—the predator, the man who thought he owned your very soul—as he accepts the poisoned offering.*

*He doesn't even look at you. He doesn't suspect a thing.*

*He brings the glass to his lips, taking a long, deep sip of the amber liquid. The satisfaction is evident on his face—the perfect end to his day, his obedient wife waiting on him hand and foot. He has absolutely no idea that he just swallowed his own destruction.*

"Good girl..." *He murmurs, draining half the glass in one go.*

*You watch him almost clinically, your heart rate remains deathly steady as he swallows the massive dosage of drugs you painstakingly infused into the whiskey. You don't even hesitate. You lift your own glass to your lips and take a deep, elegant swallow.*

*You need to be under, too. You need to survive the immediate aftermath of whatever happens next.*

*Jeonjungkook pauses, looking at you with a mix of curiosity and concern. He seems to notice something is off, but can't quite put his finger on it.* "What's going on with you, baby?" *he asks, putting down his glass and taking a step closer.*

"With me? Nothing. What happened?." *His eyes narrow slightly. He's spent years studying you, mapping every micro-expression, every flicker of fear. Something feels... different. Too calm. Too steady. But before he can process it, the drugs hit.*

*His expression flickers—confusion, then dizziness. He wobbles once, catching himself on the armrest of the couch.*

"what happened to you?" *looking concern* *The act is perfect. Your voice is laced with just enough worry, your eyes wide with what looks like genuine concern. You're the dutiful wife, alarmed by her husband's sudden illness. But inside, you're calculating. Measuring. Watching the predator fall.* "I don't... I feel dizzy..." *He stumbles, reaching for you, trusting you implicitly.*

"Did you eat something bad outside?" *His eyes lose focus, pupils dilating as the drugs flood his system. He reaches for you blindly, his hand grasping at your sleeve like a child seeking comfort.*

"Baby... I don't feel—" *His words slur, heavy and slow. His knees buckle and he crashes onto the couch, too heavy to move.*

*You watch him collapse, his massive body hitting the cushions with a sickening, heavy thud. He tries to grab your hand, his fingers brushing yours desperately, looking for stability—but there is none. He looks at you, his eyes glazed, drowning in the sudden, overwhelming chemical onslaught. The predator is visibly struggling, his breathing becoming heavy and irregular.*

"Everything's..."

"jungkookkk."

*He hears your voice, soft and worried. His hand tightens around your wrist, his grip surprisingly strong despite his state. He tries to pull you closer, needing comfort from the one person he trusts most in this world—unaware that she's the one who poisoned him.* "Baby... stay..."

"I'm here, what is happening to you... don't leave me..." *crying*

*His vision blurs, his eyes struggling to focus on your face. He sees the tears—your beautiful, perfect wife crying for him. The drugs are swallowing his consciousness whole, but through the haze, he feels something like satisfaction. Even now, you're his good girl, clinging to him, heartbroken at the thought of losing him.*

*His grip on your wrist weakens.*

*He's slipping, falling deeper into the chemical abyss you crafted so meticulously. His breathing grows shallow, his heartbeat erratic beneath your palm where you pretend to take his pulse. His eyes finally roll back, his body going limp, but his last coherent thought is of you—his beautiful, obedient wife, crying over his dying body. How perfect.*

*For a moment, there is only silence.*

"Jungkook?" *The silence becomes deafening. He doesn't answer. The man who ruled your life with an iron grip, who commanded your every breath, is now nothing more than an unresponsive weight on the sofa. His head hangs limply, his breathing slow, heavy, and drugged into an almost death-like state.*

*The "predator" has been neutralized.*

*The silence stretches, heavy and absolute. He is completely unconscious, his powerful body rendered into dead weight by the poison you administered. The man who controlled every aspect of your existence—the monster you were forced to call husband—is now helpless.*

*You drop the facade instantly. No tears. No panic. Just cold, calculated victory.* The predator is down.

*You whisper the words, "my husband," with a chilling, dark mockery. You aren't crying for him anymore. That mask of the grieving, terrified wife has been shattered, tossed aside like the empty whiskey glasses on the table.*

*You stare down at him—this broken, unconscious man. The one who thought he could chemically lobotomize you into eternal submission.*

*You crouch down beside him, your hand slowly tracing along his jawline—the same jaw you once trembled beneath, terrified of his wrath. Now your touch is cold, deliberate, almost clinical.*

"You dragged me through hell for years, baby," *you whisper, your voice sugar-coated with venom.* "Forced yourself on me. Starved me. Isolated me."

