Wondering who runs this wild ficstravaganza? Why it’s me of course...
ladyartemesia
I don’t always have time to read a fic when I see it on my dash, so I send it here as a present to my future self...
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT OR FOLLOW. 🔞
FAIR WARNING:
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I have probably not read these stories yet if I’ve reblogged them here so if there is something not ok with them, I am not aware. Half the time I don’t even read the summary all the way through 🤦🏻♀️ BUT I do come back and check this blog constantly.
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ʚɞ summary - best friends aren’t usually supposed to take your virginity. but you’re desperate, heeseung is experienced, and once he starts touching you, there’s no way you can ever go back.
ʚɞ tags - 18+ MDNI, best friend heeseung, f!reader, fingering, penetration (p in v), belly bulge, inexperienced reader, experienced heeseung
ʚɞ w.c - 3.2k
The late afternoon sun slanted through the small dorm window, painting Heeseung’s single room in stripes of gold and dust. You were flat on your back on his unmade bed, your head pillowed on his stomach. Heeseung’s own back was against the headboard, one of his hands absently playing with the ends of your hair where it fanned out over his grey sweatpants.
“I’m serious, Hee,” you groaned, staring at the water stain on the ceiling. “It’s like a conspiracy theory. Hayoon got her guy from the chem lab. Sohee’s been dating that barista for, like, three months. Even Jiwon, who swore off men after the Great Tinder Disaster, is ‘exploring a situationship’ or whatever. And look where I am.”
Heeseung’s stomach moved with his low chuckle. “You’re here complaining to me. It’s a prestigious position.” His fingers tugged gently on a strand of your hair.
“It’s not funny!” You tilted your head back to glare up at him, but you could only see the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his lips quirked up into a smile. “I’m going to die a virgin. Fossilized. They’ll dig me up in two hundred years, perfectly preserved, with my vibrator still in the box.”
The hand in your hair stilled. The comfortable rise and fall of his abdomen beneath your head paused for a beat too long. The dorm was suddenly quieter, the distant sounds of students in the hallway fading into a fuzzy background hum.
“That,” Heeseung said, his voice dropping lower into a register you rarely heard, “is a tragic fate.”
“Right?” you said, the word coming out a little breathless, your joke suddenly feeling too loud.
Another pause, thicker this time. Then, he spoke, the words deliberate, measured. “You know,” he started. “I could show you. What it feels like.”
You blinked, the sentence not computing at first. It was so utterly, bizarrely out of left field that your brain short-circuited. You pushed yourself up on your elbows, twisting to look at him fully. He was already looking down at you, his dark eyes unreadable, a strange intensity in them that made your stomach flip.
“What?” you laughed, a nervous, disbelieving sound. “Hee, you’re my best friend. We’ve known each other since we were in diapers. That’s… that’s so weird. Don’t be gross.” You reached out and swatted his shoulder, the gesture automatic, a reflex to dispel the sudden tension.
But he was faster. His hand shot out and caught your wrist before your palm could connect, his fingers wrapping around it with a firm, warm grip. He didn’t let go. Instead, he turned your hand, his gaze holding yours captive as he brought your inner wrist to his lips. You felt the soft, dry press of his mouth against your pulse point, a kiss so gentle it was devastating. A shiver, sharp and electric, raced up your arm and curled deep in your stomach.
“I’ll make it good for you,” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot. “I promise.”
Your mind was a white-noise scream of whatwhatwhat. This was Heeseung. Heeseung. The boy who’d eaten a worm on a dare in second grade. The one who’d held your hair back when you puked after your first college party. The man who’d seen you in every state of undress, who’d borrowed your clothes, who knew your deepest, dumbest secrets. The sheer, monumental weirdness of it should have had you scrambling off the bed, laughing it off, calling him a pervert.
But you didn’t.
Because beneath the shock, a traitorous, pent-up heat was uncoiling inside you, spreading like spilled ink. You’d been so frustrated lately, so achingly aware of your own untouched body, fantasizing about faceless strangers in the dark. And now here was Heeseung—beautiful, familiar, safe Heeseung—offering a solution with a look in his eyes that promised he knew exactly what he was doing.
Your heart hammered against your ribs. Your wrist was still in his grasp, your skin tingling where his lips had been. You were confused, yes. Terrified, a little. But more than anything, you were aroused, a dull, heavy throb settling between your legs that you couldn’t ignore.
You swallowed, your throat dry. “You’re—you’re serious?”
“Deadly.” His thumb stroked the inside of your wrist.
“But… we’re…” You couldn’t even form the argument. The logic had dissolved.
“Best friends,” he finished for you, his voice a low rumble. “Which means I know you. And you trust me, right?” He let go of your wrist, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. His touch was impossibly tender, a contrast to the fire in his eyes. “Let me take care of you. Just this once. Let me show you.”
The last of your resistance crumbled. It was madness. It was maybe the worst idea in the history of your life. But the needy ache between your legs was voting yes, a loud, insistent yes.
You took a shaky breath. “Okay.” The word was barely a whisper. Then, forcing a bravado you didn’t feel, you added, “Fine. Okay. Let’s see what you got, hotshot.”
A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face. “That’s my girl.”
Before you could process the possessiveness of that phrase, he was moving. In one smooth motion, he shifted off the headboard, and he was hovering over you, caging you in with his arms. His face was inches from yours. You could see the faint scar through his eyebrow from a childhood bike accident, the flecks of amber in his brown eyes.
“We’re gonna take this slow, ‘kay?” he said, his voice a hypnotic murmur. “Tell me to stop anytime you want. Anytime, alright?”
You just nodded, your lips parted, unable to speak.
Then he leaned down and kissed you.
His mouth slanted over yours with such hunger that it stole the air from your lungs. His tongue traced the seam of your lips and you opened for him on a gasp, letting him in. One of his hands slid into your hair, angling your head for better access, while the other splayed over your ribcage, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your thin t-shirt.
You moaned into his mouth, a sound of pure, shocked pleasure. Your hands came up, clutching at the fabric of his shirt, then sliding around to his back, feeling the hard planes of muscle flex under your palms. You’d hugged him a thousand times, but this…
He kissed you until you were dizzy, until your body was arching off the mattress seeking more of his heat. Only then did he pull back, his lips trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, to your throat. He sucked gently at the pulse point there, and you cried out, your hips jerking involuntarily.
“So responsive,” he breathed against your damp skin, his voice thick with approval. “Knew you would be.”
His hand, which had been on your ribs, drifted down, over the soft cotton of your shirt, past the waistband of your shorts, to rest on your lower stomach. The heat of his palm burned through the fabric. “Just your shirt, okay?” he asked, though it was barely a question.
You nodded frantically. “Okay.”
He sat back on his heels, pulling you with him so you were sitting up. With a deliberate slowness that made your skin flush, he gripped the hem of your oversized t-shirt—one of his old ones, you realized with a jolt—and pulled it up and over your head. The cool dorm air hit your bare skin, and your arms instinctively crossed over your chest.
Heeseung’s eyes darkened, his gaze a physical weight as it traveled over you. “I’ve seen you in a bikini,” he teased, but his voice was rough. “Don’t get shy on me now.”
“This is different,” you managed to choke out, your face on fire.
“So different,” he agreed, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. He reached out, his fingers gently prying your arms away, lowering them to your sides. “Let me look at you. Fuck, you’re so beautiful.”
The raw admiration in his tone undid you. You let your arms fall, sitting exposed before him. His gaze was rapt, taking in the slope of your shoulders, the curve of your breasts, the tight peaks of your nipples already hardened into tight buds from the cool air and his attention. He leaned forward, his breath ghosting over one peak, and you shivered.
“Heeseung…”
“Shh.” He didn’t use his mouth, not yet. Instead, he brought his fingers up, tracing the outer curve of your breast with a feather-light touch that made you gasp. He circled closer and closer to the nipple, his eyes watching your face, cataloging every hitch in your breath, every flutter of your eyelids. When his thumb finally, finally brushed over the taut peak, you whined, your back bowing.
“Sensitive here,” he noted, a smirk playing on his lips. He did it again, firmer this time, rolling the pebbled flesh between his thumb and forefinger. A bolt of pure pleasure shot straight to your core, and you felt a fresh gush of wetness between your legs. “And here, I bet.” His other hand came up to mirror the action on your other breast, pinching and rolling until you were panting, your head falling back.
“Please…”
“Please what?” He was leaning close again, his lips hovering just above your nipple. His breath was hot.
“I don’t know,” you whimpered. “Just—just touch me, please—”
He closed the distance, his mouth capturing your nipple, sucking it deep into the wet heat of his mouth.
You cried out, your hands flying to his head, fingers tangling in his soft hair. He sucked hard, his tongue lashing the sensitive tip, and the pleasure was so acute, so focused, it was almost painful. He switched to the other breast, giving it the same attention, biting down gently on the peak before soothing it with his tongue. You were writhing beneath him, a high moan torn from your throat.
When he pulled back, your nipples were glistening and red, throbbing in the cool air. He looked down at his work, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Lie back,” he instructed, his voice gravelly.
You obeyed without thought, sinking back into his pillows. He knelt between your legs, his hands going to the waistband of your shorts. He hooked his fingers into the fabric and your panties beneath, and in one smooth motion, peeled them both down your legs and off, tossing them aside. You were completely naked now, spread out before him, and the vulnerability should have been crippling. But the look on his face—a mix of awe and sheer, unadulterated lust—made you feel powerful instead.
“Open for me,” he said, his voice barely recognizable.
You let your knees fall apart, exposing yourself to him fully. The air touched your wet folds, a cool contrast to the burning heat there. Heeseung’s gaze dropped, and he let out a shaky breath. “Jesus. Look at you. Soaked already.”
He didn’t touch you there yet. Instead, he leaned down, placing a soft kiss on your inner thigh, just above your knee. Then another, higher. And another, each kiss a brand, moving agonizingly slowly up the sensitive skin of your thigh towards your center. You were trembling, your hips making tiny circles, seeking friction, seeking anything.
“Heeseung, please, touch me,” you begged, the words a ragged plea.
“I am.” His breath fanned over your wetness, and you jerked. “Patience, baby.”
His thumb, broad and warm, swept through your folds, gathering the slick moisture, and pressed firmly against your clit.
Your vision blacked out for a second. A sharp, keening sound ripped from your throat. He didn’t move, just held that steady, perfect pressure, letting you ride the first overwhelming wave of sensation.
“Oh, god,” you sobbed.
“Just me,” he corrected, a smile in his voice. Then he began to move. His thumb started to circle your clit, slow, deliberate circles that had your thighs trembling. His other hand came up to spread you open wider, his fingers slipping through your slick folds, probing, learning your shape.
“You’re so tight,” he breathed, his own arousal evident in the strained quality of his voice. “So fucking perfect.” One finger, slick with your arousal, teased at your entrance. He rubbed the pad of it around the rim, coating himself in you, before pushing in, just to the first knuckle.
The intrusion was strange, a stretching, filling sensation that was foreign but not unwelcome. You gasped, your inner muscles clenching around him.
“Easy,” he soothed, his thumb never stopping its maddening circles on your clit. “Just relax.” He pushed his finger in deeper, sinking it to the hilt inside you.
A full, aching feeling bloomed in your lower belly. It was overwhelming, but as he began to move, a slow in-and-out glide, the friction ignited a deeper pleasure, one that built in tandem with the focused torture of his thumb on your clit. He added a second finger, the stretch more pronounced, a delicious burn that made you cry out.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his eyes locked on where his fingers were disappearing into your body. “Fuck, you feel incredible. So hot. So wet for me.”
His words were filthy, degrading in the best way, and they sent another rush of heat through you. You were babbling, nonsense pleas and his name, over and over. The tension in your gut was winding tighter, tighter, a spring about to snap. The pleasure was a crescendo, building to a peak you could almost see, almost touch. Your back arched off the bed, your heels digging into the mattress.
“I’m… Hee, I’m gonna—”
“Not yet.” His fingers stilled inside you. His thumb lifted from your clit.
The sudden absence of sensation was a physical agony. You whimpered, a sound of pure protest, your hips chasing his retreating hand. “No, please, Heeseung, I was so close!”
He leaned over you, his face flushed, his lips swollen from kissing you. “I know, baby, I’m sorry,” he murmured. He reached for the nightstand drawer, fumbling for a moment before pulling out a small foil square. “But I’m gonna make you feel even better. Trust me.”
You watched, entranced, as he tore the packet open with his teeth and rolled the latex down his length. You’d never seen him fully hard before, but he was impressive. Thick and long, the head flushed a dark red, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip. Another wave of nervousness and anticipation washed over you.
He positioned himself between your legs again, his hands on your hips, lifting you slightly. The blunt, hot head of his cock nudged against your soaked entrance. He paused, his eyes finding yours. They were almost black with desire, but still, he stopped one last time.
“You sure?” he asked, the words strained.
You nodded, beyond words. You reached for him, pulling him down for a desperate, sloppy kiss. “Yes. Please. Now, Hee.”
He groaned into your mouth. “Okay. Okay, baby.”
He pushed forward.
The stretch was immense, overwhelming. It burned, a sharp, tearing sensation that made you gasp and freeze. He stilled immediately, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.
“Breathe,” he whispered, kissing your temple, your cheek. “Just breathe through it. It’ll pass.”
You took a shuddering breath, and as you exhaled, your body seemed to open for him, accepting him. The burning faded, replaced by a staggering feeling of fullness, of being filled up in a way you’d never imagined. He slid in deeper, inch by inch, until his hips were flush against yours, and he was buried inside you to the hilt.
He let out a shuddering groan, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Holy shit.”
You were full. So impossibly, wonderfully full. You could feel him inside you, hard and thick. You shifted experimentally, and the drag of him along your inner walls made you moan.
He lifted his head, his eyes wide. “Look,” he breathed, his voice full of awe.
Confused, you looked down, past where your bodies were joined, to your own stomach. There, just below your navel, was a subtle but unmistakable swell. A small, rounded bulge where his cock was stretching you from the inside out, pressing against your abdominal wall.
“Holy shit,” you echoed back, the sight sending a jolt of pure, carnal thrill through you. It was filthy. It was animal. It was the most erotic thing you’d ever seen.
Heeseung’s eyes snapped back to yours, and then he began to move again.
He pulled back almost all the way, the sensation of him leaving a strange, empty ache, before sliding back in with a slow, controlled thrust. The friction was exquisite, a deep, grinding pleasure that started in your core and radiated outwards. He set a deliberate, deep rhythm, each stroke hitting a spot inside you that made you see stars.
“Feel good?” he grunted, his muscles corded with tension as he held himself above you.
“So—hah—good,” you choked out, your nails digging into the sweat-damp skin of his back. “Don’t stop, Hee, please—”
“Wasn’t planning to.” He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss as he thrust. His pace remained slow, almost torturous, each movement deep and purposeful, designed to drag against every nerve ending. You could feel every ridge, every vein of him as he moved within you.
His mouth left yours, trailing down your neck to your breasts. He took a nipple back into his mouth, sucking hard as he drove into you, and you found yourself unraveling fast.
“Hee, I can’t—it’s—hn—too much—”
“You can take it, baby,” he replied, his voice guttural. “You’re doing so good for me. Just let go, yeah?” he panted. “I’ve got you.” He shifted his angle slightly, and on the next thrust, he slammed into that perfect spot with unerring accuracy.
You mewled, your body bowing off the bed. The climax hit you like a freight train, a cataclysmic explosion of pleasure that ripped through you. Your inner muscles clamped down on him in rhythmic, pulsing waves, milking his length. White light flashed behind your eyelids, and for a moment, you were nothing but sensation—the stretch, the fullness, the shocking, all-consuming pleasure of your first real orgasm.
Heeseung swore, his thrusts becoming ragged, losing their careful control. “Hah—ah—you’re squeezing me so tight—gonna make me come—”
He drove into you, hard and fast, three more thrusts, and then he stilled, buried deep. A deep, ragged moan tore from his throat as he came, his body shuddering violently against yours. You felt the hot pulse of him through the condom, and then he flopped back.
The room was filled with the sound of your ragged breathing, the smell of sex and sweat. His cock, still semi-hard inside you, gave a little twitch, and you clenched around him instinctively, drawing a soft groan from him.
After a long moment, he shifted, pulling out slowly. You winced at the sensitive, overstimulated feeling, a strange emptiness following the loss of him. He disposed of the condom and then hurried back to you, pulling you against his side, your head on his chest. His heart was thundering against your ear.
The silence stretched out for a couple of minutes. Heeseung was the one who broke it, his voice a sleepy rumble in his chest. “So,” he said, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your bare shoulder. “Not gonna die a virgin anymore.”
ʚɞ summary - your first real crush was never supposed to look back at you. not when he was married, not when he was over ten years older, not when he kept saying no. but jay is divorced now, you’re all grown up, and once he finally gives in and looks at you the way you’ve wanted, it’s anything but innocent.
ʚɞ tags - 18+ MDNI, f!reader, reader is 23, jay is in his mid-30s, dom!jay, sub!reader, fingering, kitchen sex, unprotected sex, oral (m. receiving) penetration (p in v), creampie, breeding kink, degradation kink, oppa kink, grinding on a shoe, jealous!jay, possessive!jay, slight jealous!reader, aftercare, fluff
ʚɞ w.c - 13k
The sun beat down on the driveway, turning the concrete into a shimmering mirage. You squeezed the sponge, the soapy water running in rivulets down your arm and dripping from your elbow to the hot ground with a soft hiss. You were bent at the waist, ostensibly scrubbing the rear passenger door of your parents’ sensible sedan, but your focus was laser-sharp on the property line to your left. The fence was low, just chest-height, designed for neighborly chats.
You’d chosen the outfit with a precision even a military strategist would admire: faded denim booty shorts that hugged every curve, showed an indecent amount of thigh, and rode up with any movement, and a thin, white cotton tank top that you definitely hadn’t doused with the hose on purpose. It clung to you now, transparent in patches, the peaks of your nipples visible even through your bra. You’d seen Jay’s black Rolls-Royce pull into his driveway twenty minutes ago. The timing was perfect.
Just be casual. You’re just washing the car. Just being a super helpful daughter.
You heard his door open and shut. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You didn’t turn. You just bent over further, reaching for the hubcap, knowing the position showcased the full length of your legs and the round swell of your ass.
“Well, well, look who it is.”
His voice, deeper and more resonant than you remembered, sent a bolt of arousal straight through you. You straightened up slowly, turning with the sponge in your hand, forcing a smile you hoped looked surprised and not predatory.
“Jay! Hi. Yeah, just… you know. Earning my keep.” You gestured vaguely with the sponge, sending a droplet flying. It landed on your thigh and traced a slow, tantalizing path down your skin. Much to your dismay, his gaze remained trained on you.
Park Jongseong hadn’t changed much in four years. If anything, time had been kind, sanding away any softness and leaving behind sharper, more defined angles. His black hair was neatly styled, his jaw clean-shaven. He wore dark trousers and a crisp, light blue dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms dusted with fine dark hair and corded with tendon. He looked like what he was: a successful salaryman in his mid-thirties. And he looked at you with a polite kind of curiosity that made you feel like you were seventeen with braces and a huge crush on him all over again.
“I heard you were back. Congratulations on graduating, kiddo.”
Kiddo. The word was a bucket of ice water. You felt your smile tighten. “Thanks. It’s…um. It’s good to be back. For the summer, anyway.”
“Only for the summer?” he asked. “What’s the plan? Back to the city after that?”
“Yeah,” you said, a little too eager to make conversation with him. “That’s the goal, at least. I want to move back once I find something. But the job market is, like, super rough. Everyone wants at least three years of experience for an entry-level position.”
He hummed, thoughtful. “That hasn’t changed.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “Apparently not.” You stared down at your feet, suddenly self-conscious. “So, um. Yeah. This is just me trying to save a little money, I guess.”
“Mm, that’s smart. Get your bearings before you conquer the world.” He leaned against his car, crossing his arms. The motion pulled his shirt taut across his chest. “Your parents must be thrilled to have you home again.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” you joked lightly, squeezing the sponge again. “I think they forgot how much laundry one adult child can go through.”
He chuckled, brief and polite. “That checks out.”
There was a pause. The sun pressed down, cicadas buzzing somewhere in the trees, and suddenly you were acutely aware of how close he was standing, of how small the space felt between the fence and the car.
“Actually,” you said, glancing down at the suds collecting at your feet, then back up at him, “my mom mentioned something yesterday. About you. About… um. Next door.”
His brows lifted slightly. “She did?”
“Yeah. She said you’d been on your own for a while.” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “I didn’t… realize things had changed.”
He blinked, then understanding dawned. “Ah. The divorce.” He said it so casually, as if commenting on the weather. “Yeah, three years now. Your parents didn’t mention it before? Huh. Well, no hard feelings. We were young. Jumped into things too early, maybe. It was amicable.”
He delivered the information in a factual, unemotional way. You searched his face for any hint of pain, regret, anything that would make him seem more vulnerable, more reachable—but there was nothing but a mild, pleasant detachment.
“Oh,” you managed, your voice smaller than you wanted. “I’m… sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be.” He waved a hand, dismissing your concern along with his past marriage. “It’s life. We’re both fine. So, what was your degree in?”
The conversation was so normal, so utterly mundane, it was maddening. He was talking to you like you were the neighbor’s kid who’d gone off to camp and come back a little taller. The tank top might as well have been a potato sack. The shorts might as well have been snow pants. You answered his questions about your major, your vague career plans, all while your skin burned under the sun.
“Well, I should let you get back to it,” he said, pushing off his car. “Don’t want your dad thinking I’m distracting his little girl from her work.”
There it was again. Little girl. You wanted to scream. Instead, you squeezed the sponge so hard soap suds oozed between your fingers. “Yeah. Sure. Nice to see you, Jay.”
“You too, kiddo. Welcome back.”
He gave you a final, easy smile and turned, walking into his house without a backward glance. You stood there, dripping and furious, a knot of frustrated desire tightening low in your belly. The hope you’d sworn you wouldn’t entertain was now a live wire, sparking and dangerous. He was single. He was right there. And he still saw you as a child.
That night, lying in your childhood bed, the same bed where you’d spent countless nights five years ago fantasizing about your handsome new neighbor, the frustration metamorphosed into a raw, aching need. The memory of his rolled-up sleeves, the deep timbre of his voice. Your hand slid under the waistband of your sleep shorts. The cotton was soft, but your skin was softer, hotter. You imagined it was his hand, calloused and sure from work, not your own trembling fingers. You traced circles low on your stomach, then dipped lower, through the neat patch of hair. You were already wet, the slick evidence of your own pathetic longing. You let out a shaky breath, biting your lip to stay quiet as your parents’ soft snoring echoed down the hall.
You thought of him leaning against the car. You imagined him walking over, his polite smile fading into something darker. You pictured him taking the sponge from your hand, his fingers brushing yours. “You missed a spot,” he’d say, his voice dropping to a whisper. His hand, wet and soapy, would slide up your inner thigh, under the shorts…
Two fingers slid inside yourself, and you gasped, arching your back off the mattress. The fantasy crystallized. It was his fingers, thick and probing, curling inside you. It was his thumb rubbing tight, insistent circles against your clit. You moved your hand, setting a rhythm, your hips rising off the bed to meet your own touch. The images came faster, more vivid: his mouth on your neck, his body pressing you against the cool metal of the car, his belt buckle digging into your stomach…
Pleasure coiled, tight and urgent. You pressed the heel of your hand harder against yourself, your breaths coming in short, sharp pants. Jay. Jay. Jay. The name was a silent mantra on your lips as the climax ripped through you, a wave of release that was immediately followed by a crushing wave of emptiness. You lay there, spent and slick, the fantasy evaporating and leaving behind the stark reality of your quiet room. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. You needed him to see you. To want you.
The seduction campaign began in earnest the next day. Operation Seduce-Jay was a go.
You took your yoga mat to the most visible part of the backyard, right where the morning sun hit and where the sightlines from his kitchen window were unobstructed. You wore a sports bra and leggings so tight they felt like a second skin. You moved through your sun salutations with exaggerated grace, bending and stretching, holding downward dog for what felt like hours, knowing the position made the leggings strain across your ass. You saw his silhouette at the window once, just a dark shape, but he didn’t come out, and you finished your session vibrating with frustration, your body buzzing with unused energy.
A few days later, you “accidentally” locked yourself out. You walked to his door in just a short sundress and—you hoped—an innocent smile. “Jay, hi! So sorry to bother you. I was gardening and the door slammed shut… do you have the spare key my mom gave you?”
He opened the door, already dressed for work. His eyes did a quick, automatic scan down your body. The dress fell mid-thigh. Your legs were bare. For a glorious second, you saw something flicker in his dark eyes—a pause, a hesitation. Then it was gone, buried under a layer of neighborly concern.
“Of course, Y/N, come in.” He stepped aside, ushering you into a house that was impeccably clean and minimalist. He fetched the key from a hook by the door. “Here you go. Tell your mom her begonias are lookin’ great.”
“Thanks,” you said, taking the key, your fingers brushing his. A jolt. Did he feel it? His expression didn’t change. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Any time.” He opened the door for you, the perfect gentleman. “Stay out of trouble.”
You baked chocolate chip cookies and brought them over, offering them with a story about practicing domestic skills. He accepted the plate with a grateful smile, called you ‘sweet’, and closed the door. You washed your car again, this time in a bikini top and cut-off jeans. He waved from his lawnmower, shouted, “Don’t forget the sunscreen!” and kept mowing.
The more he treated you with this infuriating, benign kindness, the more it became an aphrodisiac of sorts. Your desire curdled into something desperate and hungry, and your nighttime and shower rituals became a twice-daily release valve for the pressure building inside you. In the shower, with the water beating down on your back, you’d lean against the cool tiles and imagine him joining you. You pictured his hands, slick with soap, sliding over your breasts, cupping them, his thumbs brushing your nipples until they were hard peaks. You imagined him turning you around, bending you over, his hands gripping your hips as he—
The fantasies were so vivid and visceral that you could almost feel the ghost of his touch, the phantom pressure of his body. You’d come with a muffled cry against your arm, the water drowning out the sound, your legs trembling. Afterwards, leaning against the wall, breathless, the frustration would return, redoubled. It was a feedback loop of your own making: his indifference stoked the fire, and only fantasies of him could temporarily quench it, which only made the real-life indifference more unbearable.
A week after the car wash incident, you saw him struggling with a large, flat-pack furniture box on his driveway. It was a bookshelf, teetering dangerously as he tried to maneuver it alone.
Opportunity.
You jogged over, putting a little extra swing in your hips. You’d just come from a run and were still in your tight running shorts and a sleeveless vest, your skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat.
“Need a hand?” you asked, your voice bright.
He looked up, strain evident on his face. “Ah… it’s heavy, kiddo. I’ve got it.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m stronger than I look.” You didn’t wait for permission. You grabbed one end of the box, your fingers brushing his as you took the weight. The contact was electric. You saw his jaw tighten. “See? Lead the way.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. Just to the living room. Slow and steady.”
Moving the box was an intimate, awkward dance. The space was confined, forcing you close. Your shoulder brushed his chest. Your hip bumped his thigh. With every shuffle-step, you were hyper-aware of the thin layers of fabric between your bodies.
“You’ve definitely gotten stronger,” he grunted, adjusting his grip. His forearm flexed next to your face.
“Told you,” you said, smiling up at him. You made sure to look him directly in the eyes, holding the gaze for a beat too long. “I’m not the scrawny high schooler you remember.”
He held your gaze, and for the first time, you saw a crack in his polite mask, a wariness. A reassessment. His eyes darted down to your lips, then back up, so fast you might have imagined it. But you knew you didn’t.
“No,” he said quietly, his voice a low rumble. “You’re not.”
It was the first acknowledgment, however small, that you were an adult. A woman. The words sent a thrill so intense it made your knees weak. You held onto the box for support.
You got the box into his living room and set it down with a collective groan. You were both breathing heavily. You straightened up, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand, letting your tank top ride up and expose a sliver of your stomach.
“Thanks,” he said, not looking at the box. He was looking at you. His gaze was different. It was no longer glancing; it was taking you in. The sweat on your collarbone, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the defined line of your waist where your shorts met your skin. The air in the room felt thick, charged.
“Any time,” you breathed. This was it. The moment. You took a half-step closer, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You saw his eyes darken. His hands, which had been hanging at his sides, flexed slightly.
Then, he blinked. He took a deliberate step back, breaking the spell. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that seemed suddenly nervous. “I, uh… guess I should let you get back to your run. Don’t want to keep you.”
The dismissal was gentle, but it was a dismissal all the same. The whiplash from the heat in his eyes to the retreat in his posture left you reeling. The hope that had surged moments ago curdled into something bitter and sharp.
“Right,” you said, the word clipped. “My run.”
You didn’t wait for another ‘kiddo’. You turned and walked out of his house, the screen door slapping shut behind you.
The final straw came a few days later. You’d spent the morning concocting the most obvious, shameless scheme yet. The forecast called for a heatwave. Your parents were out for the entire day at a family friend’s anniversary party. The backyard sprinkler system was on a timer.
You dug out the red bikini you’d bought for a college spring break trip and never worn. It was minimal, scandalous, all triangles of fabric and strings. You laid a large, colorful beach towel in the center of the lawn, directly in the splash zone of the oscillating sprinkler. You positioned a pitcher of iced tea and a romance novel with a particularly lurid cover within easy reach.
At precisely 2 PM, as the sun reached its peak, the sprinklers kicked on with a chk-chk-chk. A fine, cool mist filled the air, catching the light. You walked out, the grass tickling your bare feet. You could feel the heat of Jay’s gaze before you even saw him. He was on his back deck, reading the newspaper. You didn’t look at him. You just walked to your towel, lay down on your stomach, and untied the back of your bikini top.
The sensation of the sun on your bare back, the intermittent spray of cool water from the sprinkler, was incredible. But it was nothing compared to the thrill of knowing he could be watching. You could almost feel it, and you arched your back slightly, letting the strings of the top dangle loose. You reached for your iced tea, the movement making your muscles flex, and took a long, slow drink, letting a few drops trail down your chin and onto your chest.
You waited. One minute. Two. Five. The suspense was agony. You heard the rustle of his newspaper. A chair scraping. Was he coming over? Was he finally going to break?
Then, you heard his back door open and shut. Not the screen door to the yard. The solid, interior door.
He was going inside.
A rage, hot and humiliating, boiled up in you. You sat up abruptly, clutching the loose bikini top to your chest. You stared at his empty deck. That was it. You were done. You’d paraded yourself in front of him like a prize heifer at a county fair, and he’d just—just gone inside! To do what? Watch golf? Balance his checkbook?
