Kim Taehyung makes a hobby of observing the rich.
The rich being primarily Jeon Jungkook and his marvelous girlfriend, Julia.
The rich sometimes get bored and ironically, the poor pay for it.
The poor being Kim Taehyung.
Alternatively, Jungkook and...
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"I love you to the moon and never back"
Jungkook might and might not be an asshole.
~•~•~•~•~
Ji-woo had felt something was wrong from the very first crash she heard. She had flinched, grimaced, eyes falling shut and a breath of loaded exasperation had expelled through her lips, but that had been it. She kept cleaning, just as rigorously scrubbing at the shelf, if not with even more intent now, suddenly overcome with the desire to leave as quickly as possible. She had a room to complete, though, and it was a comparatively huge one.
Everything is huge in the Jeon’s home, if she has to be honest. It’s bountiful and luxurious, unnecessarily enormous and shiny, some ornaments elaborate and sophisticated, while others modernly stylish, contemporary, yet still showy, all having their own particular beauty as separate objects or pieces of furniture, but altogether poised and tasteless. It all just gives the notion, to Ji-woo, personally, that the eldest Jeon has an exceptionally small dick.
She had tensed when he had entered, as she could hear, even with her back to him, his steps were clumsy and uncoordinated; she just needs her ears to recognize a drunk – experience teaches. So, she knows, as soon as he enters, she grows increasingly aware. She always is in homes that belong in Richhood, especially in ones whose owners she suspects of having tiny penises and scarred egos. Entitlement reeks off of men like Jeon. Over possessions, over behaviors that go unpunished, over people he can afford, and he can afford her.
And today, a shiver had run down her spine the moment she noticed his presence.
She did not entirely remember what had transpired.
He’d stood near behind her, she’d startled. A crash had sounded as she’d spun, instinctively, her fingers opening for the barest second needed for the ornament in her hand to slip right through. She’d faced the towering man, his eyes bloodshot and gone. The slap to her cheek had followed, ringing eerie in the way it so easily bounced off of the walls, familiar to the room.
As he grips her elbow tight by the bone and gets in her face, pupils dilating and large, nostrils widened and mouth snarling in an ugly rage, she’s terrified, white, hot fear rushing through her blood, her heart thumping in her chest in a steady, but escalated rhythm. She keeps her head averted, to where it points automatically with the force of the slap, and doesn’t move. Her breathing pattern is the only evidence something was wrong. She knows to keep her calm.