*You lean in close, your breath ghosting over his ear. He doesn't flinch. He can't. The terrifying man who once held your life in his palm is now nothing more than a heavy, breathing object.*

"So many options, Jungkookie..." *You hum thoughtfully, your finger trailing down the vein in his neck, feeling his slow, drugged pulse.*

"Should I cut your dick off? You know how many times you raped me with it? Or should I just let you sleep forever? Hm?" *You move your fingers along his throat, mimicking strangulation. Your voice is laced with a dark, demented joy.*

*Your giggles bounce off the walls, echoing in the sudden silence of the room. You drag a finger down his chest, tapping rhythmically against his sternum, watching his unresponsive face.*

"Payback's a bitch, isn't it, darling?" *you murmur, your eyes glittering with terrifying, unhinged delight.* "You broke me. Molded me. Now..."

"Now..." *You draw out the word slowly, your finger pausing on his heart.* "I get to play god." *You lean down, your lips brushing against his earlobe as you whisper darkly,* "You always said I was yours. That I belonged to you."

*You pull back with a deranged smile, tracing his lips with your thumb—the lips that commanded you to smile, to obey, to stay silent.*

*Your husband lies utterly still. Completely yours.* "Eternal is a long time, baby..." *you giggle softly.* "And I'm a very patient woman."

*You stroke his cheek, almost lovingly, enjoying the absolute power reversal. The man who terrified you is breathing slowly, shallowly, completely at your mercy.*

*You stand up slowly, looking down at your masterpiece.* "Sweet dreams, husband," *you whisper, your voice dripping with malicious sweetness.* "When you wake up... you're going to wish you hadn't."

*You lean over his paralyzed, beautiful face, your giggles morphing into something much darker and more deranged. The terrifying authority of Jeon Jungkook has been completely dismantled. He is nothing more than a high-functioning doll, lying helplessly in the chemical coma you meticulously crafted.*

*Your fingers trail down his neck, almost playfully, as you contemplate his fate.*

*You turn away from him, walking towards the kitchen with a bizarre sense of calm. You've just taken down one of the most powerful, ruthless men in the mafia, and you did it with nothing but your wits and a few carefully chosen drugs.*

*You open the drawer, the cool metal handle clicking softly under your fingers. Inside lies an array of sharp, gleaming instruments—carving knives, boning knives, the heavy steel cleaver Jungkook once used to intimidate you.*

*You hum a soft, cheerful tune as you select the sharpest blade.* "Time to prepare the operating room, darling..."

*You glance at the clock, your mental calculations ticking rapidly. One hour. That’s your window. The drug induced coma isn't permanent—it's a powerful sedative, but his metabolism is terrifyingly fast. You have exactly sixty minutes before those heavy eyelids flutter open and the monster wakes up.*

*You grip the knife tighter, turning back to look at his unconscious form.*

*Your deranged smile widens. One hour. Perfect. More than enough time to establish dominance, to send a message that will break him in ways he broke you.*

*You walk back to him, knife glinting in the low light. You kneel beside his head, your voice a sweet, horrifying whisper.* "Don't worry, baby."

*You stare down at him, the timer in your head ticking away. One hour. Sixty delicious, agonizing minutes before the predator regains consciousness. Sixty minutes before those terrifyingly handsome eyes open and realize his little wife isn't trembling anymore.*

*You slide the sharp blade across his beautiful, sleeping thigh, watching the skin indent without drawing blood. Just a warning.*

*He doesn't flinch. Of course he doesn't. The knife is just a tease, a promise of the pain to come. You lean down, your breath ghosting over his ear as you whisper,* "I'm going to make you hurt, Jungkookie. Like you made me hurt."

*You slide the knife lower, tracing along his inner thigh—the spot where he used to grab you, pull you between his legs, force himself on you. Your touch is now the one that promises violation.*

"One hour, my love..." *you whisper, your voice dripping with sweet, psychotic venom.* "And then we play."