The frustration of the entire summer coalesced into a single, white-hot point. The sexual tension, once a thrilling game, was now a torture device. You were horny, aching, and so unbelievably mad you could scream. You stomped back into the house, not even bothering to retie your bikini. You let the top fall away as you slammed the kitchen door behind you, storming through the silent, empty house towards your room, your skin still damp with sprinkler water and the humiliating heat of utter, complete rejection.
The weekend arrived, a blistering, stagnant Saturday that felt like a physical extension of your frustration. Your parents had left that morning for a two-day trip to the coast, their cheerful “be good!” echoing in the suddenly cavernous house. Their absence should have felt like freedom, an opportunity. Instead, it felt like a taunt. The silence of the house was a mockery of the silence from next door. Jay hadn’t so much as glanced your way since the sprinkler incident three days prior, and you were so wound up you felt like you might snap. The horniness was a physical ache, a persistent throb between your legs that no amount of your own desperate, furious touching could satisfy. The fantasies had become stale, pathetic echoes that only highlighted the absence of the real thing. You needed something, anything, to shatter the tension coiling inside you.
But then your phone lit up—
It was Yunjin.
yunjinnie ♡: going to the club 2nite!!! u in?
You stared at the message. A club. Loud music, dark corners, bodies moving without thought. It was the exact opposite of the quiet, calculated siege you’d been waging on your own street, and a reckless, wild idea took root.
If Jay wouldn’t see you as a woman, you’d find someone who would. You’d prove it to yourself. And maybe, in some twisted way, you’d prove it to him.
you: duh, you typed back, your fingers trembling slightly. pick me up at ten.
The Uber dropped you and your two friends in the pulsing heart of the city after 11 PM. The club was a thrumming beast of bass and neon. You’d dressed for vengeance: a little black dress so short it was barely legal, the neckline plunging, the fabric clinging to every curve you had. You’d spent an hour on your makeup, smoky eyes and a dark, glossy lip. You looked nothing like the girl next door—no, you looked like a woman who knew what she wanted.
And for a few hours, you almost convinced yourself you were her.
The music was deafening, the crowd a sweaty, undulating mass. You drank the fruity, too-strong cocktails at the bar. You danced, losing yourself in the rhythm, letting your hips sway, your head fall back. You caught the eyes of men across the room. You held their gazes, you smiled, you turned away. The power was a heady, temporary drug.
His name was Leo, or maybe Liam—you didn’t quite catch it over the roar of the speakers. He was tall, with artfully messy brown hair and a smile that was all straight, white teeth. He’d sidled up to you on the dance floor, his hands finding your hips, his body moving in time with yours. He was handsome. He was interested. His gaze didn’t skate over you with polite detachment—it devoured you, lingering on the swell of your breasts above the dress, the length of your thighs.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he shouted into your ear, his breath warm and smelling of vodka.
A thrill went through you, sharp and validating. See? you thought savagely, your mind flicking to a certain neat house with a dark window. Someone wants me.
You let him pull you closer. You let his hands slide from your hips to the small of your back, then lower, palming your ass over the thin fabric of your dress. You didn’t stop him. You arched into the touch, a silent permission. His eyes darkened, and he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Wanna get out of here?”
Your friends were lost in the crowd, paired off with their own conquests. The house was empty. The night was young. And you were so, so tired of being the one who waited, the one who hoped, the one who touched herself to the thought of a man who would never look her way.
Yes.
You nodded, the motion feeling both decisive and numb. You didn’t look back as you followed him through the crush of bodies, out into the relative quiet of the street. The humid night air hit your sweat-slicked skin, a shock after the club’s furnace. He hailed an Uber, his arm slung possessively around your shoulders.
The ride was a blur of streetlights and anticipation—he didn’t waste time. As soon as the car pulled away from the curb, his mouth was on yours. It was hungry, sloppy, all tongue and teeth and the too-sharp taste of his cologne. His hands were everywhere, cupping your face, dragging down your neck, groping your breast roughly through your dress. You kissed him back, forcing enthusiasm, trying to lose yourself in the physicality of it.
But your mind, traitorously, wouldn’t switch off. As his mouth moved to your neck, sucking hard enough to make you gasp, you thought, A hickey. Good. The mark would be there tomorrow, a purple-black brand just below your jaw. Let Jay see that. Let him see that someone wanted me enough to mark me. It was a petty, vicious thought, and it gave you a twisted sliver of satisfaction.
Leo—Liam—whoever—moaned against your skin, his hand hiking up your dress to squeeze your bare thigh. “Fuck, you’re so hot,” he mumbled, his lips wet and roaming. “Can’t wait to get you into bed.”
You made a sound that was supposed to be agreement, but it got lost as the Uber pulled up to your dark, silent house. It was past 1 AM. The street was deserted, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of the old-fashioned streetlamps. The only light was the faint, blue flicker of a television behind the curtains of Jay’s living room window. He was still up.
Good, the vicious part of you thought again.
You fumbled with your keys at the front door, your fingers clumsy from alcohol and the relentless, distracting pressure of his body. He had you pinned against the wood, his hips grinding into your ass, his mouth working at that same spot on your neck, making the skin there feel swollen and tender. His breath was ragged in your ear.
“C’mon, baby, get it open,” he urged, his voice thick.
You finally slid the key into the lock. The click was loud in the quiet night. You pushed the door open, stumbling backward into the dark foyer, pulling him with you by his shirt collar. His hands were already on the thin straps of your dress, tugging them down your shoulders. The cool air of the house hit your overheated skin. You were a breath away from crossing a threshold, from making this pathetic rebellion real.
“Y/N? What the fuck are you doing?”
The voice sliced through the dim hallway, cold, hard, and utterly, terrifyingly familiar.
Your blood turned to ice. Your heart seemed to stop entirely, then slam against your ribcage like a trapped bird. You froze, your dress half-off one shoulder, Leo’s mouth still attached to your neck. You slowly, painfully, turned your head.
Jay stood in the arched doorway that led from the foyer to the living room. He wasn’t in pajamas. He wore dark sweatpants and a plain grey t-shirt that stretched across his chest, the sleeves tight around his biceps. He must’ve used the spare key. Your parents had probably told him to look after you, or something. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. His jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscle leaping in his cheek. His dark eyes, usually so carefully neutral, blazed with an intensity that pinned you to the spot.
Leo—definitely Leo—jerked back from you, wiping his mouth. “Whoa, man, what’s your problem?”
Jay’s gaze didn’t even flicker towards him. It stayed locked on you, burning with a disgust that made your stomach plummet. “Get your hands off her,” he said, his voice low but carrying a vibration of threat that seemed to shake the walls. “Now.”
Leo, emboldened by alcohol and interrupted lust, puffed out his chest. “Hey, she invited me, alright? We’re just—”
“I don’t give a fuck what you were,” Jay cut him off, taking a single step forward. He wasn’t a large man in the bulky sense, but the sheer, controlled rage radiating from him made him seem to fill the entire space. His shoulders were set, his posture rigid. “You’re leaving. Get out.”
Leo blinked, the bravado starting to crack under the weight of Jay’s palpable anger. “Look, buddy, I don’t know who you think you are—”
“I’m the man telling you to get the hell off this property before I make you.” Jay’s tone was glacial, final. It wasn’t a shout. It was worse. It was a promise. “Go. Home.”
Something in Jay’s eyes, some flinty, dangerous certainty, got through Leo’s drunk haze. He looked from Jay’s furious face to your pale, shocked one. He held up his hands in a placating gesture, taking a stumbling step back towards the still-open front door. “Okay. Okay, Jesus. Sorry, man.” He shot you a quick, confused look, mouthing ‘call me’ before he vanished into the night.
The door swung shut with a soft, definitive click.
The silence that followed was absolute, and so much more oppressive than the noise of the club. You stood there, your dress askew, the hickey on your neck throbbing like a fresh wound. The adrenaline of the confrontation was ebbing, leaving behind a cold, creeping shame—and beneath it, a hot, searing anger. How dare he?
You finally found your voice, though it came out thin and shaky. “Why the hell did you do that?”
Jay turned his head slowly to look at you. The fury was still there, banked now but simmering just beneath the surface. “Y/N, that was so irresponsible.” He said your name like it was a curse. “Your parents not being home doesn’t mean you bring random guys you picked up at a club into your house. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”
The chiding tone, the sheer, infuriating concern. All the weeks of being called ‘kiddo’, of being ignored in bikinis, of having your offers thrown back in your face with a polite smile. You’d had enough.
“What they don’t know won’t hurt them,” you snapped. “And it’s none of your business!” You turned on your heel, the movement wobbly, and marched towards the kitchen, needing space, needing to get away from his judging eyes. You heard his footsteps behind you, quick and sure.
“I was just trying to look out for you, Y/N,” he said, following you into the dark kitchen. The only light came from the digital clock on the stove, casting the room in a faint green glow. “You don’t know what boys are like. You don’t know what they want from you—”
You whirled around, your back hitting the edge of the cold granite countertop. The impact jarred you, fueling your rage. “I know exactly what they’re like!” you shouted, the sound raw in the quiet house. “Jay, I’m not a kid anymore, for fuck’s sake! I know what he wanted from me, okay?” You took a heaving breath, the most humiliating, honest truth ripping out of you. “Is it so bad I wanted him to fuck me too? Huh?”
The words hung between you, filthy and stark in the dark.
Jay went very, very still. The anger on his face shifted, morphing into something more complex, more dangerous. He took a step closer, and then another, until he was standing right in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the clean, sober scent of him, so at odds with the club sweat and cheap cologne still clinging to your skin.
He scoffed, a low, derisive sound. “So you thought the best thing to do was find a boy at a fucking club and take him home with you?” His voice was a soft, deadly rasp. “That’s your solution?”
The condescension cracked the last of your restraint. You lifted your chin, meeting his blazing eyes head-on. “Yeah,” you shot back, your voice trembling with fury and something perilously close to tears. “So what? You weren’t gonna do it, were you?”
The moment the words left your mouth, you knew you’d crossed a line there was no coming back from.
Jay’s gaze dropped to your mouth, then to the lurid mark on your neck. A low, almost inaudible growl rumbled in his chest.
“You think that’s what this has been about?” he asked, his voice so quiet you had to strain to hear it. He took the final half-step, eliminating the last inch of space. His hands came up, not to touch you, but to plant themselves on the counter on either side of your hips, caging you in. Your body was flush against the cool granite, his torso just a breath away from yours. “You think I haven’t seen you?”
Your breath hitched. You couldn’t speak. You could only stare up at him, your heart hammering a frantic, terrified rhythm.
“I saw you,” he murmured, his head dipping so his lips were beside your ear. His breath was hot against your skin, raising goosebumps everywhere it touched. “In those fucking shorts, bent over that car. Dripping wet. I saw you on that yoga mat, every fucking stretch. I saw you in that bikini.” Each sentence was a soft, searing indictment. “I saw it all.”
He leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes again. His own were black pools in the dim light, devoid of any gentleness. “And you know what I did? I went inside. I closed the door. I took a cold shower. I read the goddamn financial section twice.” His jaw ticked. “Because you’re my neighbors’ daughter. Because you just graduated college. Because I’m supposed to be the responsible one. The adult.”
His words were a confession, but they were hurled at you like accusations. Every denial, every dismissal, recast as a brutal act of restraint.
“But you,” he continued, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a husky, intimate scrape against your nerve endings. “You didn’t make it easy, did you? Parading yourself around. Testing me.” His eyes flicked again to the hickey. A muscle in his neck corded. “And then you go and bring that home.”
He leaned in again, but this time, he didn’t speak near your ear. He brought his face to the side of your neck, right next to the mark that the other man had left. You felt the whisper-soft brush of his nose against your sensitive skin. It wasn’t a kiss. You shuddered violently, a whimper escaping your lips.
“Do you have any idea,” he breathed, the words vibrating against your throat, “how hard I’ve been holding back?”
The sound that left you was pure, undiluted need. All the fight drained out of you, replaced by a wave of such intense, shocking desire it left you weak. His large, warm body surrounded you, his heat seeping into your chilled skin, and you could feel the tension thrumming through him, a live wire of suppressed want that mirrored your own.
His nose traced a path from the hickey up to the hinge of your jaw. “You wanted some boy to fuck you?” he murmured, his lips so close they brushed your skin with every syllable. His voice was thick, laced with a possessiveness that made your knees buckle. “That’s what you were after? A quick, messy fuck?”
You couldn’t answer. You could only press yourself back against the counter, as if trying to escape the intensity of his proximity, but only succeeding in arching your chest closer to him.
He made another low sound. “You have no idea what you’re playing with.” One of his hands left the counter. He didn’t grab you. His fingers, warm and slightly rough, came up to lightly trace the line of your collarbone, exposed by your slipping dress strap. The touch was electric, a brand. “I’m not some college kid just looking to get his dick wet.”
His fingertips trailed down, over the swell of your breast, just above the neckline of your dress. You stopped breathing. Your nipples hardened into aching points, straining against the tight fabric.
“If I touch you,” he said, his voice now a dark, solemn vow in the dark, “it won’t be a game. It won’t be you trying to prove a point.” His hand slid around to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in the hair at your nape. It wasn’t a gentle hold. It was firm, anchoring. He forced your head back just a fraction, exposing your throat fully to him. “If I touch you, I’m going to ruin you for anyone else. Do you understand that, Y/N?”
His words should have scared you. They should have sent you running. Instead, you felt so desperate you thought you might die if he stepped away now. You managed a tiny, jerky nod, your eyes wide and fixed on his shadowed face.
He searched your eyes for a long, agonizing moment. Looking for hesitation. For fear. But he must have only found the same wild, reckless hunger that was tearing him apart, because with a groan that seemed ripped from the core of him, he finally gave in.
His mouth crashed down on yours.
It was nothing like the sloppy, impatient kiss in the Uber. This was a conquest, hard, hungry, and devastatingly skilled. His lips moved over yours with a ferocious certainty, his tongue sweeping into your mouth. The hand at your nape held you steady, while his other arm wrapped around your waist, yanking you flush against him. The feel of his hard, muscular body against yours, the proof of his arousal pressing insistently against your belly through the soft fabric of his sweatpants, made you moan into his mouth.
He swallowed the sound, kissing you deeper, his tongue tangling with yours in a fierce, silent battle. It was all heat and pressure and the faint, tantalizing scrape of his teeth. He kissed you like he was starving, like he was trying to drink you in, to consume the weeks of frustration and denial in a single, searing act. Your hands, which had been limp at your sides, flew up to clutch at the solid planes of his back, your fingers digging into the muscle beneath his t-shirt.
He broke the kiss as suddenly as he’d started it, both of you gasping for air. His forehead rested against yours, his breath coming in ragged gusts against your lips. His eyes were closed, his features taut with strain. Then his mouth was on your neck again, but this time, it was on the unmarked side. His lips were hot and seeking, his tongue tasting your skin. Then his teeth scraped lightly over your pulse point, and you cried out, your head falling back against the cupboard behind you.
“This,” he growled against your skin, his breath scalding. “This is mine.” He sucked hard, a sharp, deliberate pain that melted instantly into a pooling, liquid heat between your legs. You knew he was leaving his own mark, erasing the other one, branding you as his. The possessiveness of it should have felt archaic, oppressive. It felt like absolution.
His mouth trailed lower, down over your collarbone, to the straining neckline of your dress. His free hand came up, his fingers hooking under the thin strap and dragging it down your arm, followed by the other. The top of your dress pooled at your waist, leaving you bare from the waist up in the cool, dark kitchen. The air prickled against your exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze as he looked down at you.
He went perfectly still, his eyes devouring the sight of your breasts, heaving with every ragged breath you took. “Christ,” he breathed, a reverent curse.
Then his head dipped, and his mouth closed over one taut, pebbled peak.
You gasped, a sharp, shattered sound. His tongue was hot and wet, laving over your nipple before he drew it deep into his mouth, sucking strongly. The sensation was so intense, so direct, it arrowed straight to your core, making you clench around nothing. Your fingers twisted in his hair, holding him to you. He switched to the other breast, giving it the same devastating attention, his teeth grazing the sensitive bud until you were writhing against him, little pleas falling from your lips.
He lifted his head, his lips glistening, his eyes black with lust. “You’ve been driving me out of my fucking mind,” he said, his voice guttural. He leaned in again, his mouth finding yours in a slower, deeper kiss that was all tongue and shared breath and desperate, building need. His hands moved to your hips, his fingers digging into the flesh there, and he lifted you effortlessly, setting you on the cold granite countertop. The shock of the cool surface against your bare thighs made you jolt, but then he was there, stepping between your legs, pushing them wider with his hips.
The thin fabric of your dress and your flimsy underwear were the only barriers left. He was so close you could feel the hard, thick length of him pressing against your damp center. You rocked against him instinctively, seeking friction, and a ragged groan tore from his throat.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his hands sliding up your bare thighs, pushing the bunched dress higher. His thumbs brushed the edges of your panties. “Tell me what you wanted that boy to do to you.”
His hands were on your bare thighs, his thumbs a hair’s breadth from the soaked fabric of your panties. The demand hung in the air, thick with the promise of humiliation and reward. You were laid bare on the cold granite, half-naked and utterly at his mercy, and the words he wanted were like ash in your mouth—but you wanted to give them to him. You needed to.
“I…” you started, your voice a breathy, broken thing. You swallowed, your throat dry. His dark eyes watched you, unwavering. “I wanted him to—to touch me.”
Jay’s expression didn’t change, but his thumbs began a slow, maddening stroke along the crease of your thighs, just outside the lace of your panties. “Too vague,” he chided, his voice low. “Be specific. What did you want his hands to do?”
The heat of his touch was a brand. You squirmed. “I wanted… his hands on me. Here.” You gestured weakly toward your core, cheeks burning.
“Here?” he murmured, and finally, finally, his hand slid up, his palm cupping you over your panties.
A sharp, punched-out gasp left you. The pressure was firm, deliberate, and the thin, damp fabric did nothing to mute the sensation. You could feel the heat of his hand searing through the lace, the rough texture of his palm.
“Like this?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
You nodded frantically, your hips canting up into his touch, seeking more. “Yeah,” you breathed out. “Yeah, just like that.”
“And then?” he prompted, his other hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your fevered cheek. The gentleness of the gesture was at odds with the intensity in his eyes. “You brought him home. What did you want next?”
You were drowning in his gaze, in the scent of him, in the possessive pressure of his hand. The truth spilled out. “I wanted him to fuck me,” you whispered. “I wanted to not think. I just wanted to be—hngh—used.”
A low, dark sound rumbled in his chest. It wasn’t quite a laugh.“You wanted to be used,” he repeated, his fingers flexing against you, making you whimper. “By some boy who wouldn’t know what to do with you. Who wouldn’t know how to make it last.” He leaned in, his lips brushing yours as he spoke. “Who wouldn’t even know how to make you beg for it.”
His mouth captured yours again. It was hard, consuming, possessive, his tongue sweeping in. At the same time, his hand began to move. He rubbed you through your panties, the lace scratching deliciously against your swollen flesh with each slow, deliberate circle of his palm. You moaned into his mouth, a desperate, hungry sound. He swallowed it, his other hand sliding into your hair, holding you still for his kiss. He was everywhere, overwhelming all your senses. The taste of him, the feel of his hard body between your thighs, the scent of his skin, the pressure of his hand—it was a sensory assault that left you boneless and wanting.
He broke the kiss, trailing his lips down your jaw, to your neck, to the new mark he’d left. He kissed it softly, then bit down gently, making you cry out. “You wanted to be touched?” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot. “You have no idea.” His hand on you became more insistent, the circles tighter, faster. The fabric was soaked through, a slick, hot barrier. “Is this what you needed? Hmm? This little bit of friction?”
“Jay,” you gasped, your head falling back. Your hands scrabbled at his shoulders, clutching the soft cotton of his t-shirt. You were already teetering on an edge, weeks of pent-up frustration coming undone under his skilled hand.
“Tell me,” he commanded, his voice a dark rasp in your ear. His mouth was on your neck again, kissing, sucking, marking you further as his hand worked you. “Tell me what you want now. Right now.”
You were beyond pride, beyond games. You were a live wire of need. “More,” you choked out, grinding yourself against his palm. “Please, Jay. I need more.”
He chuckled, the sound condescending and darkly thrilling. “More? You’re going to have to be a lot more specific than that, baby.” He slowed his hand to a torturous, teasing stroke. “Use your words. What does this greedy little pussy want?”
The vulgarity, the sheer meanness in his tone, sent a shock of pure, liquid heat straight to your core. You were so wet you could feel it begin to trickle down your thigh. “I want your hand,” you begged, the words tumbling out. “Under my panties. I want you to touch me, Jay, please touch me.”
“Good girl,” he purred, and the praise was like a drug.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties. In one smooth, ruthless motion, he dragged them down your thighs and let them fall to the floor. The cool air kissed your bare, exposed flesh, making you gasp, and then his hand was back, but this time, there was no barrier.
His touch was electric. His fingers, warm and slightly rough, slid through your slick folds with an intimate familiarity. A deep, guttural groan left him. “Fuck, you’re dripping.” He stroked you, gathering your wetness, spreading it, his touch agonizingly slow. “All this for me? After your little field trip?”
“Yes,” you whined, bucking your hips, trying to force his fingers where you needed them. “Only for you. It was always for you.”
He made a sound of dark satisfaction. His index finger circled your clit, a feather-light, maddening touch that had you seeing stars. You were panting, little punched-out noises—hngh, ngh, ah—escaping with every breath, grinding shamelessly against his hand, against the hard ridge of his cock still trapped in his sweatpants, anything for more friction.
“So eager,” he mused, his voice thick with lust. He watched your face, your desperate movements, with a predatory focus. “Can’t even control yourself, can you?” His finger dipped lower, sliding through your entrance, coating himself in your arousal, but not pushing in. “Is this what you do in your room at night? When you think no one can hear? You touch yourself and think of me?”
“Yes,” you sobbed, the admission torn from you. “Every night.”
“Pathetic,” he breathed, but there was no disgust in it, only a raw, hungry pride. Finally, he gave you what you craved. He pushed a single finger inside you, deep and slow.
Your cry echoed in the quiet kitchen. It was a stretch, a delicious, filling invasion. Your inner muscles clenched around him instantly, gripping his finger with a shocking tightness. He groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Christ. You’re so fucking tight.” He began to move, a slow, deliberate pump in and out, his palm grinding against your clit with every thrust.
It was too much and not enough. The coil inside you was winding impossibly tight, your hips meeting every stroke of his finger.
Then he added a second finger.
You screamed, the stretch a blinding flash of pleasure-pain. He scissored them inside you, stretching you wider, curling them just right to brush that spot deep inside that made your vision blur at the edges. His thumb found your clit again, rubbing tight, fast circles.
“You’re going to come on my fingers,” he murmured into your ear, his own breath ragged. “Aren’t you? You’re going to scream for me and come all over my hand like a good girl, and then you’re going to get on your knees and show me just how grateful you are.”
Your orgasm made your whole body shake, your back bowing off the counter, a strangled, wordless scream tearing from your throat as you convulsed around his fingers, your walls milking them as wave after wave of electric pleasure crashed through you. It seemed to go on forever, your body shaking with the force of it, your cries dissolving into broken sobs.
He held you through it, his fingers still moving inside you, gentling now, drawing out every last shuddering pulse. When you finally went limp against the counter, he slowly withdrew his fingers. He brought them to his mouth, his dark eyes locked on yours, and slowly, deliberately, sucked them clean.
The obscenity of it made a fresh jolt of desire spear through your sated body. You watched, mesmerized, as he tasted you.
“Sweet,” he said, his voice raspy. He leaned down, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. When he pulled back, his eyes were blazing. “Now,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Get on your knees.”
A shiver of pure anticipation raced down your spine. You slid off the counter, your legs wobbling, but he caught you, his hands firm on your hips. He guided you down until you were kneeling on the cool tile floor of the kitchen, right between his feet. From here, you were eye-level with the prominent bulge straining against the front of his grey sweatpants. The sight made your mouth water.
He looked down at you, his expression a mix of fierce desire and dark amusement. “Were you going to suck him off?” he asked, his voice soft. “That boy. Were going to get on your knees for him in your pretty little dress?”
You shook your head, your eyes wide. “No, no—not him,” you vehemently denied. “Only you.”
“Prove it,” he said, the challenge clear.
Your hands trembled as you reached for the waistband of his sweatpants. You hooked your fingers in, and he didn’t help, just watched you, his hands now resting at his sides. You tugged, and the soft fabric slid down his hips, taking his boxer-briefs with them.
His cock sprang free, and you actually whimpered.
It was thick, long, and beautifully veined, the head flushed a deep, angry red and already wet with pre-cum. It curved upwards slightly, imposing and perfect. You’d fantasized about it, sure, but the reality was much, much better than any figment of your imagination. You almost drooled.
A low chuckle above you. “Fuckin’ cockslut.”
You looked up at Jay, your lips parted. He was watching you with a heated, expectant gaze, one hand coming to rest on the top of your head.
You didn’t need to be pushed. You leaned forward, your eyes locked with his, and pressed a soft, reverent kiss to the tip of his cock. You heard his sharp intake of breath.
Encouraged, you opened your mouth and took just the head inside, sucking gently. His fingers tightened in your hair. You swirled your tongue around the sensitive ridge, licking away the bitter-salt pre-cum, giving little kittenish licks along the underside. You were exploring him, worshiping him. Just the power of having this formidable, composed man at your mercy, even for a moment, was intoxicating.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary jerk.
You took him deeper, relaxing your throat as you’d practiced in fantasies, letting his thick length slide into the wet heat of your mouth. You couldn’t take all of him, not yet, but you took as much as you could, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked. One of your hands came up to wrap around the base of him, stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach.
He let out a string of low, guttural curses, his hand in your hair now guiding the pace. You followed his lead, bobbing your head, sucking him properly, the sounds lewd and wet in the silent kitchen. Fuck, it felt so good. You couldn’t help but be turned on by the act itself, by the weight of him on your tongue, by his groans of pleasure, and before you knew it, you began to move. Still on your knees, you started to rock your hips, grinding your aching, sensitive pussy against the hard leather of his shoe.
He noticed, of course. He looked down, saw the desperate, shameless movement, and he laughed. It was a dark, condescending, mean laugh. “Look at you, baby,” he said, his voice rough with lust. “Rutting against my shoe. You’re so fucking easy, Y/N.” he remarked incredulously.
His words were gasoline on the fire of your arousal. You moaned around his cock, the vibration making him curse again. You ground harder against his shoe, the pressure against your clit through the thin leather sending jolts of pleasure through your oversensitive body. You were close again, so close, just from sucking him and frotting against his shoe like a mindless slut.
You pulled off him with a wet pop, your lips swollen, a string of saliva connecting your mouth to his glistening cock. You were panting. “Do you—” you gasped, looking up at him through your lashes. “Do you want to fuck my mouth? You don’t have to hold back.”
His eyes darkened to near-black. A raw, hungry groan was torn from his chest. His hand tightened in your hair. “Open,” he commanded, his voice strained. “Wider.”
You obeyed, dropping your jaw, sticking your tongue out, presenting yourself. There was a wild, almost feral look in his eyes as he looked down at you, his cock in his hand, poised at your lips. Then he pushed forward with a firm, controlled thrust that buried his cock deep in your throat.
You gagged, tears springing to your eyes, but you forced yourself to relax, to take him. He held himself there for a moment, letting you adjust, his thumb stroking your cheek with faux-gentleness. Then he pulled back and thrust in again. And again. He set a relentless, deep rhythm, fucking your mouth in earnest, his hips pistoning, his grip on your hair keeping you perfectly in place.
The sounds were obscene—wet, guttural, choking sounds from you, groans from him. Tears streamed down your cheeks, but you didn’t try to stop him. You looked up at him, your eyes watering, and the sight of his face, taut with pleasure, his gaze locked on where he disappeared between your lips, was the most erotic thing you’d ever seen. You brought your hands to his thighs, holding on as he used your mouth.
All the while, you kept grinding against his shoe, the rhythm of your hips matching the rhythm of his thrusts. The sensations—the fullness in your mouth, the pressure on your clit—were driving you insane. You were a mess of need, a tool for his pleasure, and you loved it.
You felt his rhythm stutter. His thrusts became harder, deeper, less controlled. “Gonna come,” he warned, his voice a ragged snarl.
You didn’t pull away. You looked up at him, pleading with your eyes, and took him even deeper, humming around his cock.
That was his undoing. With a half-growl, he came, hot jets of bitter salt flooding your throat. You swallowed desperately, gulping down every drop, not letting a single bit escape until he was spent, until he was softening in your mouth, his body shuddering with the aftershocks.
Only then did he gently pull himself free. You slumped back on your heels, panting, your lips bruised and wet, your throat sore. Your own climax had been cresting the whole time, and the frantic grinding against his shoe finally tipped you over the edge. With a choked, silent moan, you came again, your body convulsing as you soaked your own thighs and the floor beneath you, your orgasm somehow more intense for being so utterly debasing.
He looked down at you, kneeling in the stickiness of your own release, face tear-stained and mouth used, and he shook his head, a slow, condescending smile playing on his lips. “You came from that?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “From humping my shoe while I fucked your throat? You really are a desperate little whore.”
He reached down, his hands under your arms, and hauled you to your feet. Your legs were like jelly. He kissed you hard, tasting himself on your tongue, his hands roaming your bare back. “So fucking dirty,” he muttered against your lips, backing you up until your ass hit the cold granite counter again. He lifted you, seating you on the edge, and stepped back between your spread thighs.
His eyes were ravenous again, his cock, though spent, already beginning to harden once more. His gaze dropped to your glistening, swollen folds. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick and full of awe. “You’re a complete mess, baby.”
He leaned in, kissing you hungrily, one hand coming down to cup you again. This time, he didn’t tease. He slipped two fingers back inside your soaked, sensitive cunt, his thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy, and you cried out into his mouth, your body jerking. You were so sensitive it was almost painful, but at the same time, you couldn’t get enough.
He started fingering you again, his thrusts deep and sure, his thumb rubbing tight, relentless circles. “You’re still so greedy for it,” he observed, his lips trailing down your neck to your breasts. He took a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, as his fingers worked you. “Can’t get enough, can you? Are you going to take everything I give you? Hm? Gonna be my good girl?”
“Yes,” you moaned, your head thrown back, your hands clutching at his shoulders. Your moans were loud in his ear, heavy, panting breaths. “Jay, please, I need you. I need you so bad.”
“You need what?” he prompted, curling his fingers inside you, hitting that spot that made you see stars.
