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wicked-disposition · 28 days

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family man | myg

➙ SUMMARY | Min Yoongi is a family man, there’s no doubt about it. But which family is the question: his crime ring, looking up to their Don? Or you, his wife and kids?

➙ PAIRING | Don!Yoongi x reader

➙ GENRE | The Godfather!AU, 1970s!AU, mafia!AU, angst, smut

➙ RATE | 18+

➙ WC | 6.8k

➙ VOCAB INDEX | these are terms used in old-school New York / within The Godfather in association with the Italian mafia that aren’t as common presently, which I employ in the fic.

Caporegime: a high ranking member of a crime family, usually directly under an Underboss or Don

Cold Coffee: bad luck

Consigliere: an advisor to a crime boss

Don: The head of a crime family

Family: the regular kind, but can also mean a crime ring

Sleeping with the fishes: dead

➙ A/N | PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS BEFORE YOU READ THIS! this has darker themes than any of my previous fics babes , make sure you're comfortable before you dive in.

— WARNINGS UNDER THE CUT —

➙ WARNINGS | violence, m*rder, mentions of blood, mentions of a drive-by, explicit gory scenes, mentions of disembodiment, some gory imagery, guns, shooting, descriptions of fear, immorality, misogyny, gender roles, weapons, toxic relationship / marriage dynamics, manipulation, intimidation, fear, gaslighting, he makes her cry, scare tactics, smoking a cigarette, gun play, ring play, face grabbing, manhandling, rough sex, fingering, hickies, slight dumbification, degradation, humiliation, taunting, use of ‘bitch’ & ‘whore’, daddy kink, threat of penetration with a foreign object, primal references, breeding kink

“IT’S THE NEXT big thing, Don Min. You invest now, and you’ll be reaping millions, just by the end of the month. Trust in the casino business, it’s the most reliable investment—besides brothels of course—” the man paused to titter at his joke, expecting to lighten the Don’s mood. But Yoongi’s face remained stoic as ever, piercing eyes and a head tilt his signature, “your grandchildren’s grandchildren will be set, I’ll tell ya.”

There was a lull, silence meeting the man’s words. His excited proposition fell onto intimidating ears. Yoongi contemplated the man’s words with a hard-to-read expression. He was infamous for his poker face—the don’s steady demeanor, rarely fazed, was his signature.

“It seems prosperable.” Yoongi said finally. The man before him physically relaxed, his tense shoulders loosening their iron grip. “What did I do to earn such a thoughtful gesture, Noto?”

Noto laughed. “Is that a question? You’re my Don, of course. My first thought was to humbly ask for your support in this business endeavor.” He bowed his head, “I am grateful that you find value in my proposal.”

Yoongi nods, a humorless puff of air leaving his mouth with a polite smile. He picked up the small glass of wine in front of him. “You’re right—and as your Don, I highly appreciate your respect. You know it carries weight with me.” He took a modest sip, slowly. He put his glass down, leaning back in his chair. “So forgive me if I’m a little confused as to why you already have a deal with Don Choi.”

Noto was visibly frazzled at the confrontation. It was clear he didn’t think Don Min had any knowledge of his disloyalty—going behind his own Don’s back when he was approached by Choi’s people, after serving Don Min so loyally for so many years. Noto only wondered if the Don had any knowledge of the other deal between him and Choi…

The room tensed around Noto, pressure in the air building and pushing against his body. He loosened his necktie, finding oxygen hard to come by. His eyes darted between the caporegimes in the room, hesitantly landing back across the table. “Don Min, forgive me. But you know it’s just business, huh? Come on, you know me.” His intention is friendly, but his undertones panicked. “I’d never do anything to jeopardize your friendship. It was just, ah… bit of smart accounting, that’s all.”

Yoongi nodded in understanding. “I see.” His hands clasped on the table as he leaned his weight forward. He shrugged. “It’s just business.” Noto nodded, keeping a nervous eye out for the other men in the room. “Of course, Don.”

“Well, then,” Yoongi stretched his hand out—Noto flinched before he realized the absence of a threat—”count me in.” Yoongi’s expression was polite, with no hint of a smile or inviting gestures, but it was personal in a distinct Yoongi-like manner.

Noto let out a sigh of relief, reaching over vivaciously to shake the Don’s generously offered hand. “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret this, believe me.”

Yoongi let the man clasp his ringed finger with both of his hands, shaking his appreciation. He nodded benevolently, patting Noto’s head. “I’m sure I won’t.”