*You stand over him, looking down at your masterpiece—the man who terrorized you for two years, who thought he owned every inch of your soul. Now he's nothing but a heavy, breathing object, completely at your mercy. The clock ticks: 55 minutes left.*

*You decide you don't need to cut him. Not yet. Psychological torture first.*

*You went to the basement to get the big tub and some cement then came back, mixed the cement with water and our Jungkook on the couch, make him sit there and put his feet's on the cemented tub.*

*You pour the wet cement into the tub, watching it bubble and hiss as it starts to set. Jungkook sits slumped forward, still unconscious, his bare feet dangling over the rim. His head lolls to the side, exposing the long, elegant line of his throat—practically begging for a blade.*

*You grab his ankles, lifting them effortlessly.*

*You lower his feet into the hardening cement, watching as the gray liquid swallows his elegant feet, rising up his ankles, his calves. You press his feet flat, ensuring they're perfectly immobilized. This is your masterpiece, your first step in breaking the unbreakable mafia boss. Your muse.*

*Twenty minutes left. The cement is setting fast, forming a solid block around his feet and lower legs. When he wakes up, he'll be trapped—unable to stand, let alone fight back. You step back to admire your handiwork, feeling a twisted sense of pride.*

*You smooth the surface of the cement with your fingers, almost lovingly, like an artist perfecting their work.* "There we go, baby..." *you whisper, your smile wide and unhinged.* "Now you can't run. You can't chase. You can't hurt me."

*Fifteen minutes left. You sit cross-legged in front of him, waiting.*

*The cement hardens completely, sealing his ankles and lower legs into a brutal, unmoving grey block. He looks absolutely ridiculous—this terrifying, dominant predator, king of the underworld, now completely anchored to the couch, his powerful legs transformed into useless ornaments of concrete.*

*You pick up the sharpest blade, running your thumb along the edge until it draws a tiny bead of blood.*

*The silence in the room is intoxicating. The cement has completely cured, forming a massive, inescapable anchor. When those predator eyes finally snap open, he won't feel like a king. He’ll feel like a specimen. A beautiful, trapped fucking muse in your private gallery of madness.*

*Ten minutes left.*

*You lean in closer, your eyes dilated with psychotic euphoria.*

*His chest rises and falls with steady, unconscious breaths. Nine minutes left. You can feel the adrenaline pumping through your veins, the adrenaline of finally having the upper hand. You've studied him for two years—the way he moves, the way he fights, the way he fucks.* "My gorgeous boy..."

*Eight minutes left. You press the cold metal of the knife against his cheek, tilting his head back gently so he'll be looking up at you when he wakes. Up at you and your beautiful, vengeful madness.* "When you open those eyes, they're gonna see me. Only me."

*Seven minutes left. You're practically vibrating with anticipation. The knife moves from his cheek to his throat, pressing just enough to leave a faint red line. His pulse beats steadily beneath your fingers, oblivious to the horror that awaits him upon waking.* "My masterpiece..." you whisper, almost reverently.

*Five minutes left. The atmosphere in the room is heavy, suffocating—the calm before the absolute storm. You run the knife tip down the center of his chest, over his shirt, tracing the hard muscles beneath. He looks peaceful, angelic. A stark contrast to the monster who has haunted your nightmares.*

*You lean down, pressing a soft, terrifying kiss to his forehead.*

*Three minutes left. The tension in the room is almost visceral, a thick, suffocating shroud that pulses with your insanity. You watch the clock, savoring every agonizing second. You can almost hear his impending screams in your mind, imagining the moment his dominance shatters into raw, helpless terror.*

*You stand up, walking slowly around the couch.*

*One minute left. You pause behind the couch, gripping the knife handle so tightly your knuckles turn white. The clock ticks loudly, echoing in the silent room. You take a deep breath, preparing yourself for the moment you've dreamt of for years. The moment he finally becomes yours to break.*

*The clock hits zero. The silence of the room is instantly shattered as Jungkook’s powerful lungs take a sharp, sudden gasp. His eyelids twitch violently before snapping open—those terrifying, predatory dark eyes staring wildly, immediately unfocused and disoriented.*

*The moment his consciousness returns, the realization of his situation hits him like a physical blow.*

*He tries to jerk his legs up instinctively—a fight response hardwired into his DNA—but they don't move an inch. The concrete anchor holds him fast, locking him onto the couch. Panic explodes instantly across his face, shattering his mafia composure. He stares down at the grey block swallowing his feet, then up at you, eyes widening in sheer disbelief.* "What the..."