“I need you to fuck me,” you begged, your voice breaking. “Please, Jay, fuck me. I need your cock inside me,” you sobbed. “I can’t wait anymore.”
He groaned, pulling his fingers free and resting his forehead against yours, his body trembling with the effort of his control. “I can’t, baby,” he said, his voice strained. “I don’t have a condom on me. I wasn’t exactly planning this.”
The denial was a physical blow. You whined, a high, pathetic sound, grinding your hips against his, feeling his renewed hardness press against your belly. “Please, I need it. I don’t care. I need you.”
He gripped your hips, holding you still. “It’s not safe, Y/N. I’m clean, but you—”
“I don’t care!” you cried, your desperation breaking through. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “I want you inside me. Raw.” you whined, too far gone to care what you were saying. “I need your cock in me, please.”
Jay let out a tense breath. “Yeah, baby?” he asked. You could almost feel his self-control slipping.
Your eyelashes fluttered as you canted your hips towards him again. “Hn—yeah, Jay,” you wrapped your arms around him, pressed your mouth to his ear as though you were about to tell him a secret. “Want you to come inside,” you whispered breathlessly. “Want you to put a baby in me.”
Your words, your utter, shameless abandon, were the final blow to his self-control. His eyes snapped to yours, wide and shocked for a split second before they darkened with a ferocious, primal hunger.
“Such a dirty fucking mouth,” he breathed, awe and lust warring in his voice. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
He reached between you, taking his thick, hard cock in his hand. He guided it to your entrance, the swollen head nudging against your slick, swollen folds. He rubbed it up and down, coating himself in your wetness, slapping the heavy length of it against your clit a few times, making you shiver and cry out with each sharp impact.
“You want it raw?” he growled, his eyes locked on yours. “Want me to fill you up?”
“Hngh—yeah—”
With a final, guttural curse, he positioned himself and thrust forward, burying himself inside you in one long, deep, searing stroke. The sensation of him filling your cunt, completely unhindered, was so profound it stole the air from your lungs. Your mouth opened in a silent scream, your eyes wide, as he seated himself to the hilt, his pelvis grinding against yours. There was a split second of pure, blinding stretch—a hot, perfect ache that bloomed into a consuming, liquid heat. You could feel everything, every ridge and vein, the throbbing pulse of him buried deep inside you. It was more intimate than anything you’d ever experienced before.
“Fuck,” Jay groaned, his voice a shattered rasp against your neck. His whole body shuddered, his arms trembling where they braced on the counter beside your hips. He didn’t move for a long moment, just stayed sheathed within you.“You’re… god, you’re so tight, baby. It’s so fucking hot.”
You finally remembered how to breathe, a ragged, choking gasp. Your inner muscles fluttered around him, a helpless, welcoming clench. “Jay,” you whimpered, your fingers digging into the hard muscles of his back. “Oppa.”
That broke his stillness. He pulled back, a slow, dragging retreat that made you cry out at the loss, then slammed back in. The force of it jolted you up the counter, your shoulders scraping the cold granite.
“Yeah,” he growled, his eyes dark and wild. “That’s it, good girl. Take it.” He drove into you, deep, hard thrusts that knocked the breath from you. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wider, holding you open for his relentless pace. The sound of skin slapping against skin, wet and obscene, filled the kitchen, mingling with your high, desperate whimpers and his guttural grunts.
It was too much. The weeks of frustrated longing, the humiliating attempts at seduction, the searing jealousy—all of it combusted into this. You couldn’t think, couldn’t form a coherent sentence—right now, you were nothing but a fucktoy for him, each thrust sparking white-hot pleasure deep in your belly, radiating out to your fingertips and toes.
He leaned over you, his mouth at your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “Look at you,” he snarled, his voice thick with a vicious, possessive delight. “Look what you’re doing. What would your parents say, huh? If they walked in right now?”
A fresh wave of heat, shameful and thrilling, washed over you. You moaned, your head thrashing side to side.
“They trusted me,” he continued, each word punctuated by a hard, deep stroke that made you see stars. “Their good neighbor. Keep an eye on our daughter while we’re out, Jay. Make sure she’s safe.” He laughed, a dark, humorless sound. “And here you are. Spreading your legs for me. Letting me fuck your slutty little cunt raw. Aren’t you?”
“Yes!” you sobbed, the admission torn from you. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, trying to pull him deeper, to take more of him. “Yes, I am—ah—I’m your slut, please—”
“That’s right,” he hissed. He shifted his angle slightly, and on the next thrust, he hit a spot so deep and sensitive your vision blurred. A broken scream ripped from your throat. “Scream for me. Let the whole fucking neighborhood hear what a whore you are for oppa’s cock.”
You were babbling, a stream of filth and praise and pure, unadulterated need. “It feels so—hngh—good, Jay oppa, you’re so deep—hah—you’re gonna ruin me for anyone else, please—ah—don’t stop, fuck me harder, make me yours—”
He obliged, his pace becoming brutal, animalistic. The counter was rocking with the force of his thrusts. One of his hands left your thigh and fisted in your hair, pulling your head back to force you to look at him. His face was a mask of carnal intensity, sweat beading on his temple, his jaw clenched. “Mine?” he growled. “You want that, baby, wanna be mine? Want me to breed you, so everyone knows you’re mine?”
The words sent thrills of excitement and arousal down your spine. Your inner muscles convulsed around him, a prelude to an orgasm that was already building, getting closer and closer with every punishing stroke. “Yes,” you gasped, your mind fracturing. The thought, the dangerous, impossible thought, spilled out. “A-and then if you get me pregnant,” you smiled, dazed and cockdrunk. “You’ll—ah—have to make me your wife.”
He froze for a fraction of a second, his hips still buried deep within you, his eyes widening in stunned surprise. Then a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. It wasn’t kind. “Yeah?” he rumbled, his voice dropping to a low, thrilling register. He began moving again, slower now, but with even more deliberate, grinding force, rotating his hips to press against that magical spot with every inch of his cock. “You wanna be oppa’s pretty little wife? Hmm? You’d like that? Wearing my ring while you walk around swollen with my kid?”
“Yes,” you mewled. “Please, Jay oppa, please.”
He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a searing, dominant kiss. When he broke it, his lips were against yours as he spoke. “You’d wait for me to come home every night? Have dinner ready?” His breath was hot against your mouth. “And then what, baby? You’d get on your knees the second I walked in the door? Or would you just bend over the table and let me take what’s mine?”
“Anything,” you promised, your voice trembling. “Anything you want. I’d be so good for you. I’d be so much better than her.”
The mention of his ex-wife slipped out, fueled by a sudden, fierce jealousy that cut through the pleasure haze. You felt him stiffen inside you again. His eyes searched yours, and you saw a flicker of something vulnerable before it was swallowed by a darker, hotter fire.
“Is that right, Y/N?” he murmured, his thrusts becoming deep, purposeful rolls of his hips that rubbed every nerve ending inside you just right. “You think you could be better?”
You nodded frantically, your nails scratching down his back. “Wouldn’t I?” you demanded, the possessiveness in your own voice surprising you. “Won’t I? Tell me I will.”
He laughed darkly then, a rich sound of satisfaction. He kissed you again. “Of course you will, baby,” he whispered against your lips, his tone shifting into something filthy and reassuring all at once. “You already are. Look at you. Taking my cock like you were made for it. Fuck.” His composure cracked on the last word as you clenched around him instinctively. “Fuck, oh—I’m close, baby. Are you sure? Are you sure you want this?”
You whimpered, your body trembling, your mind hazy and drunk on him, on everything he was giving you. “Yes, yes, please,” you begged, your voice a broken moan. Begging. That’s all you could do now. “I need it. I want it. Fill me up. I wanna feel you come inside me, wanna feel you dripping out of me later. Please—oh—don’t stop, don’t hold back. I’m yours, oppa, I’m all yours—”
His breath hitched, and you saw the conflict flicker in his eyes—the last shred of restraint warring with the dark, possessive hunger that had taken over. But with your words, your begging, your shameless need for him, he buried himself to the hilt, his hips grinding against yours. His hand slid between your sweat-slicked bodies, and he rubbed your clit unerring accuracy in fast, tight circles, the pressure perfect, relentless. At the same time, his thrusts became shorter, harder, frantic, losing all rhythm as he chased his own peak. It was the final trigger—the build-up inside you snapped, and your third orgasm of the night wracked your body, a supernova of pleasure. You screamed, a raw, continuous sound, as your body arched off the counter, convulsing around him, your inner walls fluttering and clenching in rapid, uncontrollable pulses, milking his cock.
The sensation of you clamping down on him, so tight and hot and wet was what made him finally let go. You felt it—the hot, pulsing release of him deep inside you, painting your walls. His head dropped to your shoulder, his breathing ragged, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm. The feeling prolonged your own climax, drawing out the waves of pleasure until you were sobbing, oversensitive and utterly spent.
“God,” he muttered, his voice thick and rough against your skin. “You’re gonna feel me for hours, baby. You’re gonna remember this every time you move.”
“I really am,” you groaned, your head lolling back against the cool cupboard door, your body a soft, pleasantly ruined mess.
Jay’s soft chuckle vibrated through his chest, where your cheek was pressed. He was still inside you, softening, both of you sticky and spent and tangled together on the kitchen counter. His arms were looped loosely around your waist, holding you up more than you were holding yourself.
“Serves you right,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. “Terrorized the neighborhood all summer.”
You pinched his side, but there was no strength in it. “You loved it.”
He didn’t deny it. Instead, he pulled back just enough to look at you. His expression was softer now, the fierce, possessive edge smoothed into something warm and sated. He looked more amused. He traced a finger down your cheek, catching a stray tear track from earlier. “You’re so beautiful.”
“Shut up,” you retorted, but you couldn’t help smiling.
He kissed you then. It was nothing like the earlier kisses—not the desperate crash of his mouth on yours in the hallway, nor the filthy, panting exchanges against the counter. This was slow and sweet and romantic. You sighed into it, melting against him all over again.
When he pulled away, you chased his lips for a second, making him laugh—a real, genuine laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes. You’d never heard him laugh like that before. It did something funny to your chest.
“So clingy,” he teased, bumping his nose against yours.
“You just fucked me senseless on a kitchen counter. I think I’m allowed to be clingy,” you mumbled, grinning, your noses still touching.
He hummed, his hands sliding up your bare back in a slow, soothing stroke. “I did, didn’t I?” He said it with a note of wonder, as if he was just realizing it himself. “Your parents’ kitchen counter.”
A giggle bubbled out of you, absurd and giddy. “They eat breakfast here.”
Jay shook his head, laughing. “Oh my god, Y/N. Don’t. I’ll never be able to look your dad in the eye again after this.”
“He thinks you’re such a nice, responsible young man,” you said, doing a poor impression of your mother’s voice.
“Was,” Jay corrected, grinning. “Was a nice, responsible young man. Then his neighbor’s daughter decided to destroy his sanity with a pair of booty shorts.”
You swatted his arm. “As if. Until today, I thought you had the self-control of a saint.”
“Saint Jay,” he mused, kissing the tip of your nose. “Patron saint of cold showers and repressed desire. I should get a medal.”
“You just got your reward,” you said, shifting slightly and wincing at the sticky, oversensitive feeling between your thighs.
He noticed immediately, his expression shifting to one of gentle concern. “Alright, come on. Up you get.” He lifted you easily off the counter, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist again as he carried you like you weighed nothing. You yelped, clinging to his shoulders.
“I can walk!”
“Humor me,” he said dryly, navigating out of the kitchen and down the dark hallway towards the bathroom. “All you have to do is hang on, baby.”
He pushed the bathroom door open with his foot and set you down carefully on the closed toilet lid. The light he flicked on was mercifully dim. He rummaged in the cabinet, pulling out a clean washcloth. You sat there, watching him, feeling strangely shy now in the aftermath. You were naked except for the dress still tangled around your waist, covered in sweat and him and your own release. He was still mostly dressed, just his sweatpants and boxers around his ankles, his t-shirt rumpled.
He ran the washcloth under warm water, wringing it out. Then he knelt in front of you, his movements deliberate and tender. “Okay?” he asked softly, looking up at you.
You just nodded, words stuck in your throat.
He started gently, wiping the smudged makeup from under your eyes, cleaning the tear tracks. His touch was so careful, so at odds with the man who had just been snarling filth in your ear. He moved the cloth down your neck, cleaning the new, tender mark he’d left, then over your collarbones and shoulders. He cleaned your breasts with a sort of gentleness that was incredibly intimate, wiping away the sweat and the faint stickiness. You shivered.
“Cold?” he asked.
“Not really,” you admitted.
He smiled, a small, private thing, and pressed a kiss to your knee before continuing. He nudged your thighs apart and began cleaning between them, his touch light and respectful.
When he was done, he tossed the washcloth into the hamper and stood, offering you his hands. “Shower?” he suggested.
“You’re asking?” you teased, taking his hands and letting him pull you up.
“I’m trying to be a gentleman now. The monster has been sated,” he said, pulling his t-shirt over his head and finally kicking his pants the rest of the way off. You got a proper look at him—all taut muscle and smooth skin, dusted with dark hair. He was beautiful. He saw you looking and raised an eyebrow.
“Like what you see?”
“Maybe,” you giggled, stepping out of the puddle of your dress and letting it fall to the floor. You reached past him to turn on the shower, the pipes groaning to life.
He stepped in first, holding the curtain for you. The water was blissfully hot, and you both sighed as it cascaded over you, washing away the last physical remnants of the kitchen. He reached for the shampoo, pouring a generous amount into his palm.
“Turn around,” he said.
You complied, leaning back against his chest as his strong fingers worked the lather into your scalp. It was possibly the most luxurious feeling you’d ever experienced. His thumbs massaged your temples, then worked down the tense muscles of your neck and shoulders. You sighed, your head lolling back against him.
“You’re good at that.”
“I’ll have you know that I have many hidden talents,” he said, his voice a rumble against your back. He rinsed your hair carefully, shielding your eyes from the soap with his hand. Then he took the body wash, lathering up his hands before sliding them over your shoulders, down your arms, over your stomach, washing you with thorough, tender care.
“Your turn,” you said, turning around and taking the bottle from him.
You mimicked his actions, lathering your hands and washing his chest, his arms, his back as he turned for you. You scrubbed at the faint red marks your nails had left on his shoulders, and he chuckled. “Battle scars.”
“You started it,” you countered, soaping up your hands again and, with a bravado you didn’t entirely feel, sliding them down his stomach, to his hips, and taking him in hand. He was soft now, but you washed him gently, thoroughly, and he let out a soft, appreciative sigh, his head bowing to rest against yours under the spray.
“Feels nice,” he mumbled.
You finished, rinsing him off, and for a few minutes, you just stood there under the hot water, wrapped in each other, letting the steam and the warmth seep into your bones.
Finally, he turned off the water and reached for a towel, wrapping you in it first and rubbing you dry before briskly drying himself. He found two more towels for your hair. Back in your room, he dug through your drawers without asking, pulling out an old, soft t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts for you, and borrowing a pair of your dad’s sweatpants he found in the laundry room for himself. They were comically short on him, hitting mid-calf.
You both collapsed onto your bed, the sheets cool and clean. He pulled you into his side, your head on his chest, his arm around you. The digital clock on your nightstand glowed 3:47 AM.
“So,” he said into the quiet darkness, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm. “Operation Seduce-Jay. Was it a success?”
You snorted. “I’d say it was a catastrophic, overwhelming success. I think you broke me.”
“You broke me,” he reminded you. “With your fuckin’ cookies. And the yoga. And that goddamn red bikini,” he sighed. “Should be illegal.”
“You went inside!”
“I had to!” he protested, laughing. “I was two seconds away from jumping the fence to get to you. I had to go read about municipal bond yields to calm down.”
You giggled, the absurdity of it all washing over you. “Ew, you’re such a dork.”
“And you are a menace.” He kissed the top of your head. “A beautiful, frustrating, incredibly sexy menace.”
You were quiet for a moment, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “What happens now?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it.
He was silent for so long you thought he might have fallen asleep. Then, “Well, your parents get back tomorrow afternoon. So I should probably not be here when they arrive.”
Your heart sank a little. “Oh. Right.”
“But,” he continued, his voice thoughtful, “I was thinking. My aircon is making a weird noise. A rattling sound. Very concerning. I might need a second opinion on it.”
You lifted your head to look at him. He was smiling, a playful glint in his eye. “You need a technician.”
“I need a helpful neighbor,” he corrected. “Maybe tomorrow evening, after they’re back and settled, you could come over and listen to it? I’d make dinner. As a thank you.”
A slow smile spread across your face. “I don’t know anything about air conditioners, Jay.”
“That’s okay,” he said, pulling you closer. “We’ll look it up on YouTube.”
You laughed, burrowing back into his side. “That sounds like a very thorough plan.”
“I’m a very thorough guy,” he said, his voice growing sleepy. “As you’ve recently learned.”
You lay there together, in the quiet dark of your childhood room, and for the first time all summer, the aching, frantic need was gone. You lay there a little longer after that, listening to the house breathe around you—the faint tick of cooling pipes, the birds and insects outside, the steady rhythm of his breathing slowly evening out against your shoulder. It felt unreal, how ordinary it all was, how gentle.
Jay’s arm tightened around you in his sleep, and you stared into the dark and smiled to yourself.
Tomorrow, there would be a thousand practicalities to untangle: how to tell your parents without making it weird, how to explain the age gap without making it sound wrong, how to navigate dating when one of you still lived down the hall from their childhood bedroom and the other woke up early for meetings. But that was tomorrow, a distant land, far away from tonight, from this moment with Jay’s hair brushing your neck and his breath soft on your skin.
Because tonight, the summer finally felt complete.
‘you’re the only girl that i have ever wanted/every other girl is trying to be you.’ - letter home, childish gambino
ʚɞ summary - you’ve always known nishimura riki as your best friend hana’s cute little brother: too young and too silly to ever look at twice. but now his housing arrangement has fallen through, he’s moved in with you, and suddenly the lines blur, especially when he keeps you awake at night with the entourage of girls in his bed. at least when you finally snap and tell him to stop, he listens. maybe a little too well, though. because the silence that follows is heavier than the noise ever was, and when one night he walks in on you at the worst possible moment—when you’re alone, breathless, and touching yourself with his name on your lips—pretending he’s just your best friend’s younger brother is no longer an option anymore.
ʚɞ tags - 18+ MDNI, f!reader, best friend’s younger brother!riki, reader is 22, riki is 20, player!riki, f. masturbation, multiple orgasms, penetrative sex (p in v), protected sex, dom!riki, sub!reader, riki is down bad, riki is kind of a jerk, obsessive!riki, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, spitting
ʚɞ w.c - 11k
The first time you heard the giggling, you tried to excuse it.
It was past midnight, and you were hunched over your laptop at the kitchen table, the blue light a lonely island in the dark apartment. Your dissertation draft glowed on the screen, a mess of half-formed arguments and citations you needed to cross-check. The key turned in the lock, the door opened with a soft shush, and then the sound: a bright, airy laugh, followed by a lower, familiar chuckle. Riki’s.
You didn’t look up. You kept typing, the clack of the keys a little louder than necessary. This is fine, you told yourself. He’s a college kid. He’s social. Hana said he would behave.
“Oh, you have a roommate?” the girl’s voice floated into the kitchen, tinged with curiosity.
My sister’s friend. The phrase needled you. It was true, of course. You were Hana’s friend. You’d met Riki when he was a wobbly toddler trailing after his big sister, his cheeks perpetually smudged with dirt or candy. You’d spent countless afternoons at the Nishimura house, and your memories of Riki were a highlight reel of childhood absurdity: the time you and Hana convinced him that eating a whole lemon would give him superpowers (he cried for an hour), the elaborate tea parties where he, draped in Hana’s old ballet tutus and your sparkly scarves, would serve imaginary cakes with grave seriousness. You remembered his high, squeaky laugh, the way he’d cling to your leg when a dog barked too loud, the nightlight shaped like a rocket ship that had to be on or he wouldn’t sleep.
But that boy was gone.
The one who’d shown up at your door with a single duffel bag and a lazy smile was a stranger to you—a strikingly handsome stranger, which was its own confusing problem. He’d shot up, for one thing. He had to be at least six feet now, all long, lean lines. His face had lost all its baby fat, revealing sharp cheekbones and a jawline that looked like it could cut glass, and his eyes, once wide and innocent, were now a dark, perceptive brown that seemed to take in everything and give nothing back. His hair was a messy, artful tumble of black and bleached-blonde, and he moved with a relaxed, almost languid confidence that felt utterly alien. He’d thanked you for letting him crash, his voice a smooth baritone that held none of the warmth you remembered.
“I’ll be quiet,” he’d promised, his gaze briefly meeting yours before sliding away to appraise the living room. “Won’t get in your way.”
For the first few days, he was true to his word—the perfect roommate. He’d leave early, come back late, wash his single dish, and disappear into his room. You’d see him sometimes in the morning, scrolling through his phone with a faint, unreadable smile while he ate breakfast. You’d mutter a “morning,” and he’d give a slight, noncommittal nod.
But the problem started that first weekend.
It was a Friday. You’d finally collapsed into bed at 1 AM after a brutal day in the library. Just as the fuzzy edges of sleep began to pull you under, you heard it. The murmur of voices from his room, down the hall. Then a giggle. Then a low, masculine rumble you recognized as Riki’s laugh, but different—slower, richer. Your eyes snapped open in the dark.
You told yourself it was a one-off. A Friday night. He was a young, attractive guy in his second year of university. It was normal.
But then it was Saturday. A different voice, higher-pitched. More giggling. Then, around 1:30 AM, a different sound cut through the wall. A soft, breathy moan. Then another. Then the rhythmic, unmistakable thump-thump-thump of a headboard meeting the wall with a steady, cadence.
You lay there, frozen, heat flooding your cheeks. You were angry, you decided. Purely, righteously angry. It was inconsiderate. It was rude. You had a dissertation to write. You needed sleep. You squeezed your eyes shut and shoved a pillow over your head, but it was no use. The sounds were a vivid, unwelcome painting in the dark: the creak of the bed, the girl’s escalating cries, Riki’s voice, a rough whisper you couldn’t make out but whose tone was unmistakably filthy, urging her on. It went on for what felt like an eternity before culminating in a sharp, female cry and then a heavy, satisfied silence.
You got maybe two hours of sleep.
Sunday was quiet. You saw him briefly in the kitchen, making coffee. He looked tired but content, a faint bruise-like mark on the side of his neck. He caught you looking and raised an eyebrow. You looked away first, your face burning.
“Sleep okay?” he asked, his voice bland.
“Just fine,” you lied, your voice tight.
The pattern solidified over the next week. Monday: a blonde. Tuesday: a redhead. Wednesday: quiet. Thursday: a brunette with a particularly loud, theatrical vocal range. It was like living next to a poorly soundproofed brothel. Your sleep fractured into miserable chunks. Dark circles bloomed under your eyes. Your focus, already strained by the mountain of academic work, shattered completely. You’d be reading a dense theoretical text and your brain would supply the sound of last night’s gasps. You’d be trying to formulate an argument and all you could think about was the rhythmic thumping against your shared wall.
The worst part was the confusion that churned in your gut alongside the anger. Because it wasn’t just noise. It was him. The transformation was so absolute it felt like a personal betrayal. That sweet, funny little boy who used to hide behind you during scary movies was now a… a philanderer. A player who cycled through women with a casual, almost bored kind of efficiency. And your body, traitorously, had noticed the details. The way his t-shirt stretched across his shoulders when he reached for a glass. The defined muscles of his biceps. The full, surprisingly soft-looking shape of his mouth, which you’d only ever seen quirked in that infuriatingly detached smirk.
It made you feel gross, this flicker of awareness. He was Hana’s little brother. You’d seen Mrs Nishimura potty-training him, for god’s sake. You’d seen him with a bowl-cut and braces. This… this physicality of him now was wrong. But when you saw him reaching for a cereal box one morning and you saw the fabric of his t-shirt pulling tight, outlining the powerful V of his torso, you couldn’t help but look away, your heart doing a stupid little stutter.
Another time, you’d dropped your pen and bent over to pick it up in the hallway. When you straightened, he was leaning against his doorframe, having just emerged from his room. His eyes weren’t on your face—no, they were on your ass, clad in sweatpants, and the look was so blatant, so slow and appraising, it felt like a physical touch. It wasn’t a glance. It was a stare, and he didn’t look away when you caught him, just let his gaze drag slowly back up to meet yours, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly before he pushed off the frame and walked to the bathroom without a word. Your skin had prickled for an hour afterwards.
Then there was the afternoon you came out of the shower, wrapped in just a towel, hair dripping. You’d thought he was in class, but it must have been cancelled, because he was in the living room, lounging on the couch, scrolling on his phone. His eyes lifted, and they didn’t dart away in polite embarrassment—they traveled from your damp hair, down over the towel tucked securely over your breasts, along your bare legs, and back up. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was heavy, hungry. It felt like he was undressing you with his eyes, mentally peeling the towel away. You’d scurried to your room, flushing from the tips of your ears to your toes, that confusing, unwanted heat pooling low in your belly. He’s Hana’s little brother, you’d chanted to yourself. You saw him in footie pajamas.
But that was the thing: you had to accept, eventually, the boy in footie pajamas had ceased to exist, and it became increasingly clear to you by his nightly routines.
You tried subtlety first. You started playing white noise on your phone: rain sounds, ocean waves, the whole lot of it. It drowned out the talking and the giggles, but the thudding of the headboard and the sharper cries pierced through. You took sleeping pills, but they left you groggy and useless the next day, and your dissertation couldn’t afford a groggy brain.
You considered texting Hana, but what would you even say? Your brother is a sex fiend and it’s keeping me awake? It felt pathetic. And a part of you, a stubborn, prideful part, didn’t want to tattle. You were an adult. He was an adult. You should be able to handle this.
So you stewed, and let the anger ferment into a thick, toxic resentment. Every polite, vacant smile he gave you in the hallway felt like an insult. Every time you heard the front door open late at night, your shoulders would tense. You began to catalog the sounds, each one a fresh brand on your patience. The click of the lock. The whispered conversations. The first, tentative moan. The dirty talk would even seep through the walls, much to your dismay. You’d be trying to read, and his voice, low and gritty, would cut through your concentration.
“Does it feel good? Taking all of me?”
A whimper in response.
“Yeah, you do. So fucking tight for me. Tell me.”
“I… I like it, Riki…”
“That’s it. Let the whole building know who’s making you feel this good.”
And she would. She’d cry out, and the headboard would pound faster. Yet another night, yet another different girl.
“Look at you. So greedy. Riding me like you’re trying to milk me dry.”
The wet, slapping sounds of skin on skin.
“Come on, baby. Squeeze me. Make yourself come on my cock.”
And she would, with a shattered scream that made you flinch at your desk. The sounds were graphic, instructional. You’d find yourself imagining the positions, the angles—you couldn’t help it. You’d imagine his hands, those large, long-fingered hands you’d seen holding a game controller or a water bottle, gripping a girl’s hips, digging into her thighs. You’d imagine his mouth, that surprisingly soft-looking mouth, on other parts of a woman’s body. The fantasies would pop into your head unbidden, shocking you with their clarity and their heat. You’d shake your head, trying to dislodge them, but they’d linger, leaving you restless and irritated.
Your work suffered. Your advisor sent a concerned email about your last draft. You snapped at a classmate over a minor disagreement. You were a raw nerve, and the constant, nightly soundtrack from Riki’s room was a cheese grater dragged over it.
The breaking point came on a Tuesday. A Tuesday. Who had loud, raucous sex on a Tuesday night before a midterm week? Nishimura Riki, apparently.
It started at 11 PM. You’d gone to bed early, desperate for just one full night of rest. The giggling started at 11:30. The headboard thumping began at midnight. You lay there, fists clenched in your sheets, counting each impact like a prisoner marking days on a wall. At 1 AM, the girl’s first orgasm echoed down the hall, a long, wailing cry that seemed to vibrate in your own bones. You shoved a second pillow over your face.
They took a break. You heard the faucet run in his room, low murmurs, a soft laugh. Please be over, you prayed. Please let him be done.
They were, in fact, not done.
Round two began. You could hear Riki’s voice now, a low, continuous stream of dirty talk.
“That’s it. Take it deeper. You can do it, I know you can.”
“Riki, please…”
“Please what? Say it.”
“Please—ngh—fuck me harder.”
“Good girl.”
Soon enough, a second, sharper climax came around 2:15 AM. You were sweating under your covers, your heart pounding with a rage so pure it felt like a fever.
And then, at 3 AM, it was still going. A third, shattering orgasm from the girl echoed down the hall, this one raw and sobbing. That was it.
A red haze descended over your vision. You threw off your covers, the cool air hitting your sweat-damp skin. You didn’t think. You just moved: stormed out of your room, feet slapping against the cool hardwood floor. You didn’t bother knocking. You didn’t even pause. You just shoved his door open, the knob rattling against the wall behind it.
The scene was illuminated by the dim, orange-pink glow of his salt lamp, casting long, suggestive shadows. Riki was on his bed, shirtless, the sheets pooled around his waist. A brunette girl—a different one from last week—was straddling him, her back to the door, her head thrown back in abandon. They were moving together in a slow, deep, grinding rhythm, and he had one large hand gripping the curve of her hip, fingers digging into her flesh, the other tangled in her hair, guiding her movements. His eyes, heavy-lidded and glazed with deep, uncomplicated pleasure, snapped to the door the moment it opened.
For a second, there was only the sound: their synchronized heavy breathing, the wet, slick sound of their joining, the soft rustle of sheets. The girl gasped, trying to twist to look, but Riki’s grip on her hip tightened, keeping her firmly in place on him. His gaze locked with yours, and in the dim light, you saw the surprise morph, in a heartbeat, into something else. A slow, infuriating smirk spread across his face—a smirk of pure, unadulterated amusement, the smirk of a guy who knew exactly what he was doing and found your furious intrusion the most entertaining thing that had happened all night.
“Well, hello,” he drawled, his voice hoarse and ragged from use. He didn’t stop moving beneath the girl. If anything, his upward thrusts seemed to become more deliberate, more pronounced, a blatant, theatrical show for his audience of one. The girl whimpered, her body shuddering. “Need something?”
All the angry, rehearsed speeches you’d composed in the dark dried up and turned to dust in your throat. You were face-to-face with a version of Riki you didn’t recognize, a version that was all animal heat and arrogant challenge. The salt lamp light painted his torso in gold and shadow. Sweat gleamed on the defined planes of his toned chest and the hard ridges of his abs. A light sheen coated his skin, highlighting the muscles of his arms and shoulders as he held the girl. His expression was a jarring mix of carnal satisfaction and mocking defiance, and the air in the room was thick, humid, and saturated with the musky smell of sex and sweat. It somehow felt both invasive and disturbingly intimate.