Noto bowed his head again to the Don, taking his cue to depart. He bid farewell to the other men in the room, nodding his head one by one—to Jung Hoseok’s handsomely stern pout, sat at Min Yoongi’s right hand; to Kim Namjoon’s stone cold expression, the Don’s consigliere; and finally to the youngest associate in the room, Jeon Jungkook. The Don’s newest recruit. Noto knew the boy well, having crossed paths with him at the house and the Don’s office, and never missed a chance to haze him.

He reached over to Jungkook easily—he was sat closest, to Noto’s right—with the full intention of ruffling his respectable hairstyle into one of disarray. But his hand didn’t touch a hair on Jungkook’s head before the shots left Yoongi’s gun, dropping Noto to the floor.

The body fell with a thud, chairs screeching against the tile floor as the weight pushed them away. Jungkook’s vest had caught a small splatter of blood, but the boy was quick to retrieve a small solution of laundry detergent from his inner pocket, dabbing at the fabric.

Yoongi passed the gun to Hoseok, retrieving a handkerchief in return. “Shame. He was useful.” He wiped his hands clean, back to prim and proper, as always. “Traitorous bastard,” Namjoon spat. The blood pooled out of Noto’s body as the men all made to stand up.

Yoongi didn’t spare a single glance down as he stepped over the body with his shiny leather shoes, shoes crisp to the ground as he carried on. “Find out who his contacts were. The proposition was good—he was onto something. And I’ll be damned if I let Choi get a hold of it first.”

“Sure,” Hoseok was careful not to get any blood on his new, imported suit as he stepped around the body. “But how eager do you think they’ll be to switch? Surely that greasy Choi’s got ‘em under his protection.”

Yoongi pushed his slicked hair back. “Make ‘em an offer they can’t refuse.”

“Papa!”

The front door closing shut was followed immediately by two loud screeches and two pairs of small footsteps running to greet him.

“I missed you, papa.” Your daughter’s hands reached up as high as they could go, fingers wiggling to be picked up. His son was crowding his legs, next to his daughter, trying to talk over her. Yoongi scooped her in one fell swoop, but his eyes looked past the kids—and he saw you.

You were in the kitchen with your apron on—tell-tale signs of the dinner he missed. You were busy with the dishes, but the sound of the door made you look up, spotting your husband for the first time that day.

He saw the way you dropped your gaze immediately. How you busied yourself, feigning distraction in an effort to fend his eyes off. He could see the pout you wore deepening at his presence, a scowl forming as a result. Aimed at him—your husband who missed dinner.

“Dad, look what I made,” your son was vying for his attention, eager to show him his paper mache airplane.

Yoongi tore his gaze away, turning his attention back to his children. “Show me how it works, bud…”

Your drawer door slammed shut. “You’re always sorry, Yoongi. I don’t need your sorries.” Your robe moved as you turned around. “I need you to be here.”

“I know.” His hands landed on your arms, rubbing comfortingly as he tried to catch your angry gaze at the floor, ducking his head. His sleeves were rolled up, his forearms on display, as he pulled you into his embrace, landing a kiss to the top of your head. Your arms stayed crossed, even as your cheek was pressed to his chest. “I’m sorry, baby. You know I don’t want to, but sometimes life’s some cold coffee. It’s for the prot—”

“For the protection of the family. I know.” Yoongi was slightly taken aback by how you finished his sentence; even more so when you continued. “‘For the good of the family, for the protection of the family. I do everything for the family.’ I’ve heard it all, Yoongi.” You pulled away from his embrace, uncrossing your arms only to press your palms into his chest, and away. You retreated to the other side of the room, your back turned to him as you sat on the bed.

It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when you and Yoongi hardly went a moment without seeing each other, buzzing with longing if you two were separated. Before the kids, and the big house. Before the long work hours and closed doors. Before the secrets, and his rise to the role of Don. Before his father’s death.

Yoongi was a different person back then, full of ambition and a hunger for honest-to-god, good living. He was on track to become a lawyer, or a senator. Something respectable. As the youngest of the family, this was never supposed to be his role—the head of the family would’ve always gone to his older brother when the previous Don’s time had passed. The plan was for Yoongi to lead an honest life.

But he was a family man at heart. Showed up for his family when his brother was gunned down; comforted his grieving mother when his father passed of a heart attack. He stepped up, and assumed his responsibility. But along the way, that hunger and passion turned cold, and pivoted towards a more ruthless and unforgivable way of life.

