The hotel door barely clicked shut before Yoongi grabbed her wrist, yanking her back toward him. His dark eyes burned, jaw clenched tight.
"You think I don’t notice?" His voice was low, rough—dangerous. "The way you play with me. Push me. Like I don’t see through your little games."
She smirked, tilting her head just enough to be a challenge. "And what if I do?"
Help me afford therapy after what I write. Bias-wrecked and financially wrecked—help me recover.
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“Good little technician… taking every volt… gonna short-circuit this pretty cunt…” ! Warning ! Glitch in robot, forced orgasm, light bondage, overstimulation, crying, aftercare
"Get in." "I can't just go with a stranger…" "I'm not a stranger. You know my name." He raised an eyebrow. "And I know yours. That's more than enough." "That makes absolutely no logical sense…" --- "That's not normal," she said. "Nothing about me is normal." --- Some love stories begin with fireworks. Some begin with grand gestures and stolen glances across crowded rooms. Theirs began in a corner. In the dark. With two broken people who had no business finding each other. But they did. And that was the beginning of everything.
“You don’t? If I dip my finger into your panties right now, will you still be able to look me in the eye and deny it?”
You stormed into Jungkook’s dorm room without knocking, the crumpled notes in your hand like evidence in a crime scene.
The auct!on, where she’s first put on d!splay. Fear twisting in her gut, the crowd full of predators, and Taehyung watching like he already owns her soul.
You're unwanted chubby wife of the university heartthrob whom he was forced to marry
⚠Mature Content⚠ Contains bondage, temperature play, orgasm denial, c-ckwarming
His weight was a heavy, suffocating blanket on top of you.
When you went to made a deal with a mafia but he wanted you in exchange for one night
The rain hammered against the penthouse windows, blurring the city lights into streaks of gold and red.
The flash lit her up like a cr!me scene, white-hot and unforgiving.
You’re tied spread-eagle on the massive bed, wrists and ankles cuffed to the bedposts. He stands at the foot of the bed, fully clothed in his black dress shirt and slacks, sleeves rolled up as he looks down at you like you’re his personal plaything.
The library was nearly silent — the only sound, the occasional turn of a page or soft tap of footsteps echoing through the towering stacks. You shouldn't have followed him this deep into the archives, where the lights dimmed and no one ventured unless they were seriously researching... or seriously up to something.
“You can fight me,” he whispered. “And maybe you’ll win some days.” “But when you finally stop resisting?” he breathed, lips barely an inch from yours. “That’s when I’ll make you mine in ways you’ll never forget.”
The concert had just ended, sweat still glistening on his skin, hair sticking to his forehead. You barely had a second to congratulate him before he pulled you into the dressing room, slamming the door shut.
The mafia boss forces you to your knees in his office, gripping your hair as he orders you to make eye contact while taking him deep. He controls the pace completely, sometimes holding your head still as he thrusts into your throat, praising and degrading you between sharp commands like, “This mouth was made for me.” He doesn’t let you pull away, using you until he’s satisfied—finishing either down your throat or pulling out to make a mess on your face while murmuring possessive remarks about how you belong to him now.
"You’re impatient," he murmured, lips barely grazing her neck as she squirmed beneath him. His grip on her wrists was loose—taunting—like he wanted her to try and fight it.
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