“Are you kidding me?” you finally spat out, your voice trembling with a rage so intense it vibrated in your teeth. “It’s three in the fucking morning on a Tuesday, Riki!”
He chuckled, the sound low and vibrating in his chest, a sound you felt in your own. The girl on top of him let out another soft cry, her back arching. “Sorry,” he said, not sounding the least bit sorry. His dark eyes raked over you, taking in your old, worn sleep shirt, your disheveled hair, your bare legs. His gaze felt physical, like a slow drag of a fingertip. “We lost track of time.” He paused, his hips giving another slow, deliberate roll that made the girl gasp. “You could always join. Might help you relax. You always look so… tense.”
The audacity. The sheer, unbelievable gall of it. It ignited something white-hot and explosive in your chest, burning away any last shred of awkwardness or misplaced nostalgia. “You insufferable, egotistical child,” you hissed, the words sharp as glass. “This isn’t a frat house! I have a life. I have work! I haven’t slept properly in ages because of your… your nightly activities!”
His smirk faltered for a millisecond, the corners of his mouth tightening. His eyes narrowed slightly, the mockery replaced by a flicker of something else—genuine surprise, maybe. He slowed his movements, his hands coming to rest more gently on the girl’s waist. “Hey, come on. It’s not that big a—”
“It is!” you shouted, the volume startling even you. The girl on top of him flinched violently. “You think this is funny? You think your little playboy act is cool? It’s pathetic and it’s rude! I didn’t agree to live with a walking, talking porno soundtrack!” You took a step further into the room, the smell of them hitting you harder. “I remember when you used to be afraid of the dark and needed a nightlight, Riki. I remember when you cried because you thought the monster in the closet would eat your toes. And now you just keep the whole building up with your disgusting noise!”
The references to his childhood hit their mark like a scalpel: his face shut down completely, the smirk vanishing, replaced by a blank, unreadable mask of stone. All the lazy confidence drained away, leaving something cold and hard in its place. The girl, now thoroughly uncomfortable and exposed, scrambled off him with a yelp, grabbing frantically for her clothes strewn on the floor. “I should, um, go,” she mumbled, her face scarlet, not meeting anyone’s eyes.
Riki didn’t move to stop her. He didn’t even look at her. His eyes were still fixed on you, dark and intense. He sat up slightly, the sheets falling lower, and you forced your gaze to remain on his face. The silence she left in her wake was deafening, broken only by the rustle of fabric as she dressed hurriedly. She slipped past you without a word, and a moment later, you heard the front door open and click shut.
Now it was just the two of you, in the aftermath. The bed was a mess. The air still hummed. Riki finally moved, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He was still gloriously, infuriatingly shirtless, and he made no move to cover himself. He just sat there, elbows on his knees, looking at you. The dim light carved the tension in his shoulders, the line of his spine.
“Feel better?” he asked, his voice flat, devoid of all its previous teasing warmth.
You stared at him, the adrenaline still coursing through you, making your hands shake. The flatness of his voice, the complete lack of remorse, was somehow more infuriating than the smirk. It was a dismissal. You were just a nuisance he was tolerating.
“No,” you said, your own voice cold and final. “I don’t.”
You turned on your heel and walked out, pulling his door shut with a firm, quiet click that felt more damning than a slam. You half-expected to hear it fly open again, for him to call after you, to offer some half-assed apology just to smooth things over.
Silence.
You stood in the dark hallway, listening to the absolute nothing from his room. No footsteps. No call of your name. Nothing. This brat.
The fury curdled into a sick, hollow feeling in your stomach. You went back to your room, climbed into your cold bed, and lay there staring at the ceiling. The apartment was now profoundly, unnervingly quiet. You could hear the hum of the refrigerator. The distant sound of a car passing. Your own heartbeat, slowing from its frantic pace.
You didn’t sleep. You just waited for dawn, trapped in the buzzing aftermath of your own outburst.
If it had been awkward before, the following week was on a completely different level.
Riki went back to being a ghost, but this time it felt intentional and punitive. He’d leave before you woke up. He’d come home long after you’d gone to bed. On the rare occasions your paths crossed—you coming out of your room to make lunch, him grabbing a protein shake from the fridge—the air would freeze solid. You’d mutter a tense “hey,” and he’d give a silent, barely perceptible nod, his eyes sliding past you as if you barely existed. The easy, if infuriating, nonchalance was gone, replaced by a frosty politeness that was infinitely worse.
The only benefit, you supposed, was the silence. No giggles, no headboards, no chorus of female pleasure echoing down the hall. The peace was absolute, and it should have been everything you wanted. You caught up on sleep. The dark circles under your eyes began to fade. You made actual, solid progress on your dissertation.
But the quiet felt loaded. You’d catch yourself listening for sounds that never came, and the absence felt louder than the noise ever had. A part of you, a part you hated, wondered where he was. Was he taking his “nightly parades” elsewhere? To some girl’s dorm, a hotel room? The thought shouldn’t have bothered you, but it did, a persistent, itchy curiosity in the back of your mind.
You felt guilty sometimes, in weak moments. You’d remember the look on his face right before you left. You’d told Hana’s little brother he was disgusting. You’d shamed him in front of a stranger. But then you’d remember the weeks of sleep deprivation, his arrogant smirk, and the guilt would harden back to anger.
He was being inconsiderate. You were in the right. You repeated it like a mantra.
One evening, about ten days after The Confrontation, you were in the kitchen making a late dinner when you heard him in his room. It was a Thursday. You’d just submitted a draft chapter to your advisor and felt a rare, buoyant sense of accomplishment. You were humming, chopping vegetables, when his door opened.
He emerged, and you instinctively stilled. He was dressed to go out: dark jeans that hugged his long legs, a simple black t-shirt that stretched across the defined muscles of his chest and shoulders, a leather jacket slung over his arm. His hair was artfully messy, and he smelled clean. The sight sent a stupid, unwelcome jolt through your system.
He was heading for the door, not even glancing toward the kitchen.
“Going out?” you heard yourself ask, the words coming out before you could stop them. You aimed for a tone of casual, neutral inquiry.
He paused, his hand on the doorknob, and slowly turned his head. His expression was carefully blank. “Yeah.”
“Oh.” You nodded, forcing yourself to resume chopping a bell pepper. “Okay. Well. Have fun.”
“Party,” he offered shortly. “I’ll probably be late.”
A party. Of course. That’s where he’d been exporting his activities. Relief and something else, something sharper, twisted together in your gut. “Right. Well. Don’t… don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” It was an old, stupid joke you and Hana used to say.
His eyes met yours for a fraction of a second, a flash of something unreadable in their dark depths. “Alright,” he said, his voice still flat. Then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.
You stood there, the knife idle in your hand. The apartment was empty. Truly, completely empty. For the first time in weeks, you had the space to yourself, with no threat of interruption, no ambient tension humming through the walls. The sense of freedom was immediate and heady. You finished your dinner, ate it watching an absolutely awful episode of Married At First Sight, and felt the knots in your shoulders begin to unwind.
You were ahead of your deadlines. The silence was a gift. And your body, which had been wound so tight for so long, was thrumming with a restless energy that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the sudden, profound absence of the very thing that had been driving you crazy.
It started as a simple thought. You’re alone. You’re stressed. You deserve to relax.
You took a long, hot shower, washing away the mental grime of the day. You didn’t rush. You luxuriated in the steam, letting your hands slide over your skin. When you got out, you didn’t put on your usual sleep shorts and baggy t-shirt. You pulled on your silky pajamas instead, and climbed into bed, the sheets cool and smooth against your skin. You picked up your phone, scrolled aimlessly for a few minutes, but your mind wouldn’t settle. It kept drifting back to the fact that he was gone. That you could make any noise you wanted, and no one would hear.
A slow, warm pulse began low in your belly. It was an idle throb at first, easily ignored. You shifted to your side, trying to get comfortable, but the movement only pressed the seam of your panties against your clit, sending a tiny, electric spark through you. You let out a soft breath.
Why not?
Your hand slid down your stomach, under the waistband of your pajamas, and over the thin cotton of your panties. You were already damp. The realization made your cheeks heat, but you didn’t stop. You pressed the heel of your hand against yourself, applying a firm, steady pressure. A low sigh escaped your lips. It felt good. So good. To finally touch yourself without the subconscious fear of being overheard, of having to be quiet.
You let your eyes drift shut, focusing on the sensation. The initial tension began to melt, replaced by a spreading warmth. You slipped your hand beneath the your panties, your fingers finding your wetness with a sense of relief. You were slick, already swollen and sensitive. You circled your clit with two fingers, a slow, lazy rhythm, letting the pleasure build in gentle waves.
But your mind, treacherous thing, needed a focus. It drifted from abstract sensation to memory. And the memories that surfaced weren’t from old boyfriends or fantasy scenarios. They were auditory. They were his.
The low, rough whisper from through the wall. “You look so fucking pretty like this.” You could hear it perfectly, the timbre of his voice when it was stripped of its usual casual detachment, thickened with desire. Your fingers moved faster.
Another memory. The brunette from the other week, her breathy, desperate pleading. “Riki, please, I’m gonna—” and his response, a guttural, commanding, “Come for me, baby.” A full-body shudder wracked you. Your hips lifted off the mattress, seeking more pressure. You imagined that voice directed at you.
You were panting now, your free hand coming up to palm your tits through your shirt. You pinched your nipple through the fabric, rolling it between your thumb and forefinger, the pleasure of it making you cry out softly. The images in your head were getting clearer, more invasive. Not just his voice, but the sight of him from that night—shirtless, powerful, in control, sweat gleaming on his skin, his hands gripping those hips, that dark, intense gaze locked on yours even as he moved inside someone else.
“You always look so tense.”
A whimper tore from your throat. You were so wet, your fingers sliding easily, the sounds obscene in the quiet of your room. You added a second finger, dipping inside yourself, curling them, searching. Your back arched. You thought of his hands. Big, with long fingers. Capable hands that could grip a basketball or a girl’s waist with equal ease. You imagined them on you. One tangling in your hair, pulling your head back. The other spreading your thighs apart, his thumb replacing your frantic fingers on your clit, applying a ruthless, perfect pressure.
“That’s it, take it all. Good girl.”
The fantasy spiraled, out of control and all-consuming. It wasn’t the faceless girls anymore. It was you in his bed. You under him. You on top of him, riding him the way that girl had, his hands guiding your hips, his eyes dark and hungry only for you. The rhythm of your fingers matched the imaginary rhythm of his thrusts—deep, slow, then fast and punishing. You could almost feel the stretch, the delicious, filling pressure of him. Your breaths came in ragged gasps. You were moaning openly now, the sounds muffled only by your own pillow. You were so close. The coil in your core was wound impossibly tight, shimmering on the edge of release.
You needed one more thing. One more anchor to tip you over. Your brain, fogged with lust, supplied it.
“Riki,” you moaned into the darkness, the name a broken sigh. It felt forbidden and thrilling on your tongue. “Oh my, hngh, Riki.” You said it again, louder, as you drove your fingers deeper. “Riki…”
The climax was rushing toward you, a tidal wave of sensation. Your eyes were squeezed shut, your entire world narrowed to the frantic movement of your hand and the filthy, perfect fantasy in your head. You were chanting his name now, a soft, desperate litany against the onslaught of your pleasure.
“Riki—ah, oh—Riki… fuck, Riki…”
You were right there. The peak was a white-hot point of light behind your eyelids. Your body tightened, every muscle straining. One more second. One more—
“Y/N?”
This time, the voice was real. It was low, husky, and came from the doorway of your bedroom.
Your eyes flew open.
The light from the hallway silhouetted him, tall and broad-shouldered, filling the frame of your open door. Riki. He was still in his jacket, his hair slightly wind-tossed. He must have come back. He must have been standing there. For how long?
The shock was so absolute, so seismic, that it triggered your orgasm. The wave you’d been teetering on crashed over you with devastating, uncontrollable force. A sharp, punched-out cry ripped from your throat as your back bowed off the bed. Your hips jerked, your inner muscles fluttering wildly around your own fingers. Pleasure, white-hot and blinding, electrocuted your system, magnified a thousandfold by the sheer, horrifying shame of being seen. Your vision blurred at the edges. The sensations rolled through you in endless, punishing waves, your body convulsing through the orgasm he had witnessed, that his voice had caused.
You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe. You were trapped in the aftershocks, your hand still buried between your legs, your shirt rucked up, your chest heaving. The air in the room, so charged with your own solitary pleasure a moment ago, was now thick with something else—a stunned humiliation.
Riki didn’t move from the doorway. The shadows hid his expression, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on you, on your exposed skin, on the visible tremors still wracking your body. The silence stretched, taut and unbearable, broken only by your ragged, slowing breaths.
Finally, he took a single, slow step into the room. The floorboard creaked under his weight. The dim light from the hall caught the sharp line of his jaw, the dark intensity of his eyes as they adjusted to the deeper gloom of your bedroom. He was looking right at you, his gaze dropping to where your hand was still tucked under the covers, to the rapid rise and fall of your chest.
A slow, deep breath escaped him. It wasn’t a laugh. It was something more considering.
“So,” he said, his voice a low, rough rasp that scraped over every nerve ending you had. It was the voice from your fantasy, but it was real, and it was directed at you. “That’s what you do when I’m not here.”
“What are you doing back already?” you stammered, your voice a thin, reedy thing. You jerked your hand from under the covers, tugging the hem of your shirt down and yanking the sheet up to your chin. The movement was frantic, pathetic. “I thought you were going to be out longer.”
Riki didn’t move from where he stood, just inside your door. He shrugged, the leather of his jacket creaking softly. “Was boring,” he said, his tone flat, but his eyes were anything but. They were tracking your every twitch, every rapid breath. “Didn’t wanna waste my time there.”
“Oh.” The syllable was useless. Your brain was scrambling, trying to find solid ground. You forced a weak, brittle laugh. “Um, wow. Didn’t know you could run out of prospects.”
His lips, those infuriatingly perfect lips, quirked in a shadow of his old smirk. It wasn’t amused. It was predatory. “Maybe the one I wanted wasn’t there.”
The implication hung in the air between you, a live wire. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You brushed it off with an awkward, choked sound that was supposed to be a laugh. It came out as a gasp. You cleared your throat, the sound absurdly loud. “So, um.” You couldn’t look at him. You stared at the pattern on your duvet. “How much of that did you hear?” The question was a desperate, hopeful prayer. Please, please say you just walked in at the end. Please say you didn’t hear me moaning your name like a desperate, pathetic—
He took another step forward. The dim light from the hall now fully illuminated his face. His dark eyes were gleaming, intense, fixed on you. That slow, knowing smile spread across his face again.
“Enough,” he said, his voice dropping to that low, rough rasp that made your stomach clench. “Enough to hear you calling for me. My name sounded real pretty coming from your mouth, Y/N. All breathy and fucked-out.” He took another step.
You flinched as if he’d struck you. “That’s not—”
“All that time,” he continued, cutting you off, his voice gaining a hard, possessive edge. He was standing at the foot of your bed now, a tall, dark silhouette of intent. “All that time you were banging on my door, so fucking mad about the noise… you were just mad about not being the one in my bed, huh?”
“No,” you whispered, but it was a lie, and he knew it. The memory of your own fantasy, of his imagined voice and hands, was seared into your mind, undeniable. Your protest died in your throat.
He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the footboard. The movement made the muscles in his arms flex, defined even under the jacket. Your breath hitched.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping over you, taking in your flushed face, your wide eyes, the rapid pulse beating in your throat. “Your eyelashes are fucking fluttering. You’re breathing like you just ran a mile. For me.”
You were. You couldn’t stop. Every inhale felt like a struggle. He was so close. The energy radiating from him was overwhelming, a magnetic pull that your body was desperate to answer. Your mind was a riot of conflict—shame, desire, a lifetime of seeing him as Hana’s little brother, and the undeniable reality of the man in front of you.
“Riki, this is—we can’t,” you managed to say, your voice trembling. “This is a bad idea. You’re Hana’s baby brother. This is so wrong.”
The words were the wrong ones.
His face darkened instantly. The possessive heat in his eyes hardened into something fierce, almost angry. He pushed off the footboard and in one fluid, startlingly fast motion, he was on the bed, kneeling over you. He didn’t touch you, but his presence caged you in, his knees on either side of your legs under the sheet.
“‘Baby brother’?” he repeated, the words a low, dangerous growl. “Is that what you see? After what you were just doing? Moaning my name while you fucked yourself on your fingers?” He leaned down, his face inches from yours. His breath was warm against your lips. “How much more do I need to do to prove to you that I’m a man now, Y/N? A man.” He looked away momentarily, scoffing and running a hand through his hair. “And this man,” he emphasised, “is going to fuck you so hard the only name you can remember is his. Do you understand me?”
The words shouldn’t have made you clench with a fresh, aching throb of need, but they did. You stared up at him, mesmerized and terrified.
“I…” you began, but no other words came.
“I’ve wanted you,” he said, his voice dropping to a tortured, confessional rasp. His forehead tipped against yours. You could feel the tension thrumming through him. “Since I was old enough to remember. Every time you came over with Hana. Every time you smiled at me. Every fucking time you wore some tiny little outfit and talked to me like I was a kid, and all I could think about was how badly I wanted to peel it off you with my teeth. Every boyfriend I saw you with, every single one who made you cry—I wanted to break their faces, Y/N. Hana would hug you, and I’d just sit there, shaking with anger. Because it should have been me. It should have always been me.”
The obsession in his voice stole the air from your lungs. It was terrifying. It was the most thrilling thing you’d ever heard.
His lips brushed yours, the lightest whisper of contact. “You have no idea,” he murmured against your mouth. “No idea what you do to me. Seeing you like this… hearing you…” he breathed out a laugh. “I’m about to lose my fucking mind.”
Then his mouth was on yours.
It wasn’t a gentle kiss. His lips were firm, demanding, and you opened for him instantly, a soft whimper escaping you. One of his hands tangled in your hair, angling your head to deepen the kiss, while the other finally, finally pushed the sheet away.
The cool air hit your skin, but you were burning up. His kiss was consuming, a feedback loop of pent-up desire. You kissed him back with a desperation that matched his own, your hands coming up to grip the front of his jacket, pulling him closer. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and the hand in your hair tightened just shy of painful.
He broke the kiss, breathing heavily, his forehead resting against yours. “Fuck, you taste good,” he rasped. His eyes were black with want.
Before you could process what was happening, he was moving. He shoved your shirt up, exposing your breasts, and ducked his head. His mouth closed over one nipple, sucking hard through the flimsy fabric of your bra. You cried out, arching off the bed. Then he lavished the same attention on the other, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak, making you gasp and writhe.
“Riki…” you moaned.
“Yeah,” he muttered against your skin, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your sternum, over your trembling stomach. “That’s it. Say it again. Louder.”
He hooked his fingers in the sides of your pajamas and panties and dragged them both down your legs in one rough, swift motion, the fabric scraping against your thighs before he tossed them aside like they were nothing. You were completely exposed to him now, your bare pussy glistening in the dim light, folds swollen and slick from the earlier fucking, arousal dripping steadily from your entrance. He knelt between your spread legs, his strong hands shoving your thighs wider apart, knees pressing into the mattress to lock you open for his inspection.
“Jesus,” he breathed, the crude confidence momentarily replaced by something like reverence. His eyes locked on yours, dark and predatory, as he stared at your exposed core, taking in every detail—the way your outer lips parted slightly to reveal the pink, wet inner folds, your clit peeking out hard and throbbing, begging for attention. “Look at you. Soaked. All for me.” He leaned forward, his breath ghosting over your heated skin, and you shuddered violently. “Been dreaming about this cunt since I knew what to do with one.”
He reached forward with both hands, thumbs and fingers gripping your outer lips firmly, pulling them apart wide to expose your dripping hole completely. The cool air hit your sensitive inner walls, making you clench involuntarily, a fresh bead of your juices trickling out. Riki’s gaze zeroed in, obsessed, his breath coming faster as he watched it glisten. Then he leaned down close, his face inches from your spread pussy, he pursed his lips and spat directly onto your open entrance—a thick, warm glob of saliva landing right on your clit before dripping down slowly, mixing with your arousal and sliding into your folds. You watched it all, mesmerized by the filthy sight of his spit trailing over your most intimate parts, coating everything in a shiny, messy sheen. It was so degrading, so gross, but the heat pooling in your core said otherwise—your pussy fluttered at the sensation, more wetness gushing out to join the slick mess.
Fuck.
You tipped your head back against the pillow, a whimper escaping as you covered your eyes with your hands, cheeks burning with embarrassment. Why did this turn you on so much? It should feel wrong, humiliating, but your body betrayed you, hips twitching toward him desperately.
“Nuh-uh, baby,” Riki growled, his voice low and commanding. He grabbed your wrists in one hand, yanking them away from your face and pinning them above your head with bruising force. “Don’t you dare. Keep those eyes on me, Y/N. You better remember every single second of this.”
The first touch of his tongue was a revelation—hot, wet, and insistent, a long, flat lick from your spit-slick entrance all the way up to your throbbing clit, lapping up the combined mess of your juices and his saliva in one greedy swipe. You jolted, a broken sound tearing from your throat. He didn’t stop, dragging his tongue back down and up again, slower this time, his nose bumping against your mound as he buried his face deeper, and you couldn’t stop your hips from lifting off the mattress, seeking more.
“Hold still,” he ordered, his voice muffled against you. His hands came up to grip your thighs, his fingers digging in, holding you open, holding you down.
He zeroed in on your clit then, swollen and aching for him, circling it with the tip of his tongue in tight, teasing loops that had your hips bucking despite his grip. Then he sucked it into his hot mouth, lips sealing around it as he nursed hard, tongue flicking rapidly against the underside. The suction pulled a mewl from you. He alternated—gentle laps to build the ache, then harsh sucks that bordered on too much, his teeth grazing lightly to send spirals of mixed pain and bliss racing up your spine.
“You’re so goddamn wet, baby,” he breathed out, the vibration against your most sensitive spot making you cry out. Your hands tangled in his hair, clutching desperately, knuckles white as you held on for dear life. He growled in approval, the sound rumbling through your pussy, and slid two thick fingers into your clenching hole without warning. They sank in easily, your walls sucking them deep, and he curled them immediately, hooking against that spongy spot inside you, stroking it with precise, come-hither motions that made your toes curl and your vision spot.
Pumping his fingers in and out, he matched the rhythm to his tongue’s assault—thrust, lick, suck, thrust—building the pressure. Your arousal squirted out around his knuckles with each plunge, soaking his hand, wrist, and the sheets below in a growing puddle. “Fuck, listen to that squelch,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to spit on your clit again, watching it drip down to where his fingers pistoned. “Listen to the sounds your pussy’s making, baby. Creaming all over my hand like you can’t get enough.”
The pleasure coiled tighter in your belly, hotter and more intense than before, every flick, every curl, every filthy word unravelling you further, your thighs quaking uncontrollably around his head.
“I’m—I can’t, Riki, please,” you babbled, voice breaking as the edge hovered, your body a live wire under his touch.
“You can,” he commanded, his voice a dark promise. “Come on my tongue, Y/N. Do it.”
It was his commanding tone that tipped you over the edge. The first orgasm tore through you, your inner muscles fluttering wildly around his fingers, your release coating his hand and chin. He didn’t let up, licking and sucking you through the shattering waves, drawing out every last pulse of pleasure until you were a boneless, trembling heap, sensitive and overstimulated.
Only then did he lift his head. His lips were glistening, his chin wet. He looked up at you, his eyes heavy-lidded with satisfaction, and slowly licked his lips. The sight was the most obscenely erotic thing you’d ever witnessed.
“Fuck,” you whispered, utterly spent.
He crawled back up your body, his weight settling over you. He kissed you again, deep and slow, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. It was intimate and filthy and it made a new, aching throb of desire pulse deep inside you.
“We’re not done,” he murmured against your lips. He sat back on his heels and shrugged off his leather jacket, letting it fall to the floor. Then he pulled his black t-shirt over his head in one smooth motion.
Your breath caught. You’d seen him shirtless that night in his doorway, but this was different. This was up close, for you. The defined planes of his chest and abdomen, the cut of his hips above his jeans, the way his muscles moved under smooth, golden skin. He was beautiful. He was all man. He leaned over you again, kissing you, his bare chest brushing against your sensitive nipples. You could feel the hard length of him straining against his jeans, pressed against your thigh. The evidence of his want, for you, was undeniable.
“Condom,” he muttered, breaking the kiss. “In my back pocket.”
You fumbled for it, your fingers clumsy as you reached around to the back pocket of his dark jeans. You felt the foil packet, pulled it out. He took it from you, his eyes never leaving yours as he ripped it open with his teeth. He shifted back, making quick work of his belt and the button of his jeans. He pushed them and his boxers down just enough to free himself.
You looked. He was thick, length curving slightly, the head already flushed and wet, intensely impressive and kind of intimidating.
Sheathing himself, he moved back over you, settling between your thighs. The head of his cock nudged at your entrance, which was still pulsing and slick from your orgasm and his ministrations. He paused, his body trembling with the effort of holding still.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice rough.
You dragged your gaze from where your bodies were about to join, up to his eyes. They were burning.
“You’re mine now,” he stated, no room for argument. “This pussy is mine. You understand? No one else gets to have it. Ever. And after tonight, you’re never going to look at me like I’m a kid again. You’re going to look at me and remember how deep I can fuck you. How hard I can make you come. You’re mine.”
You nodded, a desperate, eager sound escaping you.
He didn’t wait. He pushed forward, sinking into you in one slow, inexorable thrust.
The stretch was exquisite, a perfect, filling pressure that made your eyes roll back. You were so wet, so ready, he slid in to the hilt without resistance, his hips meeting yours with a soft, final sound.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder. His breath came in ragged bursts against your skin, hot and uneven, as he held himself still inside you, letting the sensation of your tight walls gripping his thick cock sink in. Every inch of him throbbed, pulsing deep in your core, and you could feel the way your pussy clenched around him involuntarily, clutching him like it never wanted to let go.
Riki lifted his head slowly, his eyes locking onto yours again, that possessive fire blazing brighter than ever. “Goddamnit, baby, you feel like fucking heaven wrapped around my dick. Waited years for this,” he panted. “Used to jerk off in my room thinking about burying myself balls-deep in this sweet little cunt.”
You whimpered, your hands clutching at his shoulders as the fullness of him stretched you so perfectly it bordered on overwhelming.
A low, guttural growl rumbled from his chest, and he pulled back just an inch, the drag of his veined shaft against your sensitive inner walls sending sparks shooting through you. Then he snapped his hips forward again, slower this time, deliberate, making you feel every ridge and bump as he sank back in. The wet slide was obscene, your arousal coating him already, easing the way but making a slick, squelching sound that filled the room. “Listen to that sloppy cunt of yours,” he breathed, his voice husky with awe and filthy pleasure. He pulled out again, almost completely, watching with rapt attention where you were joined. “Fucking dripping for me. Can you hear it?” He thrust back in, a little faster, and the wet, rhythmic schlick echoed in the quiet of your room.
“Riki,” you moaned, the humiliation of the sound mixing with an intense, perverse thrill.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his hips beginning to set a steady, deep rhythm. He wasn’t frantic. He was savoring. Each stroke was a long, slow withdrawal followed by a firm, full re-entry that punched the air from your lungs. “Let me hear it. Let me hear how fucking wet you are for me.”
He leaned down, bracing his weight on his forearms beside your head, his face inches from yours. This close, you could see the sweat beading on his temple, the faint tremor in his jaw as he controlled his pace. His thrusts were deep, each one grinding the base of his cock against your clit in a way that had your toes curling into the sheets.
“Did I tell you to look away?” he asked, his voice strained with effort.
You forced your eyes open, meeting his burning gaze. Sweat was already beading on his brow, dripping down the strong column of his throat. His biceps corded with each push and pull. He was a work of art in motion, all predatory grace and raw power.
“This is what you wanted,” he said, not a question, a fact. He punctuated it with a particularly sharp thrust that made you cry out. “Wasn’t it? You were fucking jealous. Admit it.”
You shook your head, but it was a weak denial, shattered by the pleasure drawing tight in your belly. “N-no…”
He laughed, a dark, breathless sound. “Liar.” He shifted his angle slightly, leaning over you, one hand braced by your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. The new position made him go even deeper, his pubic bone grinding against your clit with every punishing stroke. “You heard those other girls screaming my name and you pictured yourself here. Under me, taking every fucking inch. Didn’t you?”
A sob broke from your lips. It was too much. The physical sensation, the psychological dismantling. He was right. He’d seen straight through you from the start. “Y-yeah,” you gasped, the confession torn from you.
“Yeah,” he echoed, a feral triumph in his voice. His thrusts became faster, harder, less controlled. The wet, slapping sounds of your bodies meeting grew louder, mingling with his ragged grunts and your helpless moans. “Say it again. Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”
“You,” you choked out, arching into him. “It’s yours, Riki.”
“Damn right it is.” He drove into you, over and over, the force of it jolting your entire body. The coil inside you was winding to a impossible tightness again, a spring ready to snap. You could feel your second orgasm building.
“I’m gonna come,” you warned, your voice a shattered whisper. “Riki, I’m gonna—”
“Come,” he snarled, his control snapping. His hips pistoned into you, brutal and perfect, and your orgasm washed over you. Every muscle seized in electric waves. Your pussy spasmed wildly around his thrusting cock, inner walls rippling in frantic contractions that squeezed him like a vice, gushing a hot flood of your juices that soaked his balls and thighs, dripping down to puddle on the sheets. Your eyes filled with hot tears, your body shaking uncontrollably. He fucked you through it, relentless, drawing out the pulses until you were sobbing, oversensitive and wrecked, your clit pulsing against him in aftershocks. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He kept moving, his thrusts becoming shorter, more frantic, chasing his own release. You whimpered, overstimulated, trying to shift away, but he held you pinned.
“Uh-uh,” he growled, his voice thick with lust. “Not done. I’m not even close.” He pulled out of you suddenly, leaving you feeling achingly empty and exposed. The cool air hit your skin, making you shudder.
But before you could process the loss, his hands were on you, pulling you up with a startling ease. He pulled your hips up, forcing you onto your knees.
“Up,” he ordered, his voice gravel. “Sit up. On me.”
Your mind foggy, you let him maneuver you. He sat back against the headboard, his newly sheathed cock standing straight up, glistening. He guided your trembling thighs to straddle him, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his hands strong on your waist. “Now put it back in. Take what’s yours.”