Though young when he’d been anointed don, he was smart; cunning. He gained respect and gathered power and influence faster than anyone had ever heard of. He was too good at his job, you always feared. And today, it was just dinner—but it’d build up, higher and higher until you were looking up at the man on a pedestal too high for you to touch. You could feel the Yoongi you once knew slipping away through your fingertips.

“I saw the paper today.” Your voice was heavy after the lull of silence that had settled over the room. “You did it, didn’t you?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific, sweetheart.” Yoongi sighed.

“The newsboy, dead on Broad street. They said he got caught in a crossfire, but I know a drive-by when I see one. I heard Hoseok mention Broad street the other day, and—” you took a deep breath to calm your rising chest. “It was you, wasn’t it.”

“Haven’t I told you not to ask about my work?” Yoongi’s voice had slipped into warning, a sigh on the tip of his tongue.

But you didn’t stop. “You gave the order, Yoongi. To kill that boy. I don’t care what your excuse was, he saw something, he heard something. You came home … that night , and put our son to sleep with his blood on your hands, I—” a sob chokes you, your hand flies up to cover your mouth. You don’t want the kids to hear.

“Stop it.” He crosses the room to you, pulling your hand away from your mouth. A sob breaks through, and he brushes a tear away with his thumb as he caresses your face. “I said stop,” he commanded. And you swallow the next sob—with nothing muffling you, the sounds could easily travel under the door and into your childrens’ rooms.

Yoongi sighs and shakes his head, as if your reaction was an inconvenience. “I told you not to ask about my work.” His fingers slip away from your face, out of his caress. He sits down next to you purposefully, tilting your tear-stained face towards him. “But just this once. Okay?”

You swallow, but the lump in your throat doesn’t go away. You’re scared for the whisper to leave your mouth, scared of his answer. But you have to know. “W-was it you?”

He doesn’t break your eye contact, but his expression is unreadable. You search for any inkling, any hint. But he awards you none—it was his forte. After a few long, excruciating seconds, he answers you in a soft, firm, steady voice. “No.”

You search his eyes for any other answer, any rogue feeling gone awry. But there isn’t any. You fall into his embrace in relief, unable to prevent your hiccuping cry.

“Sh,” he pats your head. His voice is soft as he wipes the tears silently falling from your eyes. “Hey now, you’re alright. We’re alright.” He’s hugging you as her sobs shake your body, allowing yourself to be coddled and calmed by him. He was always a rock—a steady sangfroid against an ever volatile world.

“Please stop working so much.” You sniffle, looking up at him. “What’s the point of family if we don’t ever see you.” Your voice is tiny, but he hears. “One dinner. That’s all I want.”

He looks down at you, his lips shifting into a soft smile. He kisses the top of your forehead. “How’s tomorrow?”

The office blinds are open, allowing for a shutter of light to drift in. Lamps are lit around the room, illuminating the presence of the caporegimes and consigliere seated purposefully.

“The Kangs are one of the oldest families in New York. We should be able to trust them.” Hoseok argued.

“The way Don Kim was able to trust them?” Namjoon shot back. They all knew what had happened to the Kim family—the old Don was shot in a drive-by by a car notably driven by the Kang family. No one was able to prove it, the oldest son, Seokjin, assuming power soon after. Seokjin had proven to be a strategist, focusing all of his efforts on moving out west and relocating his family to profit from a more authentic enterprise, cutting crime out almost entirely from the family. He’d gotten his revenge in the end, though. In the form of Kang’s youngest son’s head delivered to him on a shiny platter.

“They wouldn’t dare try anything at a meeting on our ground, not even a piece on ‘em.” Hoseok countered, but Yoongi held his hand up, silencing the room.

“Namjoon’s right. They can’t be trusted.” Namjoon smirked smugly. “But we can’t outright refuse a meeting. It’s a show of disrespect. We’ll send people to meet ‘em somewhere public, at a restaurant full of civilians and shit. It’s safer.”

Hoseok nodded, turning to signal another man, who left the room promptly to carry out the don’s instructions.

Yoongi turned his attention to the next matter, facing Hoseok. “Did you take care of that newsboy problem?”

“Of course, sir. He’s sleeping with the fishes.” Hoseok confirmed. “I’ve got the package we intercepted safely hidden.”