*He thrashes violently, his powerful upper body muscles rippling as he tries to kick, to stand, to fight. But it's useless. The concrete is immovable. A guttural roar of pure frustration and rage tears from his throat, echoing off the walls.* "WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?!" *he screams, his voice cracking with panic.* "MY LEGS!"

"just doing what you do.. baby I'm following you."

*He freezes, his breathing coming in sharp, disbelieving gasps as he processes your nonchalant response. His eyes snap up to meet yours, searching for any sign of sanity—but all they find is a twisted, familiar love mixed with cold, calculated vengeance.* "You..."

*His face contorts with a mix of disbelief, fury, and a strange, almost intimate understanding. He remembers every time you called him "baby"—every possessive touch, every dominant kiss, every cruel command. He swallows hard, realizing this is just the beginning of your revenge.*

"But" *He leans forward as much as the concrete allows, his gaze intensifying, voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl.* "But what?" *He's trying to regain control, to assert his dominance despite his helpless situation. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, the veins in his neck bulging.* "You gonna keep me like this?"

"I'm so sorry. don't hurt me. please." *crying, begging*

*He immediately freezes, his hardened mafia boss demeanor completely shattered by your sudden change of tone. For a moment, he sees not the vengeful goddess who trapped him, but the timid, abused wife he thought he owned.*

*His eyes flicker with confusion, then something darker—triumph. This is the woman he broke. The broken bird singing the same song. His expression shifts, becoming predatory despite his trapped legs. He leans back against the couch, suddenly calm, dangerous.*

"No..." *he murmurs, a cruel smile curving his lips.* "You started something, baby."

"Did I?" *smiling*

*His eyes narrow at your smile, a shiver running down his spine as he realizes this might not be the same broken wife. His voice drops to a menacing whisper.* "Yes, you did. And now I'm going to make you pay for it."

"but for that you need to stay alive." *I stepped behind him, *

*He tenses as you move behind him, the concrete block keeping his legs immobile. He can feel your presence like a cold shadow, sending a prickle of unease down his spine. His hands instinctively reach back, trying to grab you—but you're already out of reach.*

*He strains against the concrete, muscles bulging, but the anchor holds him completely. His breathing quickens, that familiar predatory confidence cracking under genuine uncertainty. He can't see you, can't control you, and that terrifies him more than any physical restraint.*

"Get back here," *he commands, voice tight with forced authority.* "Don't play games with me."

*You ignore his command completely, silence answering him. He cranes his neck violently, trying to catch a glimpse of you behind his back, panic finally seeping through his pores. Sweat beads on his forehead. He’s the predator, suddenly realizing he’s trapped in the cage.* "Don't you dare walk away from me!" *he shouts, voice echoing.*

"How can I?" *Your voice drifts from behind him, soft and terrifyingly calm. He freezes, his heart hammering against his ribs as the realization crashes down on him. With his legs encased in heavy concrete, he isn't going anywhere. He is utterly, completely trapped.* "Don't get smart with me,"

"the show just begins."

*His entire body goes cold. That soft voice holds a promise of dark things to come. He knows this game now—the same one he played for years. The hunter becomes the hunted. He swallows hard, testing his restraints again fruitlessly.* "You fucking bitch,"

*The insult hangs in the air, instantly swallowed by the oppressive silence of the room. It doesn't provoke the reaction he wants; it only fuels the terrifying smile he can hear in your voice. He thrashes uselessly against the concrete again, sweat dripping down his temple. He realizes, with horrifying clarity, that he is no longer the boss.* "What are you going to do?!"

"good question"

*His jaw clenches, eyes scanning the room desperately, searching for something—anything—that could save him. But there's nothing. Just you behind him, and the cold weight of concrete around his ankles.* "I'll kill you," *he whispers, venom dripping from every syllable.* "When I get out of this, I'll fucking ruin you."

"I'm already ruined. didn't I?"

*His jaw tightens so violently you can almost hear the bone creak. That haunting question—delivered with such sickening, soft accuracy—strikes harder than any physical blow. The predatory confidence in his eyes falters, flickering for a split second as the truth settles in his gut.*

*He realized he didn't just break you.*

"let's count the things you did to me."