You were shaking, your muscles liquid. You reached between your bodies, your fingers wrapping around his hard, hot length. You guided him to your entrance, which felt swollen, tender, and impossibly wet. You sank down slowly, a low, continuous moan falling from your lips as you sheathed him inside you once more, taking him all the way to the base. The feeling of fullness was breathtaking, different now that you were in control, that you were the one lowering yourself onto him.
“Oh, god,” you breathed, your head falling back.
“Look at you,” he marveled, his hands smoothing up your sides, over your ribs, to cup your tits. His thumbs brushed your nipples. “Riding my cock. Look how well you take it.” His gaze dropped to where your bodies joined. “So fucking pretty.”
He didn’t move his hips. He let you set the pace. You rose up slowly, the drag exquisite and torturous, until just the head of him remained inside you, then sank back down, swallowing him whole with a soft, wet sound. A shiver wracked you.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice a dark caress. “Use me. Fuck yourself on my dick. Get yourself off again. You can do it. I know you can. This hungry little pussy can come all night for me.”
His words fueled you. You began to move in earnest, bouncing on his lap. Each time you came down, his pelvis ground against your clit, sending jolts of sharp, oversensitive pleasure-pain through you. Your juices coated his shaft, your thighs, making the slide easier, louder. The room filled with the sound of skin slapping, of wet, sucking noises, of your mutual groans.
“Talk to me,” he gritted out, his hands gripping your hips, helping to guide you. “Tell me how it feels.”
“It feels… so full,” you gasped, your hands braced on his shoulders. “So deep… you’re so deep, Riki…”
“Yeah? You like being stuffed with my cock? Like having it stretch out that pretty, used-up pussy?”
“Yes,” you whimpered, riding him faster. “I love it. I love it, Riki.”
“Tell me what you love.”
“I love… your cock,” you admitted, the words feeling dangerous and freeing. “I love how big it is… how it feels inside me… I love how wet you make me… how sloppy…”
He groaned, his head thudding back against the headboard. “Fuck. Keep going.”
“I love the sounds,” you babbled, lost in the sensation, in the permission his dirty talk gave you. “The wet sounds… I used to hate… them… but I love them now… because it’s you—it’s us…”
“It’s always been us,” he rasped, his eyes blazing up at you. “Everyone else was fucking nothing. You were made for me. Weren’t you?”
You couldn’t speak. You just nodded frantically, your movements becoming desperate, chasing that peak again. You were so sensitive it was almost painful, every nerve ending screaming, but the need was too great. You were a creature of pure need, reduced to this.
He saw it. He felt your inner walls beginning to flutter. “That’s it. I can feel it. You’re gonna come again, aren’t you? Go on, then, make a fucking mess for me.”
The third orgasm hit like a sloppy, uncontrollable explosion, tearing a ragged, ugly scream from your throat. Your vision tunneled to black spots, head thrashing side to side as your body locked up, then jerked in harsh, erratic spasms. Inside, your cunt clamped down hard on his pistoning dick, walls contracting in messy, uneven squeezes that forced out spurts of your slick, spraying messily over his groin and the sheets below. You were a sweating, shaking wreck, drool slipping from your parted lips as the waves dragged on, your hole twitching greedily, trying to pull him deeper even as you whined from the overstimulation.
“Fuck… I’m gonna… Y/N…” he gasped, your name a prayer and a curse, his voice cracking with the strain. He held you through it, his arm like a steel band around your back, his hips never stopping their relentless, upward drives. He was fucking you through your climax again, extending it, pushing you into a place of near unbearable sensitivity where pleasure and pain blurred into one blinding, brilliant sensation.
Your tits bounced wildly with the force of his thrusts, the peaks tight and pebbled. Through the haze of your own release, you saw his eyes drop, his gaze locked on the frantic, jiggling motion. A low, animal groan rumbled from him.
Before you could even come down, before the last tremors had fully subsided, his grip shifted. The hand in your hair tightened, pulling your head forward again, while the arm around your back urged you down, closer. “Come here,” he rasped, his voice thick with imminent release. “I want them—need to—”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He guided your upper body down until your breasts were level with his face. Your nipples brushed his lips, and he didn’t hesitate. He took one into his mouth, hot and wet and hungry.
You cried out, a sharp, shocked sound, as his tongue lashed the sensitive peak, his lips sucking hard, teeth scraping occasionally.The direct, intimate stimulation on your already screaming nerves was too much, and yet not enough. He switched to the other breast, giving it the same fierce, devoted attention, sucking and nipping with just the right edge of teeth. Your tits were bouncing right against his face with the continued, desperate rhythm of his hips, and he leaned into it, nuzzling, kissing, worshipping you with a fervor that bordered on desperation.
The visual, the feeling—his hot mouth on you, his hard cock buried to the hilt inside you, the obscene wet sounds of your joining, the sweat-slick slide of your skin against his—it was all too much. You could feel him swelling even more inside you, feel the frantic, telltale pulse of his shaft against your inner walls.
He released your nipple with a wet pop, his head falling back against the headboard, his eyes squeezed shut. His beautiful face was a mask of agonized pleasure, his jaw clenched, a vein throbbing in his temple. His thrusts became shallow, frantic jerks, losing all rhythm.
“Y/N—” he gasped. His eyes flew open, locking onto yours. “Come with me,” he begged, his voice breaking. “One more time. Come with me, baby. Please.”
You didn’t think you could. You were spent, hollowed out, a trembling shell. But the sight of him, Nishimura Riki, brought to his knees—literally beneath you—by the feel of your body, by you… it ignited one last, faint ember. You focused on the feel of him, on the thick, urgent pulse of him inside you, on the possessive grip of his hands on your body. You bore down, clenching around him with every last bit of strength you had, feeling the latex barrier of the condom as his shaft swelled impossibly thicker.
It was enough.
A broken shout tore from his lips, a raw, ragged sound of pure release that vibrated through his chest. His entire body went rigid beneath you, then shuddered violently, hips bucking up in sharp, erratic jerks. You felt the hot, thick pulse of his come inside the condom, a rhythmic flooding that ballooned the tip with his load, the barrier filling with spurt after heavy spurt until it leaked a bit at the base from the pressure. His grip turned bruising, grinding you onto him as he emptied himself, grunting like an animal, sweat pouring down his temples.
The feeling of him coming undone made a weak, breathy moan escape you as a tiny, fluttering orgasm rippled through you, your inner muscles giving feeble, lazy twitches around his still-throbbing cock, a last trickle of your arousal seeping out to mix with the sweat and mess between you.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged, gasping breaths, the frantic hammering of your hearts. But slowly, the tension bled from his body. His grip on you loosened, his arms falling to his sides, boneless. His head lolled back, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in deep, heaving breaths. A sheen of sweat covered him from head to toe, gleaming in the dim light.
You were still straddling him, still impaled. You felt too heavy to move, your muscles utterly useless. You simply slumped forward, your forehead coming to rest against his sweaty shoulder.
Then, a low, breathless chuckle vibrated through his chest. You felt it against your cheek.
You lifted your head, just enough to look at him. His eyes were still closed, but a slow, utterly spent, and genuine smile was spreading across his face. It wasn’t the smirk from the doorway. It wasn’t the feral grin from when he’d first entered you. This was softer. Younger, somehow. Tired and happy.
“Holy shit,” he breathed, the words barely audible.
You couldn’t help it. A weak, shaky laugh bubbled out of you too. It sounded slightly hysterical. “Yeah,” you whispered, your voice hoarse from screaming.
He opened his eyes then, and looked up at you, his gaze traveling over your flushed face, your messy hair, your body still draped over his. His smile widened.
“You,” he said, his voice rough but tender, “are fucking incredible.”
Your chest felt tight at the words.
He seemed to read the hesitation in your eyes. His smile softened further. He lifted a heavy hand, his fingers brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. The touch was startlingly gentle. “C’mere,” he murmured, his arms coming up to wrap around you properly, pulling you fully against his chest.
You went willingly, your body melting into his. The position was awkward with him still inside you, but neither of you made a move to separate. You rested your head in the crook of his neck, your nose pressed against his skin. His heartbeat was a steady, strong drum against your ear, slowly returning to normal.
You lay like that for what felt like an eternity, wrapped in each other.
But eventually, the practicalities began to intrude. You were starting to feel sore in places you hadn’t known could be sore. He shifted slightly beneath you, a wince crossing his features.
“Okay,” he sighed, his voice sleepy. “We gotta… deal with this.” He patted your back gently. “Up you get. Careful.”
You nodded, bracing your hands on his shoulders. With a soft, wet sound, you lifted yourself off him, his softening cock slipping free. A wave of sensitivity, and a sudden, strange feeling of emptiness, washed over you. You collapsed onto the mattress beside him, onto your back, staring up at the ceiling.
You heard him move, the rustle of him dealing with the condom, the soft thump as it presumably landed in the trash can by his bed. Then the bed dipped as he lay down beside you, on his side, propped up on an elbow. He just looked at you, his expression unreadable.
You turned your head to meet his gaze. “What?”
He shook his head slowly, a faint, wondering smile on his lips. “Just looking.” His eyes traced over your face, down your neck, over your bare, heaving chest. “You’re real. This was real.”
“Yep,” you said, your voice still a whisper. “All real.”
He chuckled. “Understatement of the century.” He reached out, his fingers tracing a lazy pattern on your stomach. “You okay?”
You swallowed hard. “I’m… yeah. I’m okay. Sore. Wrecked. But okay.” You paused. “You?”
“Best I’ve ever been,” he said without a hint of irony. He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder. “Seriously. That was… I have no words.”
You believed him. The awe in his voice was real.
Silence fell again, but it was comfortable now. The tension that had crackled between you for weeks, all the anger, the jealousy, the unspoken desire, was all gone, dissipated. And the aftermath of it felt peaceful, if a little complicated.
“Hana’s gonna kill me,” you blurted out suddenly.
Riki’s laughter was a warm, rich sound that filled the room. He rolled onto his back, one arm flung “Oh, don’t you worry, she’s gonna murder me first. Slowly and painfully.” He peeked out from under his arm at you. “Worth it, though.”
You couldn’t help but smile. “Worth it,” you echoed back softly.
ʚɞ summary - you were never supposed to be the girl at the gallery. just the annoying little sister. a background character, the stubborn omega with her scent locked away and her life carefully contained. but ninety unguarded seconds is all it takes for lee heeseung—your older brother’s best friend—to catch a trace of jasmine and rain and spend a year chasing a ghost. but what he doesn’t know is that his ghost lives down the hall, pretending not to hear him searching. and when the clock finally strikes and he realizes the girl he’s been hunting is the one he’s been fighting for a decade, there’s no glass slipper or fairy godmother—just your thighs around his waist, a bite mark that brands, and a line you’ll never be able to step back across ever again.
ʚɞ tags - 18+ MDNI, f!reader, brother’s best friend, a/b/o dynamics, somewhat cinderella-esque, alpha!heeseung, omega!reader, reader is beomgyu’s sister, true mates, penetrative sex (p in v), knotting, mating
ʚɞ w.c - 8.5k
“You have got to be kidding me.”
You stared at the two men in your brother’s cluttered living room with a distinct sense of dread curling in your stomach.
Your brother, Beomgyu, at least had the decency to look sheepish, scratching the back of his head with a wince. “Look, Y/N, it’s just for a few days. His apartment’s getting fumigated. He’ll even sleep on the couch.”
The other man, Lee Heeseung, also known as the bane of your existence, leaned against the kitchen counter with an infuriatingly casual grace that had grated on your nerves for a decade. He offered a lazy, lopsided smile. “Don’t worry, Choi. I’ll try not to be too much of a nuisance.” The way he said your surname, as though it was a private joke between you two—which it was, a joke where you were always the goddamn punchline—made your teeth click together.
“You’ll try not to be a nuisance?” you repeated, your voice dangerously low. “Heeseung, the last time you ‘crashed’ here, you used my limited-edition shampoo as body wash and left the cap off so it all congealed into a disgusting gel.”
“It smelled pretty good by the end of it,” he shrugged, as if that justified the thirty-dollar waste. “And hey, I got confused. All your little bottles look the same.”
“And the time before that,” you continued, stepping further into the room, “you ‘accidentally’ ate the entire birthday cake I spent three hours baking for Mom’s surprise party.”
“In my defense, it was on the counter. How was I supposed to know it wasn’t up for grabs?” His tone was light, teasing, but his dark eyes watched you with a sharp, unnerving focus that had always felt like too much. When he did that, it always felt like he was seeing past the carefully constructed walls you’d built against him, and you hated it.
Beomgyu sighed, the peacekeeper as always. “Guys, come on. It’s three days. Four, max. Can we not do the whole snarling-at-each-other thing? We’re not kids anymore.”
But you felt like you were, all over again. In a way, you always would be whenever Heeseung was around. The history between the two of you was a live wire.
It had started when you were thirteen. Beomgyu, two years older and infinitely cooler, brought home his new best friend from school: Lee Heeseung, fifteen, all long limbs, sharp wit, and a quiet intensity that set him apart from Beomgyu’s more boisterous friends. You’d been a nerdy kid, predicted to present as an omega in the next couple of years.
But that was the thing—we’re all equal now, the societal mantra went. Alpha, Beta, Omega: they were all just biological quirks. True mates? Fairy tales for children. Your own parents were betas, wonderfully mundane and loving, who’d met at a library and bonded over a love of bad mystery novels. They’d raised you to believe your omega nature was just another facet of you, like your hair color, nothing to define your life. You didn’t use scent-blockers out of shame—no, it was more out of convenience, to keep public spaces neutral.
But Heeseung… Heeseung was an alpha, through and through, and as expected, he presented as one when you were 14. And he wasn’t just any alpha. He was the kind who made the whole “it doesn’t matter” philosophy feel like a flimsy lie. He carried his alpha energy not with the chest-thumping arrogance of stereotypes, but with a coiled, potent presence. It was in the way he commanded a room without saying a word, the way his gaze could feel like a physical weight, the subtle scent of bergamot and cedar that even the strongest blockers couldn’t quite conceal if you were standing close enough.
And he’d disliked you on sight.
Or so it seemed. Your first interaction was him looking down at the fantasy novel in your hands, his lip quirking. “Realm of the Moon Goddess? Isn’t that for kids?” he’d asked, not maliciously, but with a bored condescension that lit a fire in your thirteen-year-old soul.
“It’s about complex political dynamics in a matriarchal society,” you’d shot back, your voice trembling only a little.
“Sure it is,” he’d said, sharing a look with Beomgyu that clearly said, ‘Your sister is a weirdo.’
From there, it was a decade-long war. He was the arrogant, too-perfect golden boy, top of his class, star of the basketball team, effortlessly talented at everything he tried. You were the prickly, overly-sensitive little sister who was too smart for her own good and had a habit of pointing out his flaws with ruthless precision. You stole his homework answers just to change them to be wrong before he turned them in. He’d set your alarm clock two hours early on the day of a big exam. You’d argue about everything—music, books, the best way to make ramyeon. The hostility was familiar, almost comforting.
But…well, there were layers to it.
At seventeen, you’d tried to date. A nice beta from one of your AP classes asked you to the winter formal. You’d said yes. Two days later, he approached you at your locker, face pale. “I, uh… I think it’s best if we don’t go,” he’d stammered, not meeting your eyes. “Your um… friend? Heeseung? He had a talk with me, and—” his bottom lip had started to quiver. “I’m sorry.” Then he’d scurried away. You’d found Heeseung leaning against the wall at the end of the corridor, casually sipping on an iced coffee. “What did you do?” you’d demanded. “Nothing,” he’d said, his dark eyes glinting. “Just had a little chat with him.”
When you were nineteen, you brought an alpha from your university to a family barbecue. His name was Kai, and he seemed perfect on paper—smart, charming in a way that didn’t scream macho alpha bravado. You’d thought, maybe this time, maybe this was the one who wouldn’t make your instincts prickle or send Heeseung into one of his inexplicable moods. Kai even brought your mom flowers, which earned him points before the grill was even lit.
Heeseung, however, had other opinions.
He’d been home for the weekend, lounging in his usual spot on the patio, a beer in hand and a smirk that could cut glass. But the moment Kai walked through the gate, Heeseung’s easygoing demeanor shifted. His posture stiffened, his jaw tightened, and though he didn’t say a word, his presence became suffocating. His scent, usually so controlled, betrayed him, turning sour.
Kai tried to make conversation with him. “So, Heeseung, Y/N was telling me you’re a music producer. That must be intense.”
“It is,” Heeseung replied curtly, his eyes flicking to you as if daring you to intervene.
You’d rolled your eyes and dragged Kai away, determined not to let Heeseung ruin the day. But it was no use. By the time the burgers were served, Kai looked pale and uncomfortable. He excused himself early, claiming a sudden headache. You walked him to the gate, apologizing profusely.
“It’s not you,” he said, glancing over your shoulder toward the house where Heeseung stood watching like a sentinel. “It’s just… your brother’s friend. He’s…” Kai cleared his throat. “Intimidating. And I don’t think he likes me very much.”
You sighed. “I’m sorry. He’s just… like that, I guess.”
Later, you overheard Heeseung talking to Beomgyu in the kitchen, his voice a low, frustrated rumble. “He wasn’t right for her. Y/N deserves better, you know? Not some random guy.”
Beomgyu chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, big bad alpha protector. Who is right for her then? You?”
Heeseung hadn’t answered, and you hadn’t known how to take that.
The older the two of you grew, the more the simple dislike mutated. There were stolen, confusing moments where the animosity would crack. The time he found you crying in the backyard after your first real heartbreak at seventeen, not from a person, but from a rejection to your dream university. He’d said nothing, just sat beside you on the grass for an hour in silence, his bergamot and cedar scent strangely calming. The time you sprained your ankle at Beomgyu’s, and Heeseung, without a word, carried you all the way back to your dorm, his grip firm and careful, his jaw tense the entire way. You’d felt his heart hammering against your side, or maybe it was yours.
And then, there was The Scent ™.
It was the great, unspoken mystery of the last year. Heeseung had started talking about it with Beomgyu, and by extension, within your earshot, with a single-minded obsession that was completely unlike his usual detached self.
“It was at your gallery opening,” he’d say, his voice taking on a rare, almost reverent softness that made your skin prickle. “You remember? Last fall? I was by the installations near the back, and it just… hit me. Like jasmine and summer rain on concrete.”
You’d been frozen, listening from the hallway outside Beomgyu’s room. Jasmine and rain.
Your scent.
“I’ve never smelled anything like it,” Heeseung continued, frustration creeping into his tone. “It was—it just smelled like… my mate. I know how that sounds, Gyu. I know we’re supposed to think it’s all bullshit. But it was real. And it was gone as fast as it came. Like—I don’t know, whoever it was put their blocker back on or left the room, or something.”
Beomgyu laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Dude, you’re losing it. True mates? Come on. You’ve never believed in all that,” he’d snorted. “You probably smelled some fancy new air freshener the gallery was testing.”
“It wasn’t an air freshener,” Heeseung insisted, his voice low and intense. “It was a person. My person. And I’m going to find them.”
And you’d stand there, your heart trying to beat its way out of your chest, your own scent threatening to spike with panic. No. No, no, no. It was impossible. You’d slid down the wall, hand clamped over your mouth, remembering—
You were fourteen, Heeseung sixteen. He’d leaned over your shoulder to mock your homework, and his scent had washed over you. A bolt of electricity had lanced through you, a feeling of something so intense it stole your breath, but… you’d written it off as just a weird omega response to a potent alpha, just a fluke. That’s all it could’ve been, right? But now, hearing his words, you could see the truth assembling itself with terrifying clarity before your eyes. The pull that had always been there, the overt protectiveness Heeseung had towards you, the way your recent arguments had started feeling like a desperate, fucked-up form of foreplay…
Fuck, it had to be some sort of cosmic joke. Lee Heeseung, your personal nemesis, the man you’d spent half your life building a fortress of dislike against, was apparently your… mate? The one person biologically, primally, tuned to be your perfect match? You could have cried. It was the worst idea in the history of bad ideas.
First, because it was Heeseung. Arrogant, insufferable, messy, condescending Heeseung.
Second, and more importantly, because he was Beomgyu’s best friend. His brother, in all but blood. The unspoken rule in your family, in any sane family, was clear: friends’ siblings were off-limits. It was a recipe for nuclear fallout. If things went bad—and with your history, how could they not?—it would shatter Beomgyu’s longest and dearest friendship and tear your family apart. You’d be the selfish little sister who seduced her brother’s best friend. He’d be the betraying friend who couldn’t keep it in his pants. The potential for ruin was catastrophic.
So you’d doubled down. You’d become colder, sharper, more hostile towards him. You made sure your scent-blockers were the strongest possible. You became, if possible, an even bigger pain in Heeseung’s ass, hoping to drive him so far away that the fragile, impossible thread of that scent in his memory would snap.
And now he was going to be sleeping on your couch for four days.
“Fine,” you bit out, the word tasting like ash. “But you touch my stuff, you breathe wrong, you so much as look at my food, I will castrate you with a rusty spoon.” you threatened. “And for the love of god, shower regularly. Your…” you sneered witheringly. “Alpha musk is overwhelming.”
“Crystal.” he smirked infuriatingly. “Wouldn’t dream of offending your delicate omega sensibilities, Choi.”
The designation in his mouth was another barb.
“Good,” you snapped, turning on your heel and marching to your room, slamming the door just hard enough to be satisfying, but not so hard that Beomgyu would lecture you.
Then you leaned against the door, your breath coming in short, quiet gasps. Jasmine and rain on hot concrete. You could still hear the awe in his voice from a year ago. And now there was a terrifying, traitorous curl of heat low in your belly that had nothing to do with anger.
The first day, you woke to the sound of someone Heeseung whistling off-key in the kitchen. The smell of burnt toast and overly strong coffee invaded your perfect sanctuary. You emerged from your room, dressed in your work-from-home attire—sweatpants and an oversized sweater—your scent-blockers freshly applied.
Heeseung was at the stove, wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung sweatpants. His back was to you, the defined lines of his shoulders and spine shifting as he attempted to flip a pancake. It landed half on the counter, half on the floor.
“Typical,” you muttered, heading straight for the coffee maker to salvage what you could.
He turned, a boyish grin on his face, completely unbothered by the mess or his state of undress. “Morning, sunshine! Sleep well? I tried to be quiet but the cabinet door kinda fell off when I was looking for a plate. It’s propped up now, though. Good as new.”
“It’s 7 AM,” you said, your voice flat. “Why are you shirtless?”
He shrugged, the movement fluid. “Got syrup on my shirt. It’s soaking. Don’t worry, I’m not offended if you stare.” He winked, and you rolled your eyes in response.
“I’d rather stare at that pancake carcass on the floor.” You poured your coffee, deliberately keeping your gaze away from the expanse of his chest, the faint trail of dark hair that disappeared into his waistband. Your omega, usually a quiet, dormant thing, gave a faint, restless stir of awareness, recognition of an alpha in your space. It put your senses on alert.
“So, what’s the plan today, roomie?” he asked, scraping the failed pancake into the trash.
“I’m working. In my room. With the door closed. You are going to be quiet and not disturb me.”
“You got it, boss,” he said, giving you a mock salute. His bergamot-and-cedar scent, warm without the usual blocker-dulling, was already filling the small apartment. It wasn’t oppressive by any means, but it was everywhere. It seeped into the fabric of the couch, mixed with the smell of food, clung to the air. Your own scent, carefully locked-away, prickled beneath your skin in response desperately.
You retreated to your room, shutting the door firmly. For a few hours, it worked. You focused on spreadsheets and video calls, the mundane routine a shield. But your body was betraying you. A low, steady warmth had taken up residence in your lower belly, unrelated to the coffee. Your skin felt hypersensitive; the brush of your sweater against your arms was a minor distraction, the seam of your sweatpants a faint, persistent annoyance. Pre-heat symptoms. Of course, you were familiar with them—they came sometimes, mild and manageable, triggered by stress or hormonal shifts. And having an unmated, virile alpha in your living space with his scent was the definition of a hormonal shift.
You tried to ignore it. Around noon, you heard the TV click on, the sound of some loud sports commentary filtering through the door. Then, the sound of him talking on the phone, his voice a low, animated rumble.
“—no way, man, I told you, the stats from the second half completely invalidate that argument… Yeah, well, your mom’s—oh, hey, gotta go, my warden is emerging for her lunch break.”
You opened your door to glare at him. He was sprawled on the couch, one arm behind his head, phone still in hand. He’d put a shirt on, thank god, a thin, worn grey cotton one that did little to hide the shape of him.
“I’m not a warden,” you said, marching to the kitchen.
“Prison guard, then. Room monitor. Supreme overlord of the apartment.”
“Just because you have the maturity of a frat boy who never graduated doesn’t mean you have to sound like one,” you shot back, pulling out leftover stir-fry from the fridge.
He chuckled, a rich, warm sound that did things to your stomach it had no business doing. “Aw, come on, Choi. You love it. Admit it, life is boring without me around to keep you on your toes.”
“Life is peaceful without you around,” you corrected, busying yourself with the microwave.
“So, Beomgyu’s got that big date tonight after work, huh?” Heeseung said, changing the subject. “The chef guy?”
“Mhm.” You didn’t turn around.
“He’s nervous. Called me three times from work about what flowers to bring. Like I’m some florist. I told him if he’s stressing that much, just bring a bouquet of cash. Everyone loves money.”
A surprised laugh burst out of you before you could stop it. You clamped your hand over your mouth. Heeseung’s silence behind you was palpable and pleased.
“See?” he said, his voice softer. “Not so bad, is it? A little civil conversation?”
You swallowed, the laugh still echoing in your chest. “It was a moment of weakness, Lee. Don’t get used to it.” You took your heated food and headed back to your room. “And remember, be quiet!”
The afternoon was worse. The warmth in your core was building, a slow, sweet ache. Your thoughts kept drifting from your work, snagging on inconsequential things: the memory of his bare back that morning, the way his laugh sounded, the intensity of the brown in his eyes when he wasn’t pissing you off. You found yourself listening for sounds of him—the creak of the floorboards, the tap running, the low murmur of his voice if he was on another call.
This is just biology, you told yourself sternly. Stupid, primitive omega biology reacting to an alpha in close quarters. It doesn’t mean anything.
But it did feel like something. It was a magnetic pull, and you were restless, shifting in your chair, finding excuses to get up and pace the few steps your room allowed.
At around 6 PM, you gave up on work. You needed a shower, something to cut through the scent of him that seemed to have permeated your very walls and the growing, needy feeling of your own impending heat. You gathered your things and moved quickly to the bathroom, locking the door. The hot water was a relief. You scrubbed your skin, washing away the day, then used a neutral, unscented bar of soap, avoiding anything that might trigger a more potent omega response. But as you dried off, the symptoms persisted. A faint, pleasant slickness that wasn’t from the shower. A tenderness in your breasts. That persistent, hungry warmth in your core.
You dressed in the softest, least restrictive clothes you owned: a thin, sleeveless camisole of pale silk and a pair of loose, cotton sleep shorts. You were brushing your teeth when you heard the crash.
It was loud, a shatter of glass followed by a solid thump and a sharp, pained hiss from Heeseung.
“What did you break now?” you called, padding into the living area.
Heeseung was by the sink, clutching his hand. A shattered glass lay in the basin. “It slipped,” he muttered, his face pale.
You saw the blood then, a bright red rivulet running down his palm. “Oh, for—come here.” Your medical instincts, honed from years of patching up a clumsy Beomgyu, took over. You grabbed the first-aid kit from under the sink and pointed to a kitchen chair. “Sit.”
He obeyed, uncharacteristically silent. You pulled up another chair, sitting close as you took his hand. It was large, his fingers long and elegant, now marred by a nasty gash across the palm. You set to work, cleaning the cut with antiseptic wipes, completely focused and thorough, until—
A tremor.
There was a fine, uncontrollable shake running through his hand and up his arm, and his scent… changed. The bergamot-and-cedar deepened, warmed, becoming almost smoky. Alpha… distress?
Your head snapped up. You were close, so close you could see the gold flecks in his dark brown eyes, the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his throat worked as he swallowed. His gaze was locked on you, not on his injury, and suddenly, you smelled it. Not just his scent…
Yours.
Your scent was rising from your own skin, reacting to his proximity, his pain, his attention. The shower had washed away the edges of your blocker’s effectiveness, fuck—why hadn’t you remembered?
You saw the exact moment it registered with him: his eyes, already dark, seemed to swallow all the light in the room, widening, then narrowing, his pupils blowing out. His nostrils flared, once, twice, and the tremor in his hand stopped, replaced by a sudden tension.
“Choi,” he breathed, the word barely a whisper, ragged and full of dawning, earth-shattering realization.
You froze, the antiseptic pad dangling from your fingers. No. No, no, no.
“That… scent…” His voice was rough, scraping over gravel. He leaned in, just an inch, inhaling slowly, deeply, right at the junction of your neck and shoulder where your scent gland lay beneath the patch. A low, involuntary sound rumbled from his chest, not quite a growl, but a visceral, hungry vibration that went straight to your core.
You should have shoved him away. You should have run. But you were paralyzed, caught in the gravity of his shock.
His uninjured hand came up, not to touch you, but to hover near your cheek, his fingers trembling. “It’s you,” he said, the words filled with devastating, terrifying awe. “All this time… it was you?”
The spell broke. You jerked back, the chair legs screeching on the floor. “No,” you said, but it was a weak denial, your voice shaking as badly as his hand had been. Your scent was everywhere now, a sweet, rain-soaked confession in the air.
He stood up slowly, looming over you.. The blood on his hand was forgotten. All his focus, that relentless, hunting focus he’d had for a year, was now laser-locked on you. “The gallery,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, piecing it all together. “You were there. You were wearing that blue dress. You spilled champagne on your wrist and went to the bathroom to wash it off… you must have taken your blocker off to clean it properly.”
You remembered. You’d been annoyed, worried the sticky sugar would attract insects. You’d scrubbed your wrist raw in the sink, the little patch peeling off from the moisture. You’d been in a hurry, exposed for maybe ninety seconds in a secluded hallway.
Ninety seconds. That’s all it took to derail your entire life.
His question hung between you, a guillotine blade waiting to drop.
“So the whole time, t was you?”
No. Lie. Run.
You stumbled back another step, your spine hitting the cool edge of the kitchen counter. “You’re confused,” you choked out, the words tasting like a pathetic, transparent falsehood. “The antiseptic. It probably smells like—like, um, like flowers or something. You’re concussed from the shock of the glass.”