Yoongi nodded thoughtfully. “Good. And, hey. Be more careful next time, huh? Yn saw the papers, and heard you mention Broad street. I don’t need her or anyone else asking questions.”

“He was in a rush to get home that day, sir.” Namjoon had a hint of a smile on his face, much to Hoseok’s chagrin. “His wife was ovulating.” The room broke into soft chuckles, the men’s shoulders shaking silently with laughter. Yoongi rolled his eyes.

“Regardless,” Hoseok interrupted. “Those damn Amatas never knew what hit ‘em.”

“Serves them right, pushing our borders like that,” Namjoon riles up. He leans forward, “I mean, what did they think—”

“It’s bullshit,” Hoseok agreed.”

“They’ve been eyeing our business for a while now.” Park Jaisang, a senior caporegime to the don, chimed in. “It looks like they want to use their Transport connections to somehow overtake our business by controlling our intake of goods.

“I’ll tell you what. They can take their transport connections, and shove ‘em up where—” Namjoon was in the middle of making a fist with his hands and pounding it in an obscene manner when Jaisang interrupted.

“Anyways, we’ll have to push back. Protect our goods without interfering with their business. Otherwise we lose our connection.”

“Well what if we…” Hoseok started, and the room fell into discussion. Heavy “No fucking way”s and “Forget about it!”s followed almost every proposition.

Yoongi sat quietly, thinking. The men, running through and out of ideas, turned to their don, asking for his thoughts. Park Jaisang spoke, “There doesn’t seem to be a viable way to go about pushback without losing our transport connection.”

Yoongi was quiet for several moments, his head tilting to the side as he pondered. The room fell silent as his low voice arose. “Then we’ll have to take it over.”

More silence followed his words. They all look at the don in shock. Jaisang was the one to voice their concerns, “It’s a big operation, Don Min. Bigger than we’ve handled before.”

Yoongi leans forward in his chair, using his hands as sound actions as he talks, pointing to various sports on the desk as he lists, “With their business, we could control all of New York’s shipments. We wouldn’t have to rely on anyone else.” His voice is calm, deep. As though he wasn’t just outlining a plan to overthrow one of the biggest shipping companies on the East coast. Almost as though he was just discussing the weather.

“Yes, but we’re not equipped for it.” Namjoon reminded, raising an important point.

“So. We’re going to get equipped.” His voice was definitive, uninviting to debate. The room fell into another lull as understanding dawned on the men—Yoongi’s plans for the operation were bigger than any of them knew until now. The young Don was hungry, and he had the ambition to chase it.

“Well, we’d have to start with…” They launched into logistics immediately, taking the boss’ command and running with it, like proper caporegimes.

Through the discussion, Jeon Jungkook had quietly gained the don’s ear, to his left, “Excuse me, Don. You told me to notify you at 7:00 PM.”

Yoongi’s eyebrows furrowed. “Why? What’s at 7 PM?”

Jungkook cleared his throat. “Your family dinner, sir.”

Fuck. Yoongi glanced up at the grandfather clock in his office. Sure enough, The clock was soon to strike 7, giving him thirty minutes to get back to the house in time to sit down for family dinner. Though, the lively discussion taking place wasn’t about to end soon. They were launching a full-scale operation. It needed time, planning. It needed his full attention.

You’d have to understand.

“Thank you, Jeon. Carry on.”

The moment he steps into your bedroom, he knows how this is going to go.

You don’t look at him when he calls out a greeting, eyes pointedly focused on your book. He silently scoffs, shaking his head as he goes to hang his suit jacket up in the closet. A row of neatly folded clothes and freshly pressed shirts greet him—fruits of your labor today.

“You missed dinner.” Yoongi rolls his eyes. He can probably guess your dialogue word for word. You missed dinner, how could you, you promised, you work too much. He sighs, rolling his sleeves up. He’s in the mood, not after the day he’s had.

But you go on, as if on cue. “You promised.”

He knows you have a right to be upset, but hadn’t you two had this conversation, at least a hundred times, before? You knew his excuses, as he knew your nags. You knew he was at work, and that he would get caught up sometimes. He was a Don, for chrissake..

Women. Only concerned with their dinners and clothes. Throwing a temper tantrum when their husbands get caught up with real business. So busy spending his money you don’t care what it takes to earn it. So busy raising his kids you don’t know what it takes to keep them safe.

