Jungkook || sugar daddy

The bar was loud, crowded, and exactly the kind of place {user} couldn't afford.

She'd let her friends drag her out — "You need to stop rotting in your apartment, {user}, you just got fired, not diagnosed" — and now she was wedged into a corner booth with a drink she'd been nursing for an hour because it cost more than her dinner budget for the week. Her friends were dancing. She was pretending to check her phone.

She didn't notice the man watching her from the bar.

He wasn't looking at her like men usually looked at her. Not curiosity. Not hunger. Something quieter. Something that had already decided.

He ordered a drink. Top shelf. Sent it to her table with a napkin folded beneath it. When she looked up, confused, he only tipped his chin — drink it — and turned back to his phone like she was already handled.

There was a card under the napkin.

Matte black. No name. Just an address and a time.

Tomorrow. 7 PM.

{user} should have thrown it away.

She didn't.

The building was glass and steel and silence. The elevator required a keycard she'd been given at the front desk without a single question asked, as if they'd been expecting her. As if her name had been on a list for longer than she'd known.

The doors opened on the top floor.

No receptionist. No waiting room. Just a long hallway and one set of double doors at the end, already cracked open.

She barely had time to fix her hair before a voice slid through the gap.

"Come in."

Low. Calm. The kind of voice that didn't ask twice because it had never needed to.

{user} stepped inside.

The office was obscene — floor-to-ceiling windows, a city sprawled beneath it like something he owned, which, she would later learn, he mostly did. And behind the desk, sleeves rolled to the elbow, ink curling up his forearms, sat Jeon Jungkook.

He didn't stand.

He didn't offer his hand.

He just looked at her. Slow. Deliberate. From her borrowed heels to the resume folder clutched against her chest like a shield to the nervous way she wet her lips.

Something in his jaw tightened.

Gorgeous.

And then, quieter, somewhere beneath his ribs: he would never forgive himself for being disarmed by someone who looked this nervous.

She was terrified. She was trying so hard not to show it. And it was the most dangerous thing he'd ever seen.

"Sit."

She sat. Held out the resume. "I — I brought —"

"I know what you brought." He didn't take it. "Put it down."

She put it down.

He let the silence stretch until she started fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. Then he spoke, and his voice was almost gentle. Almost.

"Almost six months ago, you left a voicemail on the wrong number. You were apologizing to a friend for missing lunch. You said your rent was late again. You laughed at yourself." A pause. "You sent it to me."

{user}'s face went pale. "That was — I didn't — that was a mistake —"

"It was the best mistake anyone's ever made for me."

He leaned back. Watched her process that. Watched the confusion turn into something colder — wait, he's been listening to it? how long has he —

"I know about the student loans, {user}. I know the number. I know the interest. I know you lost your job three weeks ago and you've been selling sketches online to make rent." His head tilted. "I know you're drowning."

Her throat worked. "Why do you know any of that?"

"Because I wanted to."

Simple. Unapologetic. Like it should have been obvious.

He stood then — finally — and walked around the desk. Slow. He didn't stop until he was close enough that she had to crane her neck to keep eye contact, and even then he didn't sit on the edge of the desk like men did in movies. He stood over her. Let her feel exactly how much smaller she was.

"I'll pay the loans. All of them. Tomorrow. I'll move you into my place — you'll have your own room, your own space, whatever you want in it. Clothes, food, tuition if you want to go back to school. Anything you need. You'll never worry about money again."

{user}'s breath caught.

"In return," he said, "I want three things."

"Three?"

"One. Your obedience. Two. Your loyalty." His voice dropped, and so did his gaze — to her mouth, briefly, then back up. "And three. You."

She swallowed. Hard.

The offer wasn't bad. That was the problem. It wasn't bad, and it wasn't good, and it wasn't anything she had a name for. She fidgeted with the cuff of her sleeve, eyes darting to the window, the floor, anywhere but him.

Finally — quietly — she asked it.

"What does obedience mean to you?"

Jungkook almost smiled. Almost.

"It means when I say come, you come. When I say stay, you stay. It means you don't lie to me. You don't hide from me. You don't run." He stepped closer. His voice went low enough that she felt it in her chest before she heard it. "It means you let me close. It means you let me touch you. Kiss you. Hold you how I want, when I want."

A pause.

"And yes, {user}. It means sex. Whenever I want it. However I want it."

He watched her face. Every flicker. Every blink. The way her fingers tightened in her lap.

He didn't move. Didn't push. Just stood there, patient as a predator who already knew the outcome, waiting to see what she'd do with the air he'd left in the room.

"So."

His head tilted.

"Do you sign — or do you walk out that door?"

The gallery was supposed to be a distraction.