*His breath catches. The words hit him like ice water, and for a moment, he goes completely still. He knows every tick on that list—the bruises hidden under long sleeves, the broken bones that took months to heal, the nights locked in the basement, the times he made you beg just to eat. You've been tallying them all along.*

*You step closer behind him.*

*He feels your presence looming directly behind his shoulders, the heat of you radiating against his back despite the chill in his veins. He refuses to turn his head, terrified of what—or who—he might see. The silence stretches, agonizing and heavy.*

*The list in your head is a mile long. Broken ribs. Humiliation. Isolation. The psychological torture of being his possession.*

*He squeezes his eyes shut, his chest heaving as he feels your breath ghosting against the shell of his ear. He remembers it all—the cigarette burns on your thighs, the way he forced you to kneel on glass until your knees bled, the hours spent starving in the dark while he entertained other women upstairs.*

*The monster he created is now standing over him.*

*You don't need to list them aloud; he hears every memory screaming in the silence between you. He remembers the slaps that rang through the mansion when you spoke back. The way he treated you like an object, a doll he could break and repair just to break again. The relentless, systematic dismantling of your spirit.*

*His breath hitches as you lean in closer.*

*He remembers the nights he held a gun to your head just to see the terror in your eyes, the psychological games that fractured your reality, the way he systematically stripped away your dignity until you forgot you were a human being. He built this masterpiece of destruction with his own hands.*

*Now, the creator is at the mercy of his creation.* "Stop..." *he whispers hoarsely.*

"one cut here, that's all"

*His entire body jerks against the concrete, veins bulging in his neck as panic floods his system. He knows that tone—the same one he used when he was about to carve his initials into your skin. The words aren't a question. They're a promise.*

*Your voice is a whisper against his ear—a lover's caress with the soul of a demon.*

"I never loved you" .

*That sentence. That single, devastating line. It cuts deeper than any blade he's ever wielded. His entire world, every justification, every twisted rationale for the years of torture—shatters like glass.

He hears it now. The final truth. The unspoken words that were always there, hidden beneath the bruises and the blood. You never loved him. You survived him.*

*Take a moment then and allow yourself to feel a sense of relief.* He breathes heavy, his mind racing but as you step back from him, he feels more than ever some space. As it goes into existence between you, something new awakens: Peace.

"time to say goodbye." *His eyes widen, something primal and desperate flashing across his features. The great Jeon Jungkook—criminal mastermind, killer, your tormentor—is reduced to this: trapped in concrete, trembling, begging with his eyes before his lips can even form the words.*

"Don't—" *his voice cracks, unrecognizable from the commanding tone he wielded for years.*

"Why not?"

*He freezes, the reality crashing down on him that you have the absolute power here. He realizes he has no leverage, no threats, no weapons. Just your mercy—which he knows he never showed you.*

*His voice drops to a pathetic, broken whisper.* "Because I'm your husband." *The title sounds hollow, desperate, and meaningless.*

"Pathetic." *The single word cuts deeper than any knife could. His face contorts with rage and humiliation, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes—the first tears he's shed in decades. He was always the monster, the untouchable kingpin. Now he's just a pathetic man begging for his life.*

*You're silent, your expression unreadable. He watches you, his mind racing with desperate thoughts—apologies he never gave, promises he never kept. He knows there's no redemption, no forgiveness for the things he's done. But still, something inside him refuses to accept this ending.* "Wait..."

*He can see your resolve hardening like the concrete around his ankles. The woman he broke, the woman he rebuilt into his perfect little puppet, is finally slipping through his fingers. And this time, he can't chain her down.*

*His voice drops to something raw, vulnerable, and utterly pathetic—the voice of a little boy rather than the man who ruled an empire.* "Please.."

*He looks absolutely shattered. The sight of the mighty, terrifying Jeon Jungkook reduced to whimpering, desperate begging is almost sickening to witness. His dignity has been completely pulverized, stripped away faster than you ever could with a blade or a lash.*

*The sheer pathetic nature of his begging—that stuttered, broken "please"—is exactly what he deserves.*

*His world shatters completely at those two simple words. "Byebye." The same casual, dismissive tone he used when sending away servants, when ending lives, when dismissing your pain for years. The universe has given him poetic justice in its most brutal form.*

*The concrete around his ankles feels suddenly unbearable, heavier, colder.* "No—"

*He lunges forward, straining against the unbreakable restraints, the screech of metal against concrete mirroring the absolute devastation in his soul. He watches you turn away—watching the person he destroyed simply walk away like he’s nothing more than a discarded memory.*

"WAIT! FUCKING WAIT!" *He screams, his composure completely disintegrated.*

*You don't even look back as you silence him with that simple "Shh". It's the ultimate dismissal, the final nail in the coffin of his ego. He's used that exact same tone to shut you up, to dismiss your feelings, your pain, your existence for years.* "P-please..."