“Now you’re not even going to talk to me?” Your voice drifts through his tired, irritated mind, just begging to be disciplined. The lack of respect you have for him as a wife is jarring. If a husband were to come home, exhausted after a long day, his wife is supposed to first greet him, preferably with food. She’s supposed to let him relax, put the kids to bed, and shut the fuck up while he unwinds, to award him some peace and quiet.

She isn’t supposed to run her mouth. Like a filthy brat.

“Yoongi—”

“Stop it.” He turned around, his gaze sharp on your thin slip, barely covering you up. “I mean it.”

“We need to talk—”

He strides towards the bed, footsteps loud on the wooden floor as makes his way to the dresser next to you, roughly pulling his necktie off with a warning evident in his eyes. “Shut up.” His voice is dangerously low and steady; the calm before the storm.

You look back at him with your bottom lip threatening to jut out, like a child throwing a tantrum. Your brows are furrowed, your gaze indignant. Several moments pass as you stare at him, contemplating whether or not to open your mouth. You seem to be weighing the consequences. But your grievances win out in the end; you cross your arms over your chest, an attempt to look strong, but it only displays how weak the wall you’d put up was.

“You parade around like a family man,” you taunt with a precarious voice, “But you’re a fake, Min Yoongi. A poser and a fake.”

The thread keeping his composure together was thin to begin with, but with your perfectly targeted words, it snaps like a weak twig. He reaches over, easily grabbing your arm. Your eyes widen, darting to his hand, but quickly back to his face—anticipating his next move.

He leans close, “And you’re the perfect mother? You’re a princess,” he spits, “sitting here at home all day, wearing pretty little dresses and decorating our baby’s room with bows and frills. But you want me to be a family man. You want me to sit at home playing dress up with you?” He grabs your face. “You wanna have quiet family dinners while bullets fly through our window? Because I was at home playing house? Because my wife threw a temper tantrum?”

The whimper you let out is outside of your control, but it only makes Yoongi’s fingers tighten into your cheeks. “Who’s going to protect you when you’re out spending my money, huh? Who’s going to put a roof over your head, or food in your fridge?” He’s getting closer with each syllable—you can feel the spit flying everywhere, drops hitting your skin. He’s a breadth away from your lips when he says, “Who’s going to fuck those babies into you, the ones you wanted so badly?” His eyes are dark as he tilts his head, trailing his breath up your jawline. “Who’s going to pump you full of their cum, impregnate you like the bitch you are?” Blood is pounding in your ears, your breathing uneven as you try to hold perfectly still.

He pushes you away, the force making you fall back into the bed. Your heart is racing, beating loudly from the intimate moment he just broke. Straightening up, he looks at your pitiful figure, “The disrespect you show me, when I’m all that stands between you and a bullet in your head.” He tsks, looking down disappointedly. “You have no idea what it takes. But I’m about to teach you, sweetheart.”

He grabs your hand without looking at you, making your book fall from your lap as he pulls you off of the bed to follow him. Your breath is caught in your throat as you follow behind the man, weaving you through the house, and out the kitchen door into the backyard. You don’t realize your destination until he tugs you into the stand-alone garage, and locks the door behind you.

He leaves you standing there, taking lazy steps around, as he lights his cigarette. The silence is eerie as he puffs, tucking his hand into his pocket and turning around to face you. He looks you up and down, standing meekly at the entrance with only your slip gown. He was in almost his full suit, suspenders and all—he’d only gotten as far as taking off his jacket before…

He ends the staring contest with your body, leaning back against the garage wall nonchalantly. “Pick it up.” He nods over at the gun laying on the table in front of you. You take one look at the intimidating thing, and back up, where a target lay ahead of you—what the men used for practice—and your head whips back to him.

“Pick it up.” He repeats, calm as ever, inhaling more smoke. Though his tone wasn’t turbulent, it awarded you with no room to argue—he isn’t going to ask again.

Hesitantly, you reach a shaky hand out, feeling the cool metal under your touch as your hand wrapped around the gun. You’re sure you’re holding it wrong when you lift it up, surprised at the weight—it’s heavier than it looks. You turn it over in your hand, examining it up close. There was always a distance between you and guns, whether it was in someone else’s hand, or laying around in a room you never entered. This was the first time you had a good look at the deadly weapon. It wasn’t as scary up close.

You feel Yoongi’s presence behind you before you hear it, his hand wrapping over yours. You look back, startled. “Put your finger here–like that—” he instructs, guiding your hands over the unfamiliar object. It’s slightly difficult when your body’s quivering, unaware of why he’s teaching you how to hold a gun.