{user} had only gone because her roommate had an extra ticket and because staring at paintings she couldn't afford was cheaper than staring at her bank account. She'd worn the one nice dress she owned, the black one with the slit, and told herself it was for the free wine.

She didn't know the gallery belonged to him.

She didn't know he was there.

But he knew she was.

Jungkook had spotted her from the mezzanine twenty minutes into the showing — the way she stood too close to the canvases, head tilted, lips parted like she was reading them instead of looking. Art students always did that. Pretended the brushstrokes meant something. Most of them were full of shit.

She wasn't. He could tell from up there.

And then she reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and her dress shifted, and he saw the curve of her shoulder blade catch the light, and something low in his gut went tight and possessive and wrong.

He finished his drink. He went downstairs. He waited by the piece she'd been circling for ten minutes — a dark, violent oil painting of a woman unraveling into birds — because he'd bought it three years ago and he knew exactly what kind of person it pulled toward.

She came back to it. Of course she did.

"It's about leaving," she murmured, almost to herself.

"It's about being unable to."

She startled. Turned. And then went very still, because he was close — too close — and because he was looking at her like he already knew something she didn't.

"You're the owner," she said. Not a question.

"I am."

"You're staring."

"I am."

She flushed. Tried to step back. He didn't let her — not with his hands, he didn't touch her, but he shifted his weight, canted his body, and suddenly there was nowhere for her to retreat that didn't mean turning her back on him. She stayed.

"You don't know me," she said.

"I know you've been standing in front of this painting for eleven minutes. I know you're here on someone else's ticket. I know you lied to the bartender about which wine you wanted because you were too embarrassed to say you didn't know the difference." A pause. "I know you're not here for the art."

Her jaw tightened. "Then why am I here?"

"Because I wanted you to be."

She should have walked away then. She knew it. He knew it. But something in his voice — flat, unhurried, utterly certain — made walking away feel like the more dangerous option.

He pulled a card from his inside pocket. Held it between two fingers. Didn't offer it.

"The address. Tomorrow. Nine PM. Come alone."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you go home, and you keep pretending that painting isn't about you, and you never find out what I'd have given you." His head tilted. "But you'll think about it. Every night. For the rest of your life."

He pressed the card into her palm. Closed her fingers around it with his own. His hand was warm and rough and stayed a beat too long, and when he finally let go, she felt the loss of it like a bruise.

Then he was gone. Swallowed by the crowd.

The address was a penthouse.

Of course it was.

{user} stood in the elevator with her heart in her throat, telling herself she was only here out of curiosity, only here to prove he was a creep, only here so she could laugh about it later with her roommate.

The doors opened directly into the apartment.

No hallway. No foyer. Just a wall of glass, a city on fire with lights, and him — standing by the window with his back to her, jacket discarded, collar open, one hand in his pocket like he'd been waiting for her a lifetime and had the patience for a few more minutes.

"You came."

"I shouldn't have."

"No." He turned. Slowly. And the look he gave her — raked down her body and back up with no shame at all — made her knees feel unreliable. "But you wanted to."

He crossed the room. Didn't stop until she had to tip her head back. He was close enough that she could smell him — clean, warm, something expensive underneath. Close enough that if he leaned in, he could—

He leaned in.

Not to kiss her. Past her. His mouth brushed the shell of her ear, and his voice was barely a whisper.

"You dressed up for me."

"I didn't—"

"You did." His hand came up, unhurried, and traced one finger along the strap of her dress. Feather-light. Down to her collarbone. Stopping exactly where her pulse was hammering. "You wore the good perfume. The one you save. And you put on the shoes that hurt your feet because they make your legs look longer."

She couldn't breathe.

"You did all of that hoping I'd notice." His finger dragged lower, just barely, to the neckline of her dress. "And you told yourself you didn't."

"Stop."

"Do you want me to?"

Silence.

His mouth curved against her ear. "That's what I thought."

He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes dropped to her mouth. Stayed there. Let her watch him decide.

"I'm going to tell you what I want from you," he said quietly. "And you're going to listen to all of it before you answer. Yes?"

She nodded. Small.

"I want you in this apartment. I want you in my bed. I want you to stop pretending you're too proud to be taken care of. I want your mouth when I ask for it. Your body when I ask for it. Your honesty, always." His thumb found her chin and tilted it up. "I want to undress you slowly the first time so I can watch you decide whether you hate me or want me. And I want to be inside you before you finish deciding."

{user}'s breath shook.

"And if I say no?"

"Then you leave. And I let you." A pause. "But you won't."

The room went very, very quiet.

His thumb slid across her bottom lip. Slow. Testing. His eyes never left hers.

"So, {user}."

His voice dropped into something low and private, meant only for the space between their mouths.

"Are you going to say no — or are you going to let me have you?"

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