He didn’t even blink. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, closing the distance you’d created. His wounded hand hung at his side, blood dotting the linoleum, but his good hand came up again to hover beside your head, caging you against the counter. His scent was a raging storm now. It was overwhelming, a tidal wave that crashed against your senses, making your knees weak.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice low, a gravelly vibration that traveled straight down your spine. “Don’t insult us both by lying. I’ve been hunting this scent in my sleep for a year. I’d know it in a burning building. I’d know it on my deathbed, Y/N.” He leaned in, his nose brushing the air just beside your ear. You flinched, a full-body shudder wracking you. “It’s jasmine. After a summer rain.”
A whimper caught in your throat. You pressed your palms flat against the cold counter behind you, seeking an anchor. “Heeseung, please.”
“Why?” The word was a breath against your temple. “Why did you hide? All those times I talked about it right in front of you… with your brother—you just sat there, knowing?”
“Because it’s not real!” you burst out, pushing against his chest. Your hands met solid, unyielding muscle beneath his thin t-shirt. The contact was electric, a jolt that made you snatch your hands back as if burned. “It’s biology playing a stupid trick! It doesn’t mean anything! We live in apartments and pay taxes, for god’s sake! True mates are—are an olden-day concept for children’s stories!”
“It doesn’t mean anything?” Heeseung repeated, his voice dropping to a husky, disbelieving whisper. He didn’t retreat. Instead, he leaned in closer, his body a solid wall of heat that you felt through the thin cotton of your camisole. His breath fanned over your lips. “You feel this,” he said, his eyes darting between yours, searching for the lie, “this… thing between us, and you tell me it’s a trick?”
“It’s adrenaline,” you insisted, your own breathing shallow and rapid. Your chest rose and fell, the neckline of your camisole brushing against him with every gasp. “You’re bleeding. I’m panicking. It’s basic physiology.”
A low, humorless chuckle escaped him. “Right. Physiology.” His good hand finally touched you, not to restrain, but his fingertips grazed your bare arm, from your shoulder down to your wrist. The touch was feather-light, but it ignited a trail of fire under your skin. You jerked, a full-body flinch that had nothing to do with wanting to get away and everything to do with the sheer, overwhelming sensation of his hands on you.
“See?” you breathed, your voice trembling. “I don’t like that.”
“You sure about that?” he murmured, his eyes dark pools of intensity. His fingers traced back up, this time with more purpose, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of your inner arm. A shudder you couldn’t suppress racked you, and a small, traitorous sound—a sigh, a moan, you didn’t know—escaped your parted lips.
Fuck.
You saw the flash of smug, hungry triumph in his eyes.
“Heeseung,” you whispered again, but it lacked all conviction.
“Can’t believe it,” he murmured, his voice a rough caress. His head dipped, his lips now hovering a hair’s breadth from yours. You could feel the phantom pressure, the promise of a kiss that felt as inevitable as your next heartbeat. The air between the two of you was thick with the mingling of your scents—his thick bergamot-and-cedar, your jasmine-and-rain now laced with the sweet, unmistakable spike of arousal. You couldn’t hide it. “Fuck, you smell so good.”
“I hate you,” you gasped out.
“I know,” he said, and he sounded almost sad. “You’ve made that brilliantly clear for ten years. But you know what I think, Choi?” His nose brushed yours, the most intimate, non-kiss imaginable. “I think,” he murmured, his lips so close they moved against yours with the words, a ghost of a kiss that made your stomach clench, “that you don’t hate me at all. I think you’ve been at war with the same thing I have.”
You couldn’t breathe. His thumb stroked your arm again, a slow, deliberate caress that felt like it was branding you. “What are you talking about?”
“This,” he said simply, and finally, he closed the last, imperceptible gap.
His mouth was on yours.
It wasn’t gentle. His lips were firm, demanding, moving against yours with a hunger that stole the last of your resistance. A shocked, muffled sound escaped you, lost in the heat of his mouth. You should have pushed him away. You should have slapped him, screamed, done anything. But your body, traitorous and alive in a way it had never been, betrayed you utterly. Your hands, which had been flat against the counter, flew up of their own accord, fingers tangling in the soft fabric of his t-shirt to hold on as the world tilted on its axis. Your lips parted on a gasp, and he took the invitation, his tongue sweeping into your mouth hotly.
The taste of him flooded your senses, and it was familiar and alien all at once, a flavor you’d somehow known you’d been missing your whole life. A low groan vibrated from his chest into yours, and you echoed it, the sound weak and desperate.
He kissed you like a man starving, like he was trying to consume every argument, every biting remark, every stolen glance across a crowded room in the last couple of years. His good hand slid from your arm to cup the back of your neck, his fingers threading into your hair, holding you firmly in place. His injured hand came up to rest on your hip.
The kiss broke, but only just. He rested his forehead against yours, both of you breathing harsh, ragged gulps.
“See?” he panted, his voice wrecked. “Not hate.”
“Not true,” you retorted automatically, but before you could really think it through, you dragged his mouth back to yours.
This time, you kissed him back. You poured every ounce of that confused, furious energy into it. Your tongue met his, fierce and slick, and you bit his lower lip, a sharp, punishing nip, making him growl, answering with a deeper, more devouring kiss that made your head spin.
His hand on your hip slid lower, gripping the curve of your ass through the thin sleep shorts, pulling you flush against him. You felt him then, the hard length of him pressed against your stomach, and the evidence of his arousal, so blunt and physical, sent a fresh, liquid wave of heat between your own legs. You whimpered into his mouth, arching into him, your tits crushed against him.
“Fuck, Choi,” he groaned against your lips, his voice thick with a need that mirrored your own. “You’re driving me insane. You—hah—really have no idea what you’ve been doing to me.”
“You started it,” you accused breathlessly, dragging your mouth down to his jaw. “Talking about it… hunting for it… like some… mm, some tragic hero.” You punctuated each broken phrase with a kiss, a nip, along his stubbled jawline.
He threw his head back with a sharp hiss, giving you better access. “I was. I am. And I found you.” His hand left your hair, sliding down your back, under the hem of your camisole. His palm was hot, slightly rough, against the bare skin of your spine. You shivered violently. “Hiding in plain sight,” he murmured, his lips at your ear now, his teeth grazing the lobe. “My best friend’s infuriating, beautiful little sister.”
“Don’t fucking call me that,” you muttered, but you were rubbing yourself against the hard ridge of his erection, a fast, mindless grind that had him cursing softly.
“What should I call you then?” His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, cupping the bare flesh of your ass cheek. You jolted. “Y/N? Is that better?”
“Shut up.”
“Y/N,” he repeated against your mouth, the sound vibrating through your bones. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you’ve thought about it.”
His words were a challenge, a dare thrown down in the heat-drenched space between your bodies. You broke the kiss, gasping for air. “I’ve thought about strangling you,” you panted, your fingers still twisted in his shirt. “Daily.”
A dark, knowing smirk curved his kiss-swollen lips. “Yeah? Is that why you’re dripping for me, huh? Is that why your sweet little omega scent is screaming for me to bend you over and fuck you?”
You hated him. You hated the way he saw right through you, the way his words sent a fresh, slick pulse of heat between your thighs. You tried to shove him back, but your body refused the command, your hips instead canting forward, seeking the delicious friction of his length against you. “Shut up,” you repeated, your voice a broken whisper.
“Make me,” he taunted again, his voice dropping to a husky register that vibrated through your very bones. His good hand, still splayed on your ass, squeezed possessively. “Go on. Tell me to stop. Say the word, and I walk away right now. We’ll pretend this never happened.”
He pulled back just an inch, his dark eyes searching yours, giving you an out you didn’t want. You didn’t say the word. You just stared at him, your chest heaving, your lips parted, every frantic breath giving you away more and more.
The smirk sharpened into something more predatory. “Didn’t think so,” he murmured, and then his mouth was on yours again, swallowing your gasp.
This kiss was different. It was slower, deeper. He licked into your mouth, exploring you with a thoroughness that made your knees weak. His hands began to move, mapping your body through the thin fabric of your camisole, and he palmed your tit, his thumb finding your nipple and rubbing it into a hard, aching point. A sharp cry escaped you, muffled by his lips.
He broke the kiss, his lips trailing a wet, hot path down your jaw to your throat. “All those times,” he breathed against your fluttering pulse, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. “All those guys you brought around…”
You whimpered, your head falling back against the cabinet. Your hands were in his hair now, clutching the dark, soft strands. “Wh-what about them?”
He bit down gently, not enough to mark, but enough to make you jump, a jolt of pure lust shooting through you. “Drove me fucking crazy,” he confessed, his voice a rough growl against your skin. “Seeing them look at you. Talk to you. Smile at you. That fucker Kai even brought your mom flowers. I wanted to rip his throat out with my teeth.”
Much to your disappointment, your omega preened at the violent jealousy in his voice. “You—you scared him off,” you accused, your voice trembling.
“Damn right I did.” He licked the spot he’d bitten. “He wasn’t good enough. None of them were.” His mouth moved lower, his lips closing over the thin silk covering your nipple. He sucked, hard, through the fabric, the damp heat and the rough friction of the wet material sending sparks exploding behind your eyelids. “You’re mine,” he said, the words vibrating against your sensitized flesh. “You always have been. You were just too stubborn to see it.”
You wanted to argue, to fight the words, but all you could do was moan, your back arching off the kitchen counter as his mouth worked you through the silk. The fabric was soaked, clinging to your tight nipple, and every pull of his lips, every scrape of his teeth, sent waves of desperate pleasure straight to your throbbing core.
His hand left your breast, sliding down your trembling stomach, over the thin waistband of your shorts. He didn’t hesitate. His fingers slipped beneath the elastic, delving through the curls, and found you.
“Fuck, Y/N,” he groaned against your breast, his voice muffled and ragged. “You’re fucking soaked. Is this all for me? All for your alpha?”
You couldn’t form words. His fingers slid through your folds, gathering your wetness, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet kitchen. He pressed the pad of his thumb against your clit, and your hips bucked violently off the counter, a sharp cry tearing from your throat.
“Answer me,” he demanded, his eyes blazing up at you. He rubbed slow, torturous circles. “Is this because of me?”
“Y-yes,” you gasped, your head thrashing side to side. “Yeah.”
“Good girl,” he purred, and the praise, in that cocky, teasing tone of his, made you clench around nothing. His fingers slid lower, one, then two, pressing against your entrance. “Always so fucking difficult with your words, but your body… your body doesn’t lie to me, does it, Choi?”
He pushed inside you, and you saw white. Your inner muscles fluttered, gripping him greedily. He was deep, his fingers long and clever, curling just right as he began to pump them slowly and maddeningly.
“You feel that?” he whispered, his mouth back at your ear, his breath hot. “That’s how perfectly you take me. You were fucking made for it. For me.”
“Sh-shut up,” you moaned, but you were grinding down on his hand, meeting every thrust, your hands fisting in his hair. “Give—hn—give me more.”
“More what?” he teased, adding a third finger, the stretch making you gasp. “Use your words, princess. You want my fingers? Or do you want something else?”
He scissored his fingers inside you, hitting a spot that made your vision blur. “Heeseung—!”
“That’s my name,” he said, his own breathing growing harsh. He was watching your face, drinking in every twitch, every desperate expression. “But it’s not an answer, baby. Tell me what you want.”
You were unraveling, the coil in your belly tightening to a painful, exquisite point. His fingers, his scent, his voice, it was all too much. Your omega was screaming, a frantic, pulsing need for him, for his claim, for his knot. The thought should have terrified you, but it only made you wetter.
“Your cock,” you blurted out. “I want your cock, you insufferable asshole. Now.”
He laughed at that, withdrew his fingers, slick and glistening, and brought them to his mouth. Then he sucked them clean, his eyes locked on yours, and you nearly came from the sight alone. “Fucking delicious,” he murmured. “Now, since you asked so nicely.”
In one swift motion, he hooked his hands under your thighs and lifted you off the counter. You yelped, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carried you the few stumbling steps to the living room couch. He fell back onto it, landing with a soft grunt, with you straddling his lap.
“You’re in charge,” he said roughly. His hands settled on your hips, his thumbs stroking your skin. “Go on, show me how much you want it.”
You looked down at him, at his kiss-swollen lips, his flushed skin, the raging need in his eyes barely held in check. The bulge in his sweatpants was enormous, straining against the fabric. With trembling fingers, you tugged at the waistband, pulling them down just enough to free him.
He sprang out, thick and long, the head flushed a deep red and already beading with pre-cum. A shudder wracked you. You’d imagined what he’d look like, in dark, shameful moments during your heats, but the reality was… more. So much more.
“Good enough for you?” he taunted, but his voice was strained.
“It’ll do,” you shot back. You positioned yourself over him, the head of his cock nudging against your soaked entrance. You sank down, just an inch, and both of you cried out. The stretch was immense, a burning, perfect fullness that left your heart hammering against your chest.
“Fuck,” Heeseung hissed, his head falling back against the couch, his knuckles white where he gripped your hips. “Slow down, baby, fuck, you’re so tight—”
But you were done with slow, done with waiting. With a low moan, you dropped your weight, sheathing him completely in one swift, brutal motion.
The sound he made was pure animal—a choked-off groan. You were full, so impossibly full, stretched to your limit around him. You stayed there, panting, adjusting to the sensation, your inner walls fluttering and clenching around him involuntarily. He groaned, his hips jerking up minutely.
“Ride me,” he commanded, his voice guttural. “Ride me, Y/N. Come on.”
You began to move. It was awkward at first, then instinct took over. You rose up until just the tip remained inside you, then sank back down, taking him deep. A rhythm found you, slow and rolling at first, then faster, driven by the building, screaming want in your core. Your hands braced on his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin through his shirt.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his own hips meeting your downward strokes, driving even deeper. “Use me. Take what you need. You feel so fucking good, I can’t—fuck, baby, I can’t think.”
You were losing yourself in the overwhelming rush of it all—the relentless slap of your skin against his, the obscene, wet squelch of your pussy swallowing his thick cock over and over, his guttural groans vibrating through your core. His hands roamed possessively, squeezing the firm globes of your ass, fingers digging into your hips to guide your frantic pace, then sliding up to grope your tits through the thin, sweat-soaked camisole. With a rough tug, he yanked the damp fabric down, exposing your heaving breasts to the cool air. He surged forward, capturing a stiff nipple between his lips, sucking hard with a swirl of his tongue.
You cried out, the feeling of his hot mouth latching onto your sensitive peak and his cock spearing deep into your clenching heat shoving you perilously close to oblivion. Your thighs burned as you bounced on him, thighs flexing with each desperate rise and fall, your ass slapping down onto his lap in a hypnotic rhythm. Your pussy gripped him tighter with every descent, the slick drag of his veined shaft against your inner walls bring you closer and closer.
“Look at you,” he groaned, his head tipped back against the cushion, eyes slitted with pleasure as he watched you ride him. “Fucking look at you. All that fucking attitude, and now you’re just a dripping, desperate little thing for my cock, aren’t you?”
“Shut up,” you gasped, but it was a weak protest, lost in the slap of skin and your own ragged breaths. You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, changing the angle. He hissed, his cock hitting a spot deep inside that made you see stars. “Oh, god—“
“There it is,” he snarled, his grip tightening. “Right there. You found it. Fuck, Choi, just like that.” His hands slid up to your breasts, thumbing your hard, wet nipples. The sensation was almost too much, a sharp, sweet overstimulation that had you crying out. “You gonna come? Hmm? Gonna come all over my cock after all that big talk?”
You couldn’t answer. You were a mess of sensation—the stretch and burn of him filling you, the delicious friction on your clit with every grind, the possessive heat of his hands on your skin. Your scent, jasmine and rain, had gone heavy and sweet with vanilla and musk, saturating the air. His own scent was a wildfire of bergamot and cedar and pure, undiluted alpha.
His own control was fraying. You could see it in the tense cords of his neck, the way his jaw was clenched, the desperate, hungry rolls of his hips. He was holding back, letting you take your pleasure, but the alpha in him was straining at the leash.
“Heeseung,” you whimpered, your rhythm faltering as pleasure coiled, tight and unbearable, in your core. “I—I can’t—“
“Yes, you can,” he commanded, his voice rough. He sat up suddenly, wrapping his arms around you and flipping you onto your back on the couch cushions in one swift, powerful motion. You yelped, the movement driving him even deeper, making you gasp. He was on top of you now, caging you in, his weight a delicious, crushing pressure. “You can take it. You’re gonna come for me. Say it.”
He began to fuck you in earnest, his thrusts deep, measured, and devastatingly accurate. Each one punched a broken sound from your throat. “Say it, Y/N,” he demanded, his lips against your ear.
“I’m gonna come,” you sobbed, the admission torn from you. “Fuck, Heeseung, I’m gonna—“
“That’s it,” he growled, his pace turning brutal. “Let go. Come on my cock. Show me.”
The world shattered. Your orgasm tore through you, and your back arched off the couch, a silent scream on your lips as your body clamped down on him in a series of ruthless, fluttering spasms. Pleasure, white-hot and endless, flooded every nerve ending, leaving you trembling and boneless beneath him.
He fucked you through it, his thrusts turning shallow and frantic as he chased his own peak. “So good, baby, so fucking tight,” he chanted, his voice ragged. “Gonna knot you. Gonna fill you up. You want it? You want my knot?”
Through the haze of your climax, his words registered. Knot. Your omega screamed yes, a frantic, inner howl of need. Your body, still convulsing with aftershocks, clenched around him eagerly, milking him, pulling him deeper. “Hngh—yeah,” you slurred, your mind foggy with pleasure. “Knot me. Do it, Heeseung, please.”
He let out a choked, guttural sound. His thrusts became erratic, then stopped, buried to the hilt. You felt him swell, the base of his cock thickening, expanding, locking him inside you. It was incredible, overwhelming, a fullness so complete it bordered on pain. With a final, shuddering groan, he came, his release hot and endless, flooding you in pulsing waves.
You could only hear the sound of your combined panting, the feel of his weight on you for a long while. But slowly, you came back to yourself. The rough fabric of the couch under your back. His heavy, warm weight. The dull, pleasant ache between your legs where he was still locked inside you. His knot was beginning to subside.
He lifted his head, his dark eyes glazed with satiation. He looked wrecked, beautiful. He brushed sweat-damp hair from your forehead. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word full of awe.
You were too spent for your usual barbs. You just stared up at him, your mind a sluggish, post-coital blank. Then, your eyes drifted to the side of his neck, to the strong, corded line of it. His scent gland.
You tilted your head, nuzzling into his throat. Your lips brushed over the spot where his scent was strongest, where his pulse thrummed steadily. You inhaled, and a low, needy whine escaped you.
He went very still. “Y/N…” His voice was a frail warning.
“You said I was yours,” you murmured against his skin. “Prove it.”
He shifted, trying to pull back to look at you, but the knot still held you together. “Baby, we’re… I don’t know about this. A bite is… it’s permanent.”
You felt a sharp, irrational sting of rejection. You pulled your head back, meeting his eyes. The fog of pleasure was receding, replaced by a sudden, vulnerable ache. “You don’t want to?” you whispered, insecurity flaring up inside you. “You hunted for me for a year, you just knotted me on my brother’s couch, but you don’t want to mate me?”
His eyes snapped back to yours, wide with shock. “What? No. Fuck, no, Y/N, that’s not it.” He shifted, wincing slightly as the movement tugged at your joined bodies. “I want to. God, you have no idea how much I want to sink my teeth into you right now and make sure every alpha on the fucking planet knows you’re mine.” The raw possessiveness in his voice made your stomach clench. “But… a mating bite? That’s not just… this.” He gestured weakly between your bodies. “That’s forever. That’s it. And we just… we just fucked on a couch after ten years of screaming at each other. We’re not… we might not be thinking straight.”
The logical part of your brain knew he was right. It was the sane, responsible thing to say. But the omega in you, the part that had just been thoroughly claimed and knotted by her alpha, the part that could still feel his seed inside her, didn’t give a single damn about logic. It wanted the claim. It wanted the finality. It wanted him, irrevocably.
A low, pathetic whine escaped your throat before you could stop it. You hated the sound, but you couldn’t help it. You nuzzled into his neck, inhaling his scent, your lips brushing over his own gland. “Please,” you breathed against his skin, the word barely audible.
He sighed. “Y/N…”
His tone pissed you off. “Don’t you dare talk down to me, Lee Heeseung,” you snapped, your voice gaining strength. “You don’t get to decide what I want or what state I’m in to want it. I’ve wanted you for as long as I can remember,” You arched against him, feeling him twitch inside you as your inner walls clenched reflexively. “So either bite me, or get the hell off me and we’ll pretend this never happened.”
His eyes flashed, the alpha in him rising to the challenge in your tone. The possessiveness you’d seen earlier roared back to the surface, hotter and fiercer. “You don’t mean that,” he growled.
“Try me.”
The standoff lasted three heartbeats, and then, a slow, dangerous smile spread across his lips. “You’re impossible,” he murmured, lowering his head again.
This time, when his mouth found your throat, there was no hesitation. His tongue laved over your mating gland, the sensitive skin there prickling instantly under the wet heat. You moaned, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “Heeseung…”
“Last chance to tell me no,” he breathed, his teeth grazing the spot. A shiver of anticipation racked you.
“Do it,” you begged, the words a raw, honest plea. “Please.”
He bit down.
It wasn’t a gentle nip—it was a deep pressure that broke the skin. There was a sharp, bright pain that melted almost instantly into a wave of dizzying, overwhelming pleasure. It felt like a circuit completing, a final, missing piece slotting into place. A bolt surged through you, and he laved his tongue over the bite, soothing the sting.
Then he finally eased off you, his knot having subsided enough for him to slip out. The loss of him made you feel empty and cold, but he didn’t go far. He gathered you against his chest, turning so you were both on your sides, facing each other on the cramped couch. He tucked your head under his chin, his arms wrapping around you in a warm hold. He turned your face toward his and kissed you, deep and slow.
“All mine,” he breathed against your mouth.
But before you could answer, before you could even process the seismic shift in your universe, the sound of a key rattling in the front door lock cut through the air.
Click. Clack.
Your eyes, still locked with Heeseung’s, widened in identical, dawning horror.
Beomgyu’s cheerful, unsuspecting voice called out from the entryway. “Hey, losers! I’m back early. The date was a bust. Who wants takeout?”
for the anon who requested !!! ♡ i hope i did ur request justice - as i said this is my first time writing het omegaverse and even omegaverse as a whole i havent written in a while so HOPEFULLY it was okay 🥹 didn’t turn out exactly how i wanted it to but oh well 🚬 also the chef guy beomgyu was on a date with was soobin
as it turns out, i got reincarnated into park sunghoon’s gold-digging fiancée!
ʚɞ summary - after a truck sends you spiraling out of your old life, you wake in silk sheets and a diamond ring, trapped inside the body of cha y/n: the shallow, borderline-evil fiancée of ceo park sunghoon, fated to be discarded in popular webnovel melting the cold ceo’s heart. you know exactly how this ends: with sunghoon choosing your sweet wedding planner, lee soojin, on your wedding day while you stand alone, humiliated. so, of course, the most logical course of action is not to fight the plot. in fact, you’ll be the most pleasant, agreeable, and completely forgettable fiancée possible. but there’s just one problem with changing the storyline: it forces sunghoon to notice you. and the more you try to push him toward the love he is destined for, the more he pulls toward you instead. fate is one thing. desire is another. and when the man who was never supposed to even like you looks at you like you’re his world, walking away may cost far more than losing ever would.
ʚɞ tags - 18+ MDNI, f!reader, isekai/transmigration, angst, fluff, drama, slow-ish burn (?) vaginal sex (p in v), unprotected sex, breeding kink, window sex, office sex, jealous!hoon, wattpad-ish tropes yet again, sunghoon lowkey loses his mind bc the y/nussy is so good
ʚɞ w.c - 16k
THE LAST THING YOU REMEMBERED WAS THE BLARING HORN, the sound of screeching tires, and a truck’s grille filling your entire world. Then—
—nothing…?
You woke up to the pleasant smell of expensive linen and the feeling of your face pressed into a pillow softer than any cloud you’d ever imagined. Your head throbbed dully, and you groaned, pushing yourself up on elbows that felt strangely delicate, blinking against the morning light filtering through gigantic windows that showcased a city skyline you didn’t recognize at all.
What the hell?
The room looked like something from a spread from a luxury magazine. A chaise lounge in dove grey sat in the corner, next to a vanity table littered with crystal perfume bottles and jewelry boxes spilling over with gold chains and diamonds that glittered even in the soft light. You swung your legs out of the bed, your feet sinking into a plush, cream-colored rug. You were wearing silk pajamas—silk fucking pajamas!—a matching set in a blush pink that felt alien against your skin.
A full-length mirror stood opposite the bed. You stumbled toward it.
The reflection staring back was yours, and yet—it wasn’t. Your face, but perfected, hair that you usually kept in a hurriedly-brushed ponytail fell in artful, salon-fresh waves. Even your skin was flawless, glowing with the kind of health that only comes from expensive facials and a complete lack of real-world stress.
“Okay,” you whispered to the stranger in the mirror. “Okay, breathe. This is a dream. It has to me. A very, very detailed dream brought on by that last glass of soju and that novel you stayed up way too late finishing.”
The novel. Melting the Cold CEO’S Heart. It was a trashy, addictive romance you’d read on a whim, and the male lead, Park Sunghoon, was cold, ruthless, and unfairly handsome, trapped in a business arrangement—an engagement with a shallow, gold-digging socialite named… your blood ran cold as you remembered.
Y/N.
Your namesake, and the villainess of the novel. The one who was pathologically obsessed with Sunghoon’s money and status, who made the female lead’s life miserable, and who was unceremoniously dumped when Sunghoon finally broke free of his family’s shackles to be with his one true love, the sweet and humble wedding planner, Soojin.
You looked at the room around you. You looked at your perfect, manicured hands. You remembered the truck.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” you said, your voice echoing in the cavernous room.
The plot, as you remembered it, was straightforward. The real Cha Y/N would play the devoted fiancée, clinging to Sunghoon’s arm at every event, while secretly making the life of the female lead, Lee Soojin, a living hell. Sunghoon, cold to his fiancée, would find himself drawn to Soojin’s genuine warmth and resilience, and after a series of public scandals orchestrated by Cha Y/N, Sunghoon would finally snap, publicly denounce her, and run into the rain to confess his love to Soojin. Roll credits.
Your old life, by comparison, had been pleasantly predictable. You worked a mid-level office job at a small logistics firm, a job you were competent at but which offered no real passion. Your days were a blur of spreadsheets, lukewarm coffee from the breakroom machine, and polite, surface-level conversations with colleagues you’d never see outside of work hours. Your apartment was a snug, lightly cluttered one-bedroom. Your social life was limited to your best friend, Abby, who you only got to see about once a month for dinner when she wasn’t busy with her boyfriend, Heeseung. Weekends were for laundry, grocery shopping, and maybe a movie if you could muster the energy. It was fine, by all means. Safe. And, if you were being brutally honest with yourself in your most vulnerable moments, a little bit boring.
The thrill, the color, the feeling in your life came from elsewhere:
Webnovels.
They were your escape. During your lunch break, hunched over your phone at your desk. On the subway ride home, packed between strangers. Late at night, curled under your blankets with the screen’s glow the only light in the room. You devoured them. Regency romances, fantasy epics, modern-day dramas. You loved them all, but you had a particular, guilty fondness for the tropiest of the tropey: the cold, domineering male lead and the plucky heroine who thawed his heart.
You knew the formulas by heart. The accidental touch that sent sparks flying. The possessive glare across a crowded room. The misunderstanding that drove them apart for three agonizing chapters before the grand reconciliation. It was comfort food for your soul. In those pages, you could experience earth-shattering love without the risk of a broken heart.
Now, standing in this silent, opulent bedroom, the irony almost made you laugh. You’d fantasized about being in a story like this a thousand times, but—you’d always imagined yourself as the heroine, not the villainess slated for a spectacular downfall.
A soft knock at the door made you jump nearly a foot in the air.
“Miss Cha?” a polite, older woman’s voice called through the wood. “Your breakfast is ready. The car will be here in one hour to take you to Mr. Park’s office for the wedding planning consultation.”
Wedding planning. You felt, suddenly, very awake. That was today. Chapter Four, if you recalled correctly. The first official meeting between Cha Y/N, Sunghoon, and the wedding planner, Lee Soojin. The scene where the villainess would size up her rival with thinly-veiled contempt, make snide remarks about her choice of clothing, and generally establish herself as the obstacle to Sunghoon and Soojin’s true love.
Your stomach churned. You couldn’t do that. You physically couldn’t. The thought of being cruel to some innocent woman just trying to do her job made you feel ill.
But what was the alternative? If you weren’t the evil Cha Y/N, then who were you? A random office worker from another world, trapped in a fictional character’s body. If you started acting completely out of character, what would happen? Would the universe correct itself? Would you be thrown into a mental institution? Would Sunghoon’s powerful family have you quietly disposed of for being an unpredictable variable in their business merger masquerading as a marriage?
Panic, sharp and acrid, rose in your throat. You gripped the edge of the vanity table, your knuckles turning white. Think, Y/N. You have to think.
The original Cha Y/N’s fate was bankruptcy and social ruin after Sunghoon cut her off. She’d tried to fight it, to cling, to scheme, and it had only made her fall harder and more publicly.
So you had to survive. You couldn’t be that person. You wouldn’t. It was simple: do no harm, collect the checks, and get the hell out. Let Sunghoon and Soojin have their epic romance. You’d take the alimony and live quietly on a beach somewhere, far from this world of cutthroat socialites and emotionally constipated CEOs.
It was a coward’s plan, sure, but it was the only one that seemed to offer a path through this nightmare that didn’t end with you being publicly eviscerated.
You took a deep, shuddering breath and looked at the reflection again. “Okay, Cha Y/N,” you said to her. “Let’s do this.”
An hour later, you were in the back of a sleek, silent sedan, watching the city blur past. You’d chosen an outfit from the walk-in closet that felt the least like a costume and foregone most of the jewelry, wearing only small studs in your ears.
The driver held the door open for you in front of a towering glass skyscraper that seemed to pierce the clouds. The logo was etched into the side.
The lobby was cold and elegant, people in sharp suits moving with purpose across the vast marble floor, footsteps echoing everywhere. The receptionist, a woman with a smile as polished as the granite desk, took one look at you and nodded.
“Miss Cha. Mr. Park is expecting you. 67th floor, please.” She gestured to a private elevator whose doors were already sliding open.
The ride up was smooth and swift, and you watched the numbers climb, your heart doing a nervous tap-dance. The doors opened directly into a corner office.
The view was breathtaking, a panoramic sweep of the city and the river beyond. But the room itself was as cold as the man standing before the window, his back to you. He was tall, with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, silhouetted against the bright sky. He wore a charcoal grey suit that looked like it had been tailored directly onto him.