“Good.” He praises once you get a good hold. He reaches over you, his body pressing into your back, enveloping you entirely, to retrieve the bullets out of a drawer. And a second gun.

“This is how you load ‘em.” His fingers work quickly, the gun clicking in the fearful silence you’re standing in. Once the barrel closes shut, he shows it to you. Leaning into your ear, over your shoulder, he nods at the gun in your hand, “Don’t worry, yours is already loaded.”

You almost drop the gun in fright, your hand suddenly running cold. It suddenly feels as though the hand holding the gun didn’t belong to you, like its master was extracorporeal, simply attached to your body. But it wasn’t an alien presence—it was just Yoongi, holding the strings like a puppet master.

“Stand here,” he grips your shoulders, moving you roughly to stand further back, directly in front of the makeshift target. His fingers run down your dominant arm, sending a warm sensation through your body. Once he reaches your wrist, he guides it upwards, making you point the barrel of the gun at the target. “Put your finger on the trigger.”

Your heart starts beating rapidly in your chest, and you start to shake. He isn’t really going to make you go through with this? “Yoongi—”

He doesn’t have patience, cutting off your sentence with an exasperated sigh and moving your finger over the trigger himself. “Fucks sake.” Tears well up in your eyes as your breathing is irregulated.

“Now, you wanted me to come home, so you have to protect the family.” His voice is low, his mouth pressed to your ear. “Shoot.”

Your hand is shaking way too much, you have to support it with your other hand, grabbing it by the wrist. You shake your head, “Yoongi, I can’t—”

“You can demand shit from me but you can’t pull a trigger?” He scoffs, holding you tightly at the waist to make sure you can't move away. Your eyes are teary when you shake your head, and he tsks. “Maybe you need a little motivation.”

You hear the clicking of the gun behind you before you can register the feel of the cold metal pressed to your temple. On the other end of Yoongi’s hand is the barrel of his gun, pressing into you with a threatening force. His voice is steady as rock when he breathes, “Shoot.”

Fear pierces through your heart, and your breath stops. Your tears break through the dam, running down your face as you silently weep. You’re afraid to make a sound, unsure of what’ll set off the precarious trap. You choke back sobs as you silently plead to Yoongi, hoping he’ll somehow understand. No such luck.

“Either you shoot, or I shoot.” Yoongi delineates. You chance a look at him, your eyes darting to his face—he’s stone cold. Not a hint of warmth to reassure you. You’ve seen this Yoongi before—the ruthless don who made difficult decisions. But you never thought you’d be on the other end of his gun.

You wanted to believe your husband was a good man—that he’d never even consider blowing a hole through his wife, leaving his children motherless. You wanted to believe that he was a family man at heart, and that the softness you once saw in him was still alive. But deep down, you’d long accepted that the man you’d agreed to marry was gone. You didn’t know what this man was truly capable of.

Maybe it’d never be a bullet in your head, but this was a test regardless—an allegory. Adrenaline shoots through your heart as you promise to yourself repeatedly that you’d never disobey him again. And you couldn’t now, either.

You shut your eyes tightly as your hands tremble, but you tighten them further around the gun, lest you cause an accident with your unsteadiness. You send a small prayer up to the heavens before finding the trigger with your index finger. A sob breaks out of your chest, and the bullet leaves the gun in the time it took for a single tear drop to leave your ducts.

The loud unexpected sound startles you, and amplifies this moment, the kickback even worse. You drop the gun immediately, not at all concerned about where the bullet landed on the target. You turn around to find refuge, sobbing as you throw yourself into Yoongi’s chest. Your whole body shakes as you grasp his shirt tightly with your fists, looking for something to hold you up before you collapse to your knees.

“I can’t, Yoongi. I’m sorry,” you blubber, “I’m so sorry, please don’t make me do that again. I’m sorry—”

Yoongi’s hand strokes your head as he shushes you. “Hey, it’s okay. Sh, baby, you don’t have to do it again.” He holds you close, safe. You nod as your shaking body winds down to a quiver, clutching Yoongi like a lifeline. He tilts your head up and makes your tear-stained face look at him, and the cold, soulless eyes you’d seen before were replaced with a soft look. He wiped your tear away with his thumb, and you leaned your cheek into his hand, a calming feeling meeting your veins for the first time that night.