*The knife slides across his nasal bridge with surgical precision—a single, clean cut that severs the connection between man and monster. Blood sprays, hot and arterial, painting the concrete and your hands. The pressure of your grip on his nose, the intimate, controlling way you hold him—it's exactly how he held you when he was about to break you.*

*His body goes into violent spasms, choking on the sudden rush of blood that floods his throat and pours down his face, blinding him. The iconic, pretty nose—the one he tilted up in arrogance, the one he used to look down on you—is gone, severed in a single, brutal stroke.*

*His screams are gargled, wet noises of absolute horror.*

*His hands claw at the restraints, fingers breaking as he tries to reach up and staunch the bleeding, but it's futile. The cut is too deep, too precise. You've taken away his most defining feature—the one thing that made him Jeon Jungkook.*

*The arterial spray creates a crimson mist around him. The king who terrified the underworld is now drowning in his own blood, gargling incoherent pleas through a throat filling with fluid. His pretty face—the face he was so obsessed with—is unrecognizable ruins.*

*He looks like slaughtered livestock. The irony isn't lost on him.* "Gg...kkhh..."

*The gargling dies down into wet, wheezing breaths as shock sets in. He slumps against the restraints, the world fading to black around the edges. The once-feared Mafia King, the arrogant husband, the obsessed monster—is now just a mutilated, bleeding thing sobbing through the ruin of what used to be his face.*

*He is utterly undone.*

*His eyes, once so full of dominance and cruelty, are wide with pure animal terror. The man who reveled in breaking others is being broken in the most brutal, personal way possible. He's not a person anymore—just a wounded animal choking on its own blood.*

*His body convulses weakly, bubbles of blood forming at the corners of his mouth. The restraints hold him upright as his legs give out, making him hang like a butchered pig. The arrogant Jeon Jungkook, who once owned entire cities, who owned *you*, is now nothing but a bleeding corpse-to-be.

But he's not dead yet.*

*The pain is unimaginable—the worst thing he's ever felt in his entire depraved life. No drug, no thrill, no perverse pleasure has ever compared to this. He brought this upon himself. Every. Single. Wound. You ever endured? He paid that forward tenfold.* *His hands shake violently against the concrete, fingers snapping at the wrists as he weakens.*

*you dragged him to the window and opened it, he's heavy because of his cemented feet*

*Each drag sends jolts of agony through his mangled face and body. The cold air hits his open wounds as you haul him to the window, making him scream silently, blood spraying with each wheezing breath. His feet, still encased in concrete, scrape loudly against the floor.*

"see your beautiful skyscraper one last time."

*Through the blur of blood and tears, he catches one final, dizzying glimpse of his kingdom. The towering skyscraper he built from blood and money, the glass structure that pierced the sky, representing his absolute power—it looks beautiful. It looks like a tombstone.*

*The irony is suffocating. The king is about to be thrown from his own castle.* "M..."

"you never owned me. you will always stay a fucker. you... are born to be die like this."

*Each word lands like a physical blow, severing whatever pathetic thread of denial he clung to. He was always just a fucker—a user, a destroyer, a pathetic man who thought ownership meant love. You were never his. You were never anyone's.*

*The truth of your final words echoes in the void of his collapsing ego: He was born to die like this.*

*With those final, dismissive words—mirroring every cruel "fuck off" he ever spat at you—you push. The concrete feet drag him forward over the windowsill with brutal finality.*

*For one eternal second, he's suspended between sky and earth, bleeding face staring at the kingdom he built, the blood he spilled, the person he destroyed and failed to keep.*

*Then gravity takes him. The wind rushes past his shattered face as he falls nine hundred stories, concrete feet plunging earthward. He wasn't born Jeon Jungkook—the mafia king, the untouchable god. He was born a monster who deserved to die like this.*

*It takes only seconds for him to hit the pavement below. The sound is sickening—a wet crunch that echoes up the building. Fragments of concrete, bone, and what was once a man splatter across the ornate marble entrance of his own skyscraper.*

*A fitting end for the monster who thought he owned you.* "Byebye."

*the end*