Then he turned.
Park Sunghoon.
The description from the novel didn’t do him justice. He was handsome in a way that felt almost aggressive. Sharp jawline, dark, intense eyes under thick, perfectly shaped brows, hair styled in a way that looked effortless and expensive. But it was his expression that really hit you. There was no warmth in his gaze, no flicker of recognition or welcome for his fiancée. And how could you fault him? Cha Y/N had been a piece of work.
“You’re early,” he intoned.
“Looks like I am.” you managed, your own voice sounding too small.
He said nothing, just looked at you for a beat longer than was comfortable. Then he gestured with a faint tilt of his head toward a large meeting table off to the side. “Sit. The planner will be here shortly.”
You walked to the table, hyper-aware of the click of your heels on the polished concrete floor. You sat in the chair he’d indicated, folding your hands in your lap to keep them from trembling. He didn’t sit. He remained standing by the window, the picture of impatience and disinterest.
The silence stretched, and you studied the grain of the table, the way the sunlight caught the edge of a glass water pitcher. Anything to avoid looking at him.
You’d read about his coldness, of course you had. You’d found it thrilling in the abstract, a challenge for the heroine to overcome, but experiencing it firsthand was different. It was isolating. It made you feel invisible, inconsequential. You understood, with sudden, painful clarity, why the original Cha Y/N had become so obsessed with his wealth and status. If you couldn’t have his warmth, you’d settle for the things his name could buy. It was a pathetic, hollow consolation prize, but it must have been something to hold onto.
Another soft knock at the door.
“Enter,” Sunghoon said, not moving from his post.
The door opened, and a woman stepped in. She was around your age, maybe a year or two younger. She wore a simple, professional cream-colored blouse and a black skirt. Her hair was pulled back in a neat, low ponytail. She carried a large portfolio and an iPad.
Lee Soojin.
Your pulse quickened. The female lead. The woman who, according to the plot, you were supposed to torment.
She bowed slightly. “Mr. Park. Miss Cha. Thank you for having me. I’m Lee Soojin, from Ever After Planning.”
She was exactly as described, warm and beautiful. She had a kind, fresh face, warm brown eyes, and a smile that seemed genuine, though right now, it was tinged with nervousness as her gaze darted between you and the imposing figure of Sunghoon. She clutched a large portfolio to her chest like a shield.
“Please, come in,” Sunghoon said, and his voice was different, softer.
The meeting was awkward, to say the least. Soojin presented floral arrangements and color palettes, her voice occasionally trembling. You, desperate not to play the villain, said nothing except, “That looks lovely,” or “Whatever you think is best, Miss Lee.” You kept your eyes on the swatches, avoiding Sunghoon’s probing stare. You could feel it on you, a laser of suspicion. The real Y/N would have been picky and dismissive, finding fault with everything to assert dominance.
Sunghoon, surprisingly, engaged. He asked practical questions about logistics, timelines, vendor reliability. His questions were sharp and intelligent. Soojin, after a few stumbling starts, began to answer with growing confidence, her passion for her work shining through. You saw the exact moment he noticed it: a slight tilt of his head, a fraction of a second where his gaze lingered on her animated face instead of the brochure.
There it is, you thought, a strange pang hitting you square in the chest. The beginning. The plan was working.
But then he turned that gaze on you. “You’re not yourself today.” His tone was neutral, but the question in it was clear: What’s your deal?
You met his eyes for the first time that day. “Well,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended. “Ms. Lee seems very competent. I just trust her expertise.”
He stared at you again, then gave a curt nod, turning back to Soojin, and the rest of the meeting passed in a blur.
THE MONTHS THAT FOLLOWED WERE A BIZARRE SORT OF DANCE. You attended obligatory social events on Sunghoon’s arm, fit the role of a silent, smiling accessory perfectly. You learned the rules of this world: who to nod to, who to ignore, which fork and knife to use where and why. And through it all, you were forced into proximity with Park Sunghoon.
At first, it was nothing but ice. Silent car rides, silent meals. You didn’t think there was ever a way to hold a conversation with Park Sunghoon. But survival instinct was a powerful thing when it kicked in, and the more nervous you got, the more your immediate instinct to be yourself began to show, especially once you moved in together.
The incident that started the thaw was, of all things, congee.
It was three weeks in. A late-night business dinner had left Sunghoon looking paler than usual, the sharp lines of his face drawn tight. You’d heard him return, the quiet click of the door, then nothing. An hour later, a faint, pained sound from the kitchen. You found him leaning against the island, one hand pressed to his stomach, staring into the empty fridge with blank eyes.
“Stomach ache?” you’d asked, hovering in the doorway.
He’d just grunted in response.
The real Y/N would have called for a maid, despite the ungodly hour. You, on the other hand, having grown up middle-class, were a veteran of questionable street food and late-night stress-eating, so you simply nudged him aside with your hip and rummaged through the pantry. “Sit,” you said, your tone brooking no argument. “You’re blocking the rice.”
He’d watched, silent and wary, as you boiled the rice into a soft mush, shredding the leftover roast chicken from yesterday’s dinner and adding slivers of ginger. The kitchen filled with a warm savory scent, and when you slid the bowl across the island to him, he looked at it like it was a foreign artefact.
“It’s just congee,” you said, suddenly self-conscious. “My mom used to make it when I was sick.”
He took a cautious spoonful. Then another. You had never cooked for someone before, but seeing the almost imperceptible relaxation of his shoulders, the way the tension drained out of his body, made you realize why your mother had loved it so much. When he was done, he placed the spoon neatly in the empty bowl and met your eyes. “It was nice. Thank you.”
You’d snorted. “High praise, coming from you.”
A brief flicker of a smile touched his lips. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
That was the crack in the ice, and after that, indifference became harder to maintain. The silent car rides began to fill with your commentary on the city passing by, or his dry observations about the people you’d just met at some function. Once, you found him one evening in the library, staring blankly at a contract, his tie loose. You’d placed a cup of tea next to his elbow without a word. He’d looked up, surprised, then nodded in thanks. Another time, you’d gotten locked out on the massive balcony during a sudden rain shower. He’d found you, drenched and laughing, and instead of chastising you, he’d handed you a towel with a shake of his head, a genuine, if exasperated, smile on his face. “Only you,” he’d muttered.
Then came the charity gala for the Seoul Arts Foundation. It was a stuffy, black-tie affair, and the champagne was flowing too freely. You, nervous under the scrutiny of a hundred socialites who knew the real Cha Y/N, drank more than you should have. Sunghoon, for reasons unknown, matched you glass for glass.
It was no surprise that the car ride home, inevitably, was filled with giddiness. You were slumped in the backseat, giggling at nothing, the city lights streaking past the window like liquid silver. He was beside you, his posture less rigid, a soft, unfocused smile on his face as he watched you.
“You’re different,” he said suddenly, his voice a low rumble in the dark car.
“Am I?” you hiccupped, turning to him. His face was so close. The sharp angles were softened in the shadows.
“Mm. Before. You were so… loud. Demanding. Everything was—all about money for you.” He reached out, his finger hovering near your temple, not touching. “But now…”
“Maybe I just grew up,” you offered, the lie tasting bitter.
He shook his head slowly, his eyes searching yours with an unnerving intensity. “No. It’s not that. It’s like you’re a completely different person.” He leaned closer, his breath warm and faintly sweet with champagne. “Who are you?”
Your heart hammered in your chest. The truth was a wild, desperate thing clawing at your throat. In your tipsy state, it slipped out, covered up in a joke. “Maybe I’m from a different universe,” you whispered, a playful, dizzy smile on your lips. “One where I’m not a horrible person.”
He stared at you. Then, to your utter astonishment, his lower lip pushed out in the faintest, most fleeting pout. You had never seen an expression so disarmingly childish and vulnerable on his face, but it was gone in a second, replaced by a slight scowl. “Stop messing with me,” he murmured, but there was no heat in it. He leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes, a small sigh escaping him.
The hangover the next morning was brutal, but at least it was a shared misery. You found him in the kitchen, grimacing over a glass of water, still in his rumpled dress shirt from the night before. You wordlessly made tea, and when you handed him a mug, your fingers brushed. He didn’t pull away.
Then you got sick.
It was a brutal flu, a personal betrayal from your own immune system. One day you were fine, the next, you were a shivering, aching heap buried under the duvet in your room. The maids fluttered in and out with tea and towels, but the apartment felt cold.
You drifted in a feverish haze, only semi-aware of the passage of time. But then—
You heard the firm, quiet tread of leather soles on parquet. The room darkened as a tall silhouette blocked the light from the hallway.
Sunghoon stood there, still in his work suit, his tie slightly loosened.
“The staff said you haven’t eaten,” he stated, his voice softer than usual.
“Can’t,” you croaked, turning your head into the pillow. “Everything hurts.”
You heard him set something down on the bedside table—a small tray. Then, to your shock, you felt the bed dip near your hip as he sat on the very edge of the mattress. You kept your eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with fever.
For a long, long while, all you could hear was your congested breathing. Then, a touch. Light, hesitant. Fingertips, surprisingly cool, brushing the sweat-dampened hair back from your forehead. The gesture was so tender, so utterly at odds with the Park Sunghoon you knew, that your breath hitched. His fingers stilled for a second, thinking he’d woken you. When you didn’t move, they continued, tucking the hair gently behind your ear.
He didn’t say a word. He just sat there, his hand eventually coming to rest, palm down, on the duvet beside your shoulder. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he stood up. You heard the faint clink of a spoon against ceramic. “There’s broth here when you can manage it,” he murmured.
He worked from the armchair next to your bed that day, the quiet tap of his laptop keys a strangely comforting sound. He’d glance over every so often, refilling your water glass without being asked. It was the most mundane kind of care, but it made your heart squeeze. No one in this glittering, fake world had taken care of you like that. It felt more intimate than any kiss the novel had described between him and Soojin.
Life settled into a strange, peaceful rhythm that was nothing like the plot you remembered. You weren’t friends, not exactly. But you were… something. Allies due to the nature of your situation, perhaps. Your conversations became longer. You discovered he had a dry, wicked sense of humor that only emerged when he was truly relaxed. You learned he hated mint chocolate and loved coffee-flavored ice-cream. And then, one evening, you were in his study, looking for a book he’d said was in there. Your fingers trailed over the spines on a high shelf when you knocked a small, ornate wooden box to the floor. It sprung open, spilling its contents: not jewelry or documents, but a handful of old, laminated badges and a single, well-worn ice skate blade guard.
Curious, you picked up a badge. Seoul Junior Figure Skating Championship, 1st Place, Park Sunghoon, Age 12. Another: National Youth Competition, Finalist. There were photos, too. A young boy with solemn eyes and a shock of dark hair, poised on the ice, his arms outstretched. The resemblance was unmistakable.
You were staring at a photo of him, gap-toothed, holding a trophy with a rare, bright, unguarded smile, when his voice came from the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
You jumped, the photo fluttering from your hand. He was leaning against the doorframe, his expression closed off, but you saw the flicker of something—embarrassment? pain?—in his eyes before the shutters came down.
“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, gathering the items with clumsy hands. “I knocked the box over. I didn’t mean to pry.” You held up one of the badges. “You were a figure skater?”
He walked in, taking the badge from your fingers. He looked at it for a long moment, his thumb tracing the raised lettering. “It was a long time ago.”
“Why did you stop?” The question was out before you could stop it.
He didn’t answer immediately. He carefully placed the badge back in the box, his movements precise. “My father,” he said finally, his voice flat. “He decided it was a frivolous pursuit for the heir of Park Holdings. That it wouldn’t build the ruthlessness required for business.” A humorless twist of his lips. “I suppose he was right, in a way.”
The sadness in his tone made you inexplicably upset. You thought of the cold, ruthless CEO you’d read about, the one who only melted for one person. You were seeing the fossil of the boy who had been melted down and reforged into that man.
On an impulse you didn’t fully understand, you spoke. “When was the last time you were on the ice?”
He looked at you, startled. “I don’t know. Over ten years?”
“We should go.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Ice skating. We should go. There’s that new private rink at your country club. We could rent it out. No one would have to know.”
He stared at you as if you’d suggested flying to the moon. “That’s absurd.”
“Is it?” You pressed, a sudden boldness rising in you. “You loved it once. Don’t you ever… you know, miss it? Just the feeling of it?”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. He looked from your face to the open box, to the photo of his younger, smiling self. The conflict in his eyes was a war you could almost see play out in front of you. Finally, he let out a slow breath. “That’s a pointless thing to do.”
But he didn’t say no.
Two days later, his assistant quietly booked the rink for a private two-hour session at midnight. He didn’t mention it to you. You only found out when a note, written in his sharp, elegant script, was left on the kitchen island next to your keys: 8 PM. Dress warm.
An hour later, you were in the empty rink, feeling utterly ridiculous in brand-new thermals. Sunghoon was already laced up, moving with a natural grace as he carved a slow circle on the pristine ice. He made it look effortless. You, on the other hand, sat on the bench, fumbling with the laces. Your fingers felt thick and clumsy. After a minute of struggle, you felt the bench dip beside you. He didn’t ask. He just took the skate from your hands, his fingers brushing yours.
“You have to tie them tightly. Ankle support is everything.”
He bent his head, his dark hair falling slightly over his forehead as he began to lace the boot for you, his movements sure and careful. You watched, mesmerized by the sight of Park Sunghoon’s elegant, powerful hands, the ones that signed countless deals, meticulously tying a double knot for you. It felt impossibly tender. Then he did the same with the other foot, his knuckles accidentally brushing the sensitive skin of your ankle. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold raced up your spine.
“There,” he said, looking up and meeting your eyes. “Now, stand up. Slowly.”
You did, taking one wobbly step onto the surface, and immediately felt your legs betray you. You windmilled your arms, a squeak escaping your throat.
“Careful, careful,” A strong hand closed around your elbow, steadying you. “Bend your knees. Not at the waist.”
“Easy for you to say,” you grumbled, but you bent your knees. His hand stayed on your arm, a firm, warm anchor.
“Now, glide. Don’t step.”
You pushed off, lurching forward. He moved with you, a silent, steady presence at your side. For the first ten minutes, it was a comedy of errors. You wobbled, you slipped, you clutched at his forearm with a grip that probably cut off his circulation. And through it all, he was patient. Surprisingly, infuriatingly patient.
“You’re thinking too much,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice as you stared at your feet in concentration.
“I’m thinking about not concussing myself on this ice!”
“Look at me. Not at your feet.”
You dragged your gaze up to his face. In the cool, bright light of the rink, he looked younger. The usual severity in his expression was softened.
“Better,” he said. “Now, just move with me.”
He took your hands in his, skating backwards and pulling you along. It was terrifying and thrilling. The world narrowed to the sound of blades on ice, the puff of your breath in the cold air, and the solid, reliable grip of his hands. You started to find a shaky rhythm.
“See?” he said, and you realized he was smiling. A real, proper smile that reached his eyes and made them crinkle at the corners. It transformed his face completely. Your heart did a funny little stutter that had nothing to do with skating.
“Don’t let me fall,” you said, the words coming out in a soft, breathless rush.
His grip tightened almost imperceptibly. He never looked away from your eyes. “I won’t.”
He guided you around the rink until your legs burned and your cheeks were numb with cold and laughter. Then, he demonstrated a simple spin, a blur of controlled motion that left you gaping. When he stopped, perfectly centered, he was breathing slightly harder, his face flushed.
He looked alive.
“Show-off,” you called, pushing off the wall to glide clumsily toward him.
He caught you easily when you overbalanced, his hands coming to rest on your hips to steady you. You were suddenly, acutely aware of the closeness. The heat of his body through the layers of clothing. The way his thumbs were pressing just above the waistband of your leggings. His face was inches from yours, his breath warm against your cold skin. His eyes were dark and searching.
You looked up at him, your own laughter dying in your throat. The rink was silent except for the hum of the chillers. For a heartbeat that felt like forever, neither of you moved. You could see the faint scar on his brow, the dark fringe of his lashes, the part of his lips as he breathed.
Then, a distant door clanged. The spell broke. He released your hips, his hands falling back to his sides as he took a small half-step back. “You’re getting the hang of it,” he said, his voice returning to its usual register, though it was a shade rougher and, if you listened hard enough, breathier.
All the way home, you replayed the moment at the rink over and over, the feel of his hands on you. It sparked a low, restless heat in your belly that was becoming frustratingly familiar.
That very heat continued to follow you, and it was driving you crazy. In the mornings, when he’d emerge from his bathroom, a towel slung low on his hips, his hair damp, his torso a landscape of lean muscle and faint scars you itched to trace. You’d mutter a good morning and flee to the kitchen, your face hot. Once, you came out of your room in just a thin camisole and pajamas to get water, forgetting he was working late at the dining table. The look he gave you—a slow, sweeping gaze that felt like a physical touch—had you scurrying back to your room, your skin prickling with awareness. You’d lie in your bed, in the dark, and imagine him in his room just down the hall. Was he asleep? Reading? Thinking about the company? Thinking about… you? Your mind would wander, unbidden, to the feel of his hands on your waist at the rink. To the solid heat of him when you’d stumbled against his chest. To the way his sweatpants hung on his hips. And then a slow, aching warmth would pool low in your belly, and you’d press your thighs together, frustrated and aroused in equal measure.
This was not part of the plan. Getting horny for your emotionally unavailable contract-fiancé was the fastest way to get your heart pulverized.
A WEEK LATER, SUNGHOON INFORMED YOU, OVER A BREAKFAST OF PERFECTLY POACHED EGGS, THAT YOU WOULD BE MEETING HIS FRIENDS.
“Friends?” you’d echoed, nearly choking on your toast. The novel’s Sunghoon had only business associates, rivals, and sycophants. Friends were never part of it.
“Yes,” he said, not looking up from his tablet. “Park Jongseong and Shim Jaeyun. They’re very insistent. They want to meet you badly.” He said it dryly, but you caught the slightest tension in his shoulders. “It’s a dinner on Friday, at Jay’s.”
Friday arrived, and with it, a low-cut dress that felt both too much and not enough. Sunghoon was silent in the elevator ride up, his profile sharp in the dim light. But when the doors opened into a sprawling, modern loft filled with the smell of gourmet food and the sound of jazz, his posture shifted. He placed a light, guiding hand on the small of your back.
“Sunghoon! You made it!” A man with a charming, lopsided grin and artfully messy hair bounded over, pulling Sunghoon into a brief, back-slapping hug. Jake, you guessed. His eyes, warm and curious, immediately landed on you. “And you must be the infamous Y/N.” He winked.
Another man approached, slightly taller, with a more composed elegance but a friendly glint in his eye. Jay, of course. He shook your hand firmly. “A pleasure. Come in, make yourself at home.”
The evening was nothing like the functions you’d gotten used to over the last few months, and you found that your initial nervousness bled away easily. Jay was dry and witty, Jake was sweet and genuinely funny. They teased Sunghoon mercilessly about anything and everything, and to your astonishment, he took it. He even smiled a real, relaxed smile that made your heart do that stupid little flip again.
And the best part was, they talked to you. Not to Cha Y/N, the socialite fiancée, but to you. Jay asked about your opinion on the new exhibition at the National Museum, and you found yourself in a debate about Norman Rockwell. Jake, hearing you hum along to the jazz track, pulled you into a conversation about it. You were in your element, laughing, arguing. You forgot, for a moment, the character you were supposed to be playing.
You also forgot to watch Sunghoon.
He had turned quiet, observing from his seat on the plush sofa, a glass of whiskey cradled in his hand. At first, you thought he was just back to being his usual reserved self. But as the night wore on and your laughter grew more frequent, you began to feel it—a tension emanating from him. When Jake leaned in to refill your wine glass, his hand brushing yours as he pointed to a particular album cover on the shelf, you felt Sunghoon’s gaze on you like a hand.
A few minutes later, when you got up to admire the view of the rolling countryside from the windows, Jake followed, standing close beside you to point things out. “There,” he said, his shoulder almost touching yours, “that’s where Sunghoon and I got hopelessly lost on a school trip. He was too stubborn to ask for directions. We nearly froze to death.”
You laughed, turning to him. “I can picture that.”
“Picture what?”
Sunghoon’s voice was quiet, right behind you. You hadn’t heard him approach. He slid between you and Jake with a smooth, deliberate movement. His arm came around your waist, his hand settling on your hip, pulling you back against him.
“Just reminiscing about your navigational failures,” Jake said, his grin not fading, but his eyes flicking between Sunghoon’s face and the hand on your waist.
“Mm,” Sunghoon murmured, his breath stirring the hair near your ear. His thumb moved, a slow, unconscious stroke against your dress. “Don’t believe a word he says. He was the one who dropped our map in the mud and got us lost in the first place.”
Despite the conversation not dying out, Sunghoon kept you anchored to his side, his fingers splayed on your hip, the warmth of his chest against your shoulder. Sunghoon’s interjections became more frequent in your interactions with Jay and Jake, his dry remarks steering the conversation away from anything that involved you and his friends directly interacting.
You couldn't say you didn’t expect that the journey back would be shrouded in a heavy silence. Sunghoon stared out the window, his jaw tight.
“Did you have a good time?” he finally asked, his voice devoid of inflection.
“I did,” you said carefully. “They’re lovely.”
“They seemed to think the same of you.” The words were clipped.
You turned to look at his profile. “Is that a problem?”
He didn’t answer. He just kept looking out at the passing lights, the muscle in his jaw working. The possessiveness he’d shown at the penthouse was gone, replaced by this cold, withdrawn sulk. It was so childish, and so utterly at odds with the man in the novel, who wouldn’t have batted an eye if the original Y/N had flirted with an entire football team. He’d found her disgusting, but he hadn’t cared. He’d been indifferent.
This wasn’t indifference.
The realization sent a dangerous thrill through you, followed immediately by a wave of guilt. You were messing with the script, and you had no idea what the new plot was.
Back at home, he headed straight for his study without a word. You stood in the grand living room, feeling unmoored. The heat from his touch still lingered on your skin, but the silent treatment felt worse than any cold remark. You took a deep breath and followed him.
He was standing by the window, a dark silhouette against the city’s glitter.
“Sunghoon.”
He didn’t turn.
You walked closer, your heels silent on the rug. “Are you angry with me?”
“No.” The word was short, final.
“You seem like it.”
He finally turned. In the dim light from the window, his expression was unreadable. “I’m not angry. I just don’t appreciate your…” he pretended to think. “Acting.”
“Acting?”
“The laughing. The leaning in. The wide-eyed interest in everything they said.” His tone was low, edged with something you couldn’t understand. “It was a bit much, don’t you think?”
A flash of irritation burst through you. “I was being polite. And for your information, I was genuinely interested. They’re good people, it was a normal conversation.”
“It didn’t look normal from where I was sitting.” He took a step closer. The air between you crackled. “Looked like you were enjoying their attention a little too much.”
You closed the remaining distance between you, stopping just an arm’s length away. You looked up at him, at the storm in his gray eyes. “Sunghoon,” you said, your voice tender. “They’re your friends. I was nice to them because they’re important to you. That’s all.”
But if anything, your softness seemed to make it worse.
A low, frustrated sound escaped him. He finally turned, but not to look at you. His gaze swept over his desk, the neat stacks of papers, as if searching for an escape. “That’s not the point,” he said, his voice clipped and cold.
The aching in your chest curdled into a sharp spike of annoyance. You’d spent the entire evening navigating his unpredictable moods, from his possessive display at Jay’s to this petulant silence. You’d offered an olive branch, and he was swatting it away.
“Then what is the point, Sunghoon?” you asked, the calm in your voice beginning to fray. “Because from where I’m standing, you invited me to meet the only people in your life who seem to actually like you, I had a genuinely pleasant conversation with them, and now you’re treating me like I’ve committed some kind of crime. So, please, enlighten me. What exactly did I do wrong? Was my laugh too loud? Were my interests too provocative?”
He flinched, just a tiny tightening around his eyes, but it was enough. He looked at you then, and the storm in his brown eyes was now a cold front. “You know exactly what you’re doing,” he said, the accusation falling like a blade. “You have this—” he ran his hands through his hair. “This way. You turn it on and off. For the press, for my employees, for my friends. That wide-eyed fascination. That laugh that makes men feel like they’re the wittiest person in the world. It’s an act. And a very convincing one, apparently.”
The accusation was so absurd, so wildly off-base, that for a second you were speechless. He was describing the original Y/N. Not you. You’d forgotten to act tonight.
That was the whole problem.
Your own frustration boiled over. “You are impossible, Sunghoon,” you stated, the words leaving your lips before you could temper them. “And you’re not even making sense. You’re jealous of your own friends for having a regular conversation with me. Do you hear yourself?”
You didn’t wait for an answer. The conversation was going in circles, spiraling into a void where his logic couldn’t follow. The warmth of the evening, the feeling of connection with Jake and Jay, the heat of his hand on your hip—it was all being poisoned by this stubborn, childish sulk. You were tired. The emotional whiplash was exhausting.
“You know what? Forget it,” you said, turning on your heel. The silk of your dress whispered against your legs as you strode toward the study door. “I’m going to bed. You can stand here and brood at the skyline all night for all I care.”
You reached for the polished brass handle, your fingers closing around the cool metal. You pulled.
The door didn’t budge.
A large, warm hand was splayed flat against the dark wood, just above your head, holding it shut. You hadn’t heard him move, but he was right there behind you, his body warm. The scent of his cologne enveloped you. You froze, your breath catching in your throat.
“Wait.”
His voice was close, right by your ear. It had lost its icy edge. Now it was just rough, scraped raw.
You didn’t turn. You stared at the grain of the wood, at his long fingers pressed white-knuckled against it. “Let me go, Sunghoon.”
“I said wait.” The hand on the door slid down, his arm now caging you in, his chest not quite touching your back but you could feel the heat of him through the thin layers of your dress and his shirt. “Just—please. Wait a moment.”
The fight drained out of you, replaced by a shaky, breathless awareness. You leaned your forehead lightly against the door, closing your eyes. “Why?”
A long pause. You could hear his breathing, slightly uneven. “Because you’re right,” he said, the words so quiet you almost didn’t hear them. “I’m being impossible.”
You blinked, your eyes still closed.
Huh?
He continued, the words coming out in a reluctant, stilted rush, as if being forced past a great internal resistance. “It wasn’t an act. I could see that. Tonight. With them.” He took a deep breath, his chest expanding behind you. “You were—yourself. And they liked you. Jake was practically hanging on your every word about that absurd painting with the floating clocks.”
“Dali,” you murmured automatically.
“Yes, Dali.” he echoed. He shifted, his arm brushing against yours, sending a shiver down your spine. “The point is…” he cleared his throat. “I’m not used to it.”
“To what? To people liking your fiancée?”
“To caring if they do,” he admitted. “To watching it happen and feeling like I…” He trailed off. “It’s unfamiliar. And I handled it poorly. I apologize.”
The formal, stiff apology was so like him, yet the vulnerability laced through it was entirely new. The annoyance melted away, leaving that strange, aching tenderness in its place.
You finally turned, slowly, under the arch of his arm. You had to tilt your head back to look at him. In the dim light, his handsome face was all sharp angles and shadow, but his eyes… they held a turmoil you’d never seen before.
“You were jealous,” you said, not as an accusation, but as a simple, gentle observation.
He held your gaze for a long moment, then looked away, his jaw working. A faint, almost imperceptible flush touched the high points of his cheeks. “I was. It was… illogical.”
“A little,” you agreed, a small smile touching your lips. “They’re your best friends. Jake looks at you like you hung the moon. Jay clearly adores you. They were just being kind to me because I’m with you.”
He looked back at you, searching your face. “You’re not upset?”
“I was annoyed,” you said honestly. “Because you were being a grumpy, silent statue and it was confusing. But I’m not upset.” You reached up, tentatively, and placed a hand lightly on his chest, over his sternum. You could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath your palm. “It’s okay to feel things, Sunghoon. Even if they’re messy and confusing and don’t make sense.”
He stared down at your hand on his chest, then his gaze lifted to yours. His brows were knitted upwards. “I don’t know how to do this,” he said, the words so quiet they were almost swallowed by the room.
“Do what?”
“Any of it.” The admission seemed to unlock something. The words started to tumble out, low and rushed. “This. Having someone here. Someone who—who argues with me and really listens to me and doesn’t look at my friends as potential social climbing opportunities. Someone who gets annoyed when I’m being an ass instead of just simpering. And then seeing you with them, so natural, so easy… it felt like you fit. You fit into a part of my life that has nothing to do with mergers or board meetings. And I didn’t know what to do with that. I still don’t. It’s—well, it’s kind of unsettling. It’s ridiculous. I know it’s ridiculous. Jay would laugh himself sick if he knew. He’s probably already guessed. He’s annoyingly perceptive about these things. Which is another problem, because now I’ll have to hear about it for weeks, and he’ll make some comment about me being emotionally stunted, which is technically accurate but still rude to point out, especially when I’m the one usually paying for his overpriced whiskey—”
He was rambling. Park Sunghoon, the master of terse, cutting remarks, was rambling.
You let out a breathy, incredulous little giggle.
He stopped mid-sentence, his brows drawing together again. “What?”
You shook your head, your smile widening. “Nothing. It’s just… you’re cute when you’re flustered.”
He blinked. Cute. You were certain no one had ever used that word to describe Park Sunghoon in his entire life. A series of emotions flickered across his face: disbelief, offense, and then a dawning, bewildered wonder. The faint blush on his cheeks deepened.
“I am not,” he stated, but the protest sounded almost petulant.
“You are a little,” you insisted, your thumb making a small, unconscious circle on his shirt. “All this big, brooding energy because your friends and your fake fiancée got along too well. It’s adorable.”
He stared at you, utterly disarmed. The hand that wasn’t braced against the door came up, hesitated, then gently brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face. His touch was feather-light, tentative. “You’re the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met,” he murmured.
“I know,” you whispered back.
Your eyes dropped to his lips, then flicked back up to his. His gaze was locked on your mouth. For one heart-stopping second, you thought he might kiss you. The air grew thick, your breath coming shorter. His head dipped slightly, his eyes darkening—
—but then he stopped. He closed his eyes, took a deep, shuddering breath, and straightened. The moment shattered.
His hand fell from your face, and he took a small, deliberate step back.
He cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at you. “Go to bed,” he said, his voice rough, scraping over the words. “We have the drive to my parents’ estate tomorrow.”
THE PARK FAMILY ESTATE WAS LESS A HOUSE AND MORE A DISPLAY OF WEALTH. It was all severe lines, imported stone, and meticulously manicured gardens that looked like no one was allowed to walk in them. The air itself felt several degrees cooler when you stepped out of the car.