Until, “But you still disrespected me, didn’t you?”

You look at him with wide, teary eyes, wondering what fate would befall you next. You nod meekly.

“What kind of husband would I be if I let that behavior fly, hm?” You want to point that he didn’t let it fly, that the reasons for your tears right now had to do with him not letting you get away with it. But you keep your mouth shut.

His hand trails down your night slip, taunting the thin fabric. You let out a gasp when he reaches your core, a criminal smirk ghosting onto his lips. You feel his fingers pressing into you through the fabric, the indent of his rings making it clear. “You deserve to be punished, right?”

You nod again without much thought, bowing your head. He has a right to punish you, you’d spoken much too boldly. A mistake you now have to pay for.

“That’s what I fucking thought.”

You suddenly find yourself clutching to his bicep for dear life as he pushes you backwards, towards the table in the center of the garage. Hoisting you up, he’s quick to tug your nightgown up roughly, surely ripping some of the seams. His tongue peeks out at the sight of your panties, running over his lips salaciously. “Whatcha put all the bows and frills on for? For me?” His hand runs up your thigh, and he leans closer over you. “Wanted to surprise your husband?”

You gulp with a weak nod, now feeling pathetic about your earlier excitement. “So you do have a semblance of what it means to be a wife.” His fingers explore your garment, finding a protruding wetness seeping through. You burn in shame as his fingers press into you through the fabric, shutting your eyes at the squishing sound beneath his hand.

“Your body knows it belongs to me, huh?” He drawls, pushing his tongue into his cheek.You can’t handle the eye contact, looking away in humiliation. He takes your exposed neck as an opportunity, hungrily leaning in to take a bite.

You whimper as his teeth sink into your skin, his breaths loud in your ear as sloppily tongues your neck. You start to squirm with the sensations running through your veins, but he holds you still. He’s engulfing you with his body, hands pinned to either side of you, leaving you trapped underneath him. Like a hunter, who’s ensnared his prey and begins to feast.

A tearing sound breaks through the room, the scraps of your panties throw over Yoongi’s shoulder as the culprit. He doesn’t pay any attention to your surprised face, just takes advantage of the new exposure and immediately cups your heat. His fingers run over your folds, like he was feeling them out—like you were his property, and he was doing a routine check. But there was nothing routine about the way he started rubbing fervently, his rings dragging across your folds.

Your legs started to shake in anticipation as he explored, teasing your clit and your opening. When he finally sunk his fingers in, it was embarrassingly easy—something Yoongi didn’t fail to notice. “Look at how you suck me in,” he taunts with a pretty smile, the devil behind it. “I own you.”

You cry out as the ridges of his rings nudge against your entrance. It doesn’t deter Yoongi, fully pushing them in and filling you to the brim. The metal feels cool against your hot walls, and you can’t stop kicking your legs.

“Quit it.” Yoongi huffs, snatching your legs up in one fell swoop and pushing you down on your back. He holds your legs to his chest with one hand as the other pumps your cunt, your slick making it an easy glide. “Fucking brat.”

Your legs are quivering in his grasp, but he doesn’t let up. His iron grip is strong as his fingers move quickly in and out of your cunt. Your squishy walls are unaccustomed as the protruding rings penetrate you in invasive ways. You know one of them has his family emblem engraved into the metal—it’s like he’s branding you on the inside, too. A stamp to make sure you belonged to Don Min.

His thrusts are ruthless, two fingers opening you up. You constrict around him, can’t help the way the metal makes you feel. You feel your end approaching quickly, not sure how much more of this stimulation you can take. “Yoongi, please, I-I’m—”

He must’ve guessed the end of your sentence because he immediately pulls his fingers out, ignoring your cries as he wipes the essence on your slip with a sneer, soiling your clothes. He doesn’t have a care in the world about how hard you’re going to have to scrub tomorrow to wash it out. It’s not his problem.

“This bratty shit, it never ends.” He scoffs, pushing your legs away from him aggressively. “Entitled as fuck.” You open your mouth, desperate to wail ‘no, i can be good! I promise!’, but he interrupts you first.

“First it was the disrespect, and now this.” He shakes his head, his hands falling to something behind you. “You need to start taking me more seriously.”

You don’t know how to tell him you do respect him, you already take the dangerous man seriously. You want to vouch for yourself, beg for him to see how good of a wife you were. Good and quiet, you can do that. But once you see what he’s retrieved in his hand, you’re shut silent.

“See, baby, my job is very dangerous.” He moves the loaded gun, nudging your knees open with it. You see it all in slow motion as he moves towards your center. “More than I think you understand.” You choke back a gasp as you feel the barrel brush against your folds, afraid to take a breath.

“Because I’d do anything to protect you. Because I love you,” he’s leaning in, his voice hushed with a hard edge as he brushes his lips against your ear. “But you can’t even appreciate that.” Your breath is shaky as he moves your head to look at him. “Can you?” You can’t focus on his words, too busy fearing for your life as the cold metal is pressed against you. You feel your entrance clenching tightly, preparing for the penetration. But it never comes.

You nod, answering his question. “I respect you, Yoongi. I’m sorry.” You hold on to those words like a lifeline, hoping they’re the right ones. Several moments pass as Yoongi lets you marinate in the tense moment, unsure of where your fate lies. But he gives you a small nod of affirmation, disengaging the gun and throwing it to the side. You let out a big sigh of relief, dizzy with anticipation.

Yoongi rolls his sleeves up, evidently not done with teaching you a lesson. “Who am I, baby?” His use of a pet name is laced with irony as he roughly tugged you closer by your legs. The jingle of his belt and zipper filled the room as Yoongi dropped his pants, wrapping your legs around his waist, his endgame evident.

“My don,” you whisper, eyes avoiding his, and instead glued to the intimidating girth he’d just pulled out. His ringed hand wraps around it, pumping himself a few times, clearly satisfied with your answer. He is your don first.

He nudges your entrance, “And what else am I?”

You don’t have the chance to respond as he pushes in, crying out with the stretch of his cock. The rings are one thing—a new sensation. But nothing can top the feeling of Yoogi’s dick breaking you in two.

His hand wraps around your face, pushing your mouth open with two fingers as he repeats himself. “What am I, sweetheart?”

“Daddy!” You cry, shaking as he impales you. He leans in close as he bottoms out, licking a stripe up your chin to find your mouth. He spits a glob of saliva into your open and awaiting hole, relishing in the way you swallow it down immediately, sticking your tongue out to show him it was all gone.

“That’s right, I’m daddy.” He growls, picking up the pace. He holds you steady as he wreaks havoc on your battered cunt, making you take it. “I’m your family man. I’m daddy. Don’t forget it.”

You give a weak nod, the best you can do in your state. Your hole is trying to adjust to the feeling of his cock after the cold sensations it was previously exposed to. But the way he ruthlessly moves his hips, slapping into you with each thrust, makes it more difficult. The power imbalance was clear, seeping in from your life.

“Gonna fuck a baby into you,” he pants, driving his hips into yours, penetrating deeply. “It’s all you’re good for.” The way you tightly clench around him is outside of your control, and so is the moan you let out. There’s nothing more you want in life than to carry his children.

“P-Please, daddy.” You beg, grasping at his shirt, hoping your need comes across. He reads your desperation like a book, feels how you pull him closer with your legs wrapped around his waist.

“Yeah? Wanna carry my kids?” He quickens his pace and you know he’s close. What you don’t know is that he’s been edging himself the entire time, waiting for the moment he’d be able to empty his balls into your cunt. “Want me to fuck you stupid and get you pregnant again?”

“Please, please,” you chant, dying to feel his seed fill you up. “I want your babies, Don Min. Please.”

“Fuck, you’re a perfect little whore.” He kisses you roughly as he nears his end, rutting into you inhumanly as he builds himself up to his climax. It’s all tongue and teeth, your body jostling, as he claims your mouth as his. He stakes his claim in your pussy next, filling your womb to the brim with his cum as he reaches his peak. He lets out an animalistic grunt as he empties himself, lazily rutting and working himself through it.

His head is thrown back and he looks like a god, damp hair sticking to his forehead, eyes shut, mouth open. The light behind him gives him a halo, topping the picturesque moment that you’d store away in your brain forever.

He pulls himself out after riding his peak, pushing his hair back and pulling his pants up promptly, re-buckling his belt. He turns around, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lighting it, letting out a puff to the side, giving you a view of his side profile. He tucks the cigarettes back in his pocket, and without a second glance back, strides towards the door, walks out, and lets it close behind him.

Left sitting on the table, his cum leaking out of you, you see the ruthless Don clearly now.

You now know that the newsboy had died by his hand.

— let me know what you think!

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