Sunghoon’s father, Chairman Park, was exactly as the novel had foretold: a man carved from glacier ice, a crueller, harsher version of Sunghoon. His greeting was a curt nod, his eyes assessing you. His mother, on the other hand, was far more complex. She was elegant, with a smile that reached her eyes but didn't quite warm them, and she welcomed you gracefully, complimenting your dress, asking after the wedding plans with a tone of mild interest.
Dinner was a silent, formal affair. The clink of silverware against fine china was deafening. Chairman Park grilled Sunghoon on work, dismissing his answers with grunts. He ignored you completely. Mrs. Park attempted lighter conversation, asking you about your family, your interests. You answered as blandly as possible, sticking to the script you imagined the original Y/N would have used: mentions of charitable boards, designer names.
“You must be so excited for the wedding, dear,” Mrs. Park said as dessert was served, a fragile porcelain cup of tea placed before her. “It’s such a wonderful opportunity to solidify your future.”
You nodded, forcing a smile. “Yes, of course.”
“Sunghoon tells me you’ve been spending a lot of time together since you’ve started living together. Getting to know each other.” Her smile remained, but her eyes were sharp and beady. “That’s good. A strong foundation of… understanding is so important in these arrangements.”
At the word ‘arrangement’, Sunghoon, beside you, went very still.
After dinner, Mrs. Park suggested a walk in the garden. “The roses are in bloom, Y/N. Come, let’s get some air.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. You followed her out into the twilight, the scent of roses indeed thick and almost cloying. She walked in silence for a while along a gravel path that wound past sculpted hedges and a large koi pond.
“You are a very different girl from the reports I received,” she began, her voice conversational. “The Y/N we researched was rather more acquisitive. I thought that before, you knew what this marriage was.” She turned to you. “A strategic alliance for your family’s benefit and for the stability of ours.”
You kept your eyes on the path, your stomach knotting.
“But it seems this new version of you,” she continued, stopping by the pond to watch the orange and white shapes glide beneath the water’s surface. “Is quite confusing for my son, I think. He is a man who values clarity. He understands transactions.” She turned to you, her smile still perfectly in place. “Your job, my dear, is to be a compliant partner and an asset to him. Not to… confuse him by making him question the nature of the transaction.”
The gentleness in her tone made the words cut deeper. “I’m not trying to confuse him,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Aren’t you?” she asked, tilting her head. She let out a soft, pitying sigh. “You’re forgetting your place. This is a business arrangement. When the time is right, and his position is unassailable, you will both go your separate ways with the agreed-upon compensation. Any emotional complication is a breach of contract.” She placed a cold, delicate hand on your arm. “Do not make the mistake of believing this is a love story, Y/N. Remember who you are. And more importantly, remember who he is.”
Your head was spinning.
She gave your arm a faint pat. “I’ll leave you to enjoy the pond. Do find your way back before it gets too dark.”
She walked away, her footsteps silent on the gravel, leaving you alone by the darkening water.
The dam broke.
Tears, hot and shameful, welled up and spilled over. She was right. Of course she was right. You were an imposter in every sense. An imposter in this body, in this life, and now, an imposter in your own feelings. You were muddying the waters of a simple deal, risking everything for a man who was made to love someone else. The sobs came then, quiet and wrenching, your shoulders shaking as you stared blindly at the koi, your tears making small splashes in the pond.
You didn’t hear his approach. You only sensed a presence, and you quickly wiped your cheeks with the backs of your hands, turning your face away.
“Y/N?”
Sunghoon’s voice, close. Panic spiked inside you.
You couldn’t let him see.
“I’m fine,” you choked out, your voice thick. “Just—um. Admiring the pond. Give me a minute.”
“Look at me.”
“No, really, I’m—”
“Y/N.” His voice was low, but it was a command nonetheless. “Look at me.”
Slowly, you turned. The last of the twilight caught the tracks of your tears, glistening on your skin. His expression, which had been carefully neutral when he found you, shattered. His eyes widened, then darkened with fury.
“What did she say to you?” The question was a soft, deadly thing.
You shook your head, fresh tears falling. “Nothing. She didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”
“Tell me.” He took a step closer.
“She just—just reminded me of my place,” you whispered, the words tasting like ash. “That this is just an arrangement. That I shouldn’t… forget what it is. That I’m—I’m confusing you. And she’s right, Sunghoon, I am. I’m messing it all up, and I’m—” you sniffed. “I’m so sorry—”
“Stop.” The word was a whip-crack. He closed the final distance, his hands coming up to frame your face. His thumbs brushed the tears from your cheeks. “She has no right. No right to speak to you like that.”
“She does,” you cried, the frustration and heartbreak pouring out. “This is her world! These are her rules! I’m just a temporary fixture, and I’m acting like—like I’m something else. I’m sorry for being confusing. I’m sorry for the skating and the congee and for talking to your friends and for just… for just being here all wrong!”
You were babbling, tears streaming freely now. You tried to pull away, but he didn’t let you. Instead, he pulled you into his chest.
One arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders, the other hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers threading into your hair. He held you firmly, securely, as you cried into the crisp cotton of his shirt. He didn’t shush you. He didn’t tell you it would be okay. He just held you, his chin resting on the top of your head.
“Y/N,” he murmured into your hair. “You are the only thing that has made any sense in a very, very long time.”
You clung to him, your fists bunching in the fabric of his shirt. His hand moved from your head to stroke your hair, slow, calming strokes. You could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart against your cheek, and the last of your resistance melted away, and you sank into the embrace, letting him hold the pieces of you together.
You stood there for what felt like an eternity, wrapped in the silence of the garden and the sanctuary of his arms. The tears eventually subsided, leaving you hollowed out and shaky. He didn’t let go until finally, you took a ragged, shuddering breath. He leaned back just enough to look down at you, his hands moving to cup your face again. His thumbs wiped away the last of the moisture on your cheeks. His eyes searched yours.
“We’re leaving,” he said.
He kept one arm around you, guiding you firmly back toward the monstrous house, not to say goodbye to his parents, but straight to the car. He opened the passenger door for you, got in the driver’s side, started the engine, and pulled away from the estate without a backward glance.
You looked out the window, watching the dark countryside blur past, feeling the ghost of his arms around you, the sensation of his fingers in your hair. Your skin still tingled where he’d touched you. Then you snuck a glance at his profile, lit by the dashboard lights. His jaw was set, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, but the cold fury had settled into a deep, simmering resolve. He had chosen a side. And for tonight, at least, he had chosen yours.
Though, of course, life humbled you. Confusion had to come from the other side of the equation: Lee Soojin.
The wedding planning continued as normal. You made a point of being pleasant, supportive even. You praised her ideas, deferred to her taste. You were the dream client, and her initial nervousness around you melted into a warm, professional respect. You liked her. She was kind, hardworking, genuinely talented.
And Sunghoon always noticed her. It was natural that he did—that was how it was meant to go. In meetings, he was engaged, asking questions, offering solutions. You’d catch him watching her as she meticulously arranged sample centerpieces, a considering look on his face. Once, when she dropped a binder, he was out of his chair in an instant to help her gather the scattered papers. Their hands brushed. You saw the faint pink that tinged Soojin’s cheeks, the way she couldn’t quite meet his eyes afterward, and the jealousy brewing in the pit of your stomach almost became acidic.
It was exactly as the novel said. The cold CEO, melted by the genuine warmth of the commoner. You’d see them talking quietly in a corner of his office after a meeting had officially ended, and that strange pang would hit your chest again.
THE WORST WAS THE DAY OF THE FINAL VENUE WALKTHROUGH. You’d arrived separately from Sunghoon, caught in a snarl of downtown traffic.
The location was a stunning, glass-walled conservatory overlooking the river. By the time you rushed through the arched entrance, the late afternoon sun was casting long shadows across the polished floor.
You saw them before they saw you.
They were at the far end of the conservatory, standing on a temporary wooden platform that marked where the altar would be. Lee Soojin was pointing towards the ceiling, explaining something about hanging floral installations, her face animated with passion. And Sunghoon…
Sunghoon was listening. Not just listening, but absorbing it all. He stood beside her, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, his head tilted slightly toward her. The sunlight streamed through the glass panes, catching the dust motes in the air and painting them both in a soft, golden glow.
It was a perfect picture. The ambitious, brilliant CEO and the creative, warm-hearted wedding planner. He was asking a question, his expression serious but open, and Soojin smiled, gesturing with her hands as she answered.
You could see it, the rows of chairs filled with Seoul’s elite. The live music swelling. Soojin, in a simple, beautiful dress that wasn’t the one you’d picked, walking down this very aisle. And Sunghoon, waiting for her right there, on that platform, his brown eyes fixed only on her. The image was so vivid that it stole the breath from your lungs. Your chest constricted, a sharp ache that had nothing to do with the hurried walk from the car.
This was it. The real beginning of the end for Cha Y/N.
Sunghoon’s gaze finally flickered away from Soojin and landed on you, standing frozen in the doorway. The open, engaged expression on his face closed down, smoothed into the more familiar, neutral mask. He straightened up.
“You’re late.”
“Traffic,” you said, your voice sounding brittle and thin to your own ears. You forced a smile, directing it at Soojin, who had turned and was now offering you a polite, slightly nervous bow. “Sorry, Miss Lee. Please, show me what you’ve finalized.”
You walked forward, your heels clicking a sharp, lonely rhythm on the stone. As you passed Sunghoon to join Soojin by the platform, he did something unexpected. He reached out and briefly, almost absently, tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers were cool against your heated skin. “You look flushed,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Did you run?”
The gesture was so intimate. A week ago, it might have sent a thrill through you. Now, it just felt like salt in the wound. He’s just playing his part, a vicious voice in your head whispered. The attentive fiancé in front of the help. It doesn’t mean anything. He was just looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing in the world.
“Just the heat,” you lied, pulling away slightly, your smile feeling more like a grimace.
The rest of the walkthrough was agony. You nodded and agreed to everything Soojin proposed: the arch of white orchids, the string quartet placement, the timing for the sunset ceremony. But you felt like a spectator haunting your own life. Your responses were automatic. “Lovely.” “Perfect.” “Whatever you think is best.”
You watched Sunghoon and Soojin discuss the practicalities. Lighting cues for the photographer, the route for the caterers, backup plans for rain. Their rapport was seamless. He’d ask a sharp, logistical question, and she’d have a thoughtful, prepared answer. He’d nod, a flicker of approval in his eyes, and suggest a minor refinement. She’d consider it, then agree with a bright, “Yes, that’s much more efficient!” Every shared titter over a hiccup, every moment of unspoken understanding as they examined a floor plan, felt like a tiny paper cut on your heart. A hundred small, insignificant slices that left you feeling quietly, profoundly bloody.
As she got to her binder, Soojin tripped slightly on a loose cable snaking across the floor. Sunghoon’s hand shot out, steadying her by the elbow. “Careful,” he said, his voice soft.
“Oh! Thank you, Mr. Park,” Soojin stammered, her cheeks flushing a pretty, delicate pink again. She quickly righted herself, but her gaze lingered on his face for a second too long before she busied herself with her clipboard.
You looked away, your throat tight.
A little while later, as you were examining sample table linens, Sunghoon stood close behind you, leaning over your shoulder to point at a fabric swatch in Soojin’s hand. His chest brushed against your back. “I like the ivory better, not the stark white,” he said, his voice a soft rumble near your ear. “It’ll be less harsh under the lights.”
You stiffened, every nerve ending hyper-aware.
“Yes,” you managed to whisper. “Okay. The ivory is better.”
He stayed there for a moment longer than necessary, and then he straightened up, the warmth leaving your back.
The walkthrough concluded with polite bows and assurances. Soojin promised to have the revised layouts emailed by the morning. Sunghoon gave a curt nod. “Your work is impressive, Miss Lee. Thank you.”
The praise, so directly given, made Soojin beam. “Thank you, Mr. Park! I won’t let you down.”
No, you thought, the ache in your chest deepening. You certainly won’t.
That night, back in the penthouse, you were curled on the vast living room sofa, a book (decidedly not a romance) open but unread on your lap. You were replaying the image of them by the window, trying to quash the hollow feeling it left behind. This was the plan. This was what you wanted. For them to fall in love, for the story to proceed, so you could leave.
So why did it feel like this?
You heard his footsteps first, then the subtle shift in the air as he entered the room. He didn’t sit. He came to stand behind the sofa, looking down at you. You kept your eyes on your book, but you could feel his gaze like a physical touch, tracing the line of your shoulder, the curve of your neck where your hair had fallen away.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice dropping into that lower register that seemed reserved for these late-night moments.
You swallowed. “Nothing. Just tired.”
The lie hung in the air. He was quiet for a long moment. You could almost hear him weighing his next move. Then, you felt the cushion dip slightly as he leaned forward, his hands coming to rest on the back of the sofa, one on either side of you.
“You’ve been quiet since the venue,” he stated, his voice a soft rumble near your ear. “Was it something Miss Lee said?”
The mention of her name was like a splash of cold water. You closed your book with a soft snap. “No. She was perfect. Everything is perfect.” You made to get up, to escape to the safety of your room.
A hand, firm and warm, landed on your shoulder, gently pressing you back down. “Y/N.”
You froze. He almost never used your name. It was always “you,” or “Miss Cha” in formal settings. The sound of it in his voice, so close, did something dangerous to your insides.
“Look at me.”
Slowly, you turned your head to look up at him. He was leaning over the back of the sofa, his face serious, his storm-cloud eyes searching yours. The distance between your faces was less than a foot. You could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the slight pulse at the base of his throat. Your breath caught.
“I don’t believe you,” he said softly
Fine, you wanted to say. Something did happen. The entire plot of a trashy romance novel happened. And I saw you smiling at her, and it’s supposed to happen, but it feels all wrong now.
“I mean it,” you said instead. “It’s nothing. Really.” You offered him a weak smile. “Just pre-wedding jitters, I guess.”
He studied your face for a long moment, his own unreadable. Then he nodded slowly, not looking convinced. He reached out, and for a heart-stopping second, you thought he might touch your face. But his hand just brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead, the contact brief.
“Okay. Get some rest,” he said, his voice quiet. He stood and left the room, leaving you alone with the echo of his touch and the churning confusion in your gut.
Here lay the entire problem: the more you saw of the real Park Sunghoon, the more the fictional version paled in comparison. The attraction you’d felt for a character became a terrifyingly real pull towards the living, breathing man. You’d catch yourself watching him, a hollow ache blooming in your chest, before violently shoving the feeling down. He’s not for you. This story isn’t yours. His happiness is with Soojin
The pang in your chest was no longer alien, it was a constant, dull companion. And it was your cue to exit, stage left.
Enough. You had played your part. You had been harmless. You had, against all odds, built something resembling a civil friendship with the male lead. Now it was time to give him his freedom, take your cushy payout, and vanish. You had your lawyer draw up a simple, clean, no-fault dissolution of the engagement agreement, and then you requested a meeting in his office. The same office where you’d first met Soojin.
HE WAS AT HIS DESK, BUT HE WASN’T WORKING. He was waiting for you, leaning back in his chair, watching you as you entered. The afternoon light slanted across the room, splashing everything in gold and shadow.
“You wanted to see me,” he said. His voice was deceptively casual, but his posture was alert.
You managed a nod, your throat suddenly dry. The leather folder in your hand felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
He pushed off the desk and closed the distance between you in a few unhurried strides. Before you could step back or offer a handshake—any kind of businesslike gesture—his arm slid around your waist, pulling you gently against him. He dipped his head, his nose brushing the hair at your temple as he inhaled softly. “It’s nice to have you here,” he murmured, the words a warm puff against your skin.
You forced yourself to relax into the half-embrace, your mind screaming at the contradiction. This was the man who’d taken care of you when you were sick, who taught you to skate. This was also the man whose destiny was written in ink, intertwined with another woman’s name. The hollow ache in your chest expanded, threatening to swallow your resolve.
“I just needed to talk to you about something,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. You extricated yourself from his hold.
He frowned, returning back to his desk. “Is that right?”
“Yes.” You placed the sleek leather folder on the desk between you. “I need you to sign these.”
He didn’t look at it. His eyes stayed on your face. “What is it?”
“The termination of our engagement.” The words came out steady, practiced. “My lawyers have already reviewed it. It’s very straightforward. The settlement terms are there, and I think you’ll find them reasonable.”
For a long moment, there was nothing but silence from him. The gold light glinted off the edges of the folder, off the sharp line of his cheekbone.
He didn’t move. He didn’t blink.
Slowly, so slowly, he leaned forward. He didn’t reach for the folder. He placed his palms flat on the desk, his knuckles white. When he spoke, his voice was a low, controlled vibration.
“What?”
“I’m calling off the arrangement,” you repeated, your own voice sounding thin in comparison. “It’s for the best. We both know this was never a real—”
“For the best,” he echoed, cutting you off. The control was cracking. You could see it at the edges—a muscle jumping in his jaw, a storm gathering in those dark eyes. He pushed back from the desk and stood up, the movement fluid and predatory. He loomed over the desk, over you. “For the best? Are you serious? You come into my life, you—you change everything, you act like a completely different person for months, and now you just… you just drop this on my desk and say it’s for the best?”
“Sunghoon,” you startled at the emotion in his voice, taking an involuntary step back. “We both don’t want this. It’s a business deal that’s run its course. You can be with—”
“With who?” he snapped, his voice rising. He came around the desk, stopping a few feet from you. The space between you crackled with his fury. “Who is it that you think I want to be with? Tell me.”
“Soojin!” you blurted out. “Lee Soojin! It’s obvious, Sunghoon. You’re good together. She’s sweet, she’s genuine, she’s everything that—that this arrangement isn’t. You should be with her. You’re meant to be with her.”
He stared at you as if you’d started speaking in tongues. The anger seemed to freeze, then shatter into pure, unadulterated disbelief. “Soojin,” he scoffed, the name a flat, incredulous syllable. “Our wedding planner.”
“Yes! You talk to her, you laugh with her, you look at her like…” You trailed off, the memory of those looks twisting inside you.
“Like a competent professional whose work I respect?” he fired back, taking another step closer. You could see the faint flecks of gold in his irises, the rapid pulse at the base of his throat. “Is that the crime? Is that what this is about? You’ve decided, based on God-knows-what, that I have feelings for our wedding planner, and so you’re, what? Nobly stepping aside? Is that it?”
It was too close to the truth. You floundered. “It’s logical. This engagement is a farce. We should both be free.”
“Free?” he laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “Are you fucking with me?” He was right in front of you now, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the subtle, clean scent of his cologne. His gaze bored into yours, searching for something you were desperately trying to hide. “For months, I’ve been trying to understand you. I thought—I actually thought…” He broke off, shaking his head, a hand raking through his perfect hair in a gesture of utter frustration. “And now you hand me this. Did I do something? Did I upset you? Is this some new, elaborate game? Because if it is, I need you to tell me the rules right now, because I can’t keep up.”
The pain in his voice, the sheer, bewildered hurt mixed in with the anger, was your undoing. This wasn’t in the novel. The Sunghoon in the novel would have taken the papers with relief, maybe a cutting remark. He wouldn’t be standing here, looking at you like you’d just reached into his chest and pulled out his entire heart.
“It’s not a game,” you whispered, your own resolve crumbling. “And you didn’t do anything wrong. You’ve been—you’ve been lovely. That’s the whole problem.”
“That’s the whole problem,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “I’ve been lovely, so you’re leaving.” He ran his hands through his hair. “That makes no sense. None of this makes any sense, Y/N, I don’t accept this.”
“You have to sign the papers,” you said weakly.
“I don’t have to do a damn thing,” he said, and the final shred of his control vanished. His eyes blazed with conviction. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to walk in here, change every single thing, and then just walk away because you’ve decided what’s for the best. You don’t know what’s best for me.” He leaned in, his face inches from yours. His breath was warm against your skin. “The only thing I know for certain right now,” he said, each word deliberate, hammering, and emphasised, “is that I am not signing those papers.”
“You have to,” you insisted, your voice trembling despite your resolve. “Sunghoon, this isn’t real. What we have is a contract. You’ll get over this. In a month, you’ll look back and be grateful I let you go to be with someone you actually—someone who actually means something to you. Soojin is—”
“Enough.” The word was a guttural snarl that vibrated in the marrow of your bones. His hand, still hovering near your arm, finally closed around your wrist firmly. “Enough about Lee Soojin! You think this is about her?”
He pulled you closer, the motion so sudden you stumbled a half-step forward. The storm in his eyes had broken.
“You want to know what I’ve been thinking about?” he demanded, his voice a ragged scrape of sound. “When I’m in a meeting so boring I want to put my head through the glass, I think about coming home. Not just to this place. To wherever you are. That’s home. I imagine walking in and finding you asleep on the sofa with a book on your chest. I think about picking it up, reading the page you dog-eared, just to know what was in your head before you drifted off. If you’re in the kitchen, I think about you humming to yourself, that off-key little tune you do when you’re making tea, and I wonder what would happen if I came up behind you and put my hands around your waist.”
Your breath hitched, trapped in your throat. This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be. This was a deviation, a crack in the universe.
“And you think I’ve been—been thinking about her?” He let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Before you, this place was just a building. I’d work until I couldn’t see straight just to have an excuse not to come back.” His eyebrows were drawn together. “You’ve fucked me up, Y/N. Now I find myself watching the clock like some pathetic highschooler, inventing reasons to wrap things up early. Because you’re here.”
He leaned in, his forehead almost touching yours. “You want to know when I think about Lee Soojin? I think about her when she’s emailing me timelines and invoices. That’s it. She’s a good planner, and she’s doing an excellent job planning a wedding that I don’t want with anyone but you.”
“You don’t mean that,” you whispered, a last-ditch defense. “It’s just… the arrangement, Sunghoon. It’s confusing your feelings—”
“Y/N,” He released your wrist, but only to bring both hands up to frame your face, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones. The touch was devastating in its tenderness. “You think I don’t know what I feel? You think this is confusion? This is the only thing that has ever been clear to me.”
“Sunghoon, please—”
“No.” The word was soft, final. “It’s you. It’s only you. It has only ever been you.” His voice broke on the last word, the raw vulnerability of it slicing through you. “Do you understand? There is no one else, there will never be anyone else for me.”
The world tilted. The solid ground of the plot, of your predetermined escape, crumbled into dust beneath your feet. He was looking at you like you were the sun, but you were just a thief standing in its light.
“You’re wrong,” you choked out, tears spilling over now, matching his. “You have to be wrong. This is a trick. I tricked you. I didn’t mean to, but I did. I’m not her, Sunghoon. The person you think you—the person you feel this for, it’s not me. It’s a lie.”
His brow furrowed, bewildered concern overtaking his features. He wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “What are you talking about? Of course it’s you. Who else would it be?”
“The real Cha Y/N!” you cried, the words tearing free from some deep, secret place of panic. “The one who was supposed to be here! The person I was a year ago! That’s who you were supposed to be engaged to. That’s who you were supposed to hate. And I—I came in and I messed it all up. I was nice to Soojin. I made you congee. I laughed with your friends. I’ve been pretending to be someone,” you sniffled. “Someone better, and you fell for the act. You fell for this—this character.” You were sobbing in earnest now, the guilt and fear and desperate, unwanted hope pouring out of you. “You’re a good man, Sunghoon. You’re just—you feel responsible because I’ve been kind. That’s all this is.”
For a long, suspended moment, he just stared at you, his hands still cradling your face. The anger had drained from his expression, and, to your surprise, he wasn’t looking at you like you were crazy. He was looking at you like he was finally, finally putting the pieces together.
“A character,” he repeated slowly. His thumbs stilled on your skin. “You think you’ve been playing a part.”
“Yes.”
“And the real Cha Y/N… you believe she was someone else. Someone I was meant to despise.”
“Yes.”
He took a deep, slow breath, his gaze searching every inch of your face as if seeing it for the first time. “The night in the car. After the gala. You said you were from a different universe.” he said slowly. “I thought you were joking.”
You couldn’t speak. You just looked at him, your eyes wide with terror.
His voice dropped to a whisper, filled with awe and a terrible, heartbreaking softness. “You weren’t joking, were you?”
The last of your resistance collapsed. You shook your head, a tiny, helpless movement.
“Oh, Y/N,” he breathed. The sound was full of wonder. His grip on your face gentled even further. “My impossible, ridiculous girl. Do you really think it matters to me?” A faint, incredulous smile touched his lips, though his eyes were still wet. “Do you think I’m some honorable hero from one of your books?”
You flinched at the accuracy of it.
His smile faded, replaced by that same conviction. “I told you. I’m not a hero. I’m a selfish man. I want what I want. And I have never, not for one second since you woke up in this world, wanted anyone but you.” He leaned closer, his gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, dark with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. “I have spent the last few months in a special kind of hell, Y/N. Do you have any idea what that’s been like? To have the woman I’m contractually bound to be the only woman I can’t fucking have? To watch you walk around in those little sleep shorts, with your hair messy in the morning, and have to pretend I don’t see it? To sit across from you at breakfast and want to clear the entire table with my arm just to get my hands on you?” He leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice dropped to a vicious whisper that scraped over every nerve ending. “I’ve thought about bending you over this very desk. I’ve thought about pinning you against that glass and watching the whole city see who you belong to. I’ve thought about your mouth, your thighs, the sounds you’d make if I finally stopped being a gentleman. I’ve fucked my own hand more times these past few months than in my entire life before you, and every single time, it was your name I bit into my pillow to keep from shouting.”
A dizzying wave of heat crashed through you.
“Sunghoon,” you started, but you had no words.
“No,” he growled, pulling back to look at you, his gaze scouring your face. “Listen to me.” He released your wrist only to bring both hands up to frame your face, his touch searing. “You are not leaving me. This engagement is not ending. The only thing that’s ending is this pathetic charade where we pretend this isn’t real.”
He released you so suddenly you swayed. In one fluid, violent motion, he snatched the leather folder from the desk. You watched, hypnotized, as his hands searched for the papers. He tore them in half, then quarters, then let the pieces flutter to the floor.
“The only paper you’ll sign next,” he said, his voice low and final, “is our marriage certificate. Do you understand me?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. His attention was already on his tie. With a sharp tug, he loosened the knot of his silk tie, the dark fabric slithering free. His eyes never left yours as he began to stalk toward you, a predator with its prey finally cornered.
You took a step back. Then another. Your heart was a wild drum against your ribs. The heat between your legs was a throbbing, insistent ache. Your back hit something cool and unyielding—the massive floor-to-ceiling window. The panoramic view of the city sprawled behind you, a dizzying drop of steel and glass. You were trapped between the cold glass and the furnace of his body.
He closed the final distance and planted his hands on the glass on either side of your head, caging you in.
“Now,” he breathed out. “Tell me you don’t want this. Tell me you haven’t thought about it. Lie to me.”
You couldn’t. Your breath hitched, your lips parted. A small, desperate whimper escaped you.
That was all the answer he needed.
He kissed you like he was starving, and you were the first thing he’d had in a lifetime. He kissed you like he was trying to erase every word about leaving, every mention of another person’s name. His teeth grazed your lower lip, a sharp sting of pleasure-pain that made you cry out against his mouth. Your hands flew up to clutch at the crisp fabric of his shirt. A low groan rumbled from his chest into yours.
He swallowed the sound, his tongue tangling with yours, deep and filthy. When he finally broke for air, it was only to drag his lips along your jaw, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.
“You think I could look at anyone else,” he growled, his voice a scrape against your ear as he bit your earlobe. “When you’re in my house? In my bed? Fuck.” His hands left the glass and gripped your hips, fingers digging in through the thin fabric of your dress. “Every night. Every goddamn night, Y/N.”
“Sunghoon—” you whimpered, the explicit confession flooding your system with heat.
“Y/N,” he breathed out. He spun you around, your front pressing against the cool, unyielding glass. The city sprawled below, and your breath fogged the window. His body covered yours from behind, his erection a hard, insistent line against the curve of your ass. He pushed your hair aside and buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. “I couldn’t stand it,” he whispered, the words a dark, delicious sin directly into your ear. One hand slid around your waist, splaying possessively over your lower belly. The other hand yanked at the hem of your dress, gathering it up around your waist. The cool air kissed your bare thighs, and you shuddered. “Tell me you thought about it, too. Tell me you touched yourself, thinking about my hands on you.”
“Yes,” you breathed, the admission torn from you.
“Good.” The word was a satisfied rumble. His fingers hooked into the lace of your panties. With a sharp tug, the delicate fabric tore, and he palmed your bare ass, then slid his hand between your thighs.
You were soaked. Achingly, shamelessly wet for him.
He groaned, a deep, pained sound. “Look at this.” He dragged two fingers through your slickness, circling your clit with a pressure that made you cry out and press your forehead to the cold glass. “All that talk of leaving,” he breathed out, his voice thick with lust, “but your body knows the truth. It knows who it belongs to.”
He pushed a finger inside you, then a second, curling them expertly. Your inner muscles clenched around him, a pulse of pure need. You moaned.
His other hand slid up your torso, roughly palming your tits through the silk of your dress before finding the zipper at the side. With a sharp tug, he pulled it down, the fabric gaping open. He shoved the material off your shoulders, baring you to the waist. The cool glass met your feverish skin, your nipples pebbling into tight, sensitive points against the smooth, unyielding surface.
“See?” he whispered hotly against your ear, his fingers still working inside you, stretching you, preparing you. “See how pretty you look? Pressed against my window. My view.” He bit down on the junction of your neck and shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to brand you. “I want the whole city to see. I want every man in every building to look up and see my pretty little wife getting fucked by her husband. To know you’re taken. That you’re mine.”
A shudder of pure, wanton heat racked your body. “We’re—we’re not married yet,” you gasped out, a feeble defense as you ground your hips back against his hand. “We’re just—hngh!—business partners.”
His fingers stilled. Then, slowly, he pulled them out. You whimpered at the loss, the emptiness. You heard the rustle of clothing, the clink of his belt buckle, the slide of a zipper. Then the replacement of the hot, heavy weight of his erection pressed against the cleft of your ass with the velvety head of his cock nudging against your soaked folds.
“Is that so?”
His voice was a low, dangerous purr against the shell of your ear. He held his cock there, just brushing your pussy, his hips making tiny, maddening circles that smeared his pre-cum against your sensitive folds.
“If we’re not married,” he continued, his tone deceptively light, almost conversational, as his hands gripped your hips, “then I suppose this would be improper. A breach of our purely business arrangement.” He pulled back slightly, the loss of his heat a physical pain. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should stop.”
“No,” you gasped, the word torn from you. You tried to push back against him, but his grip was iron, holding you still. “Sunghoon—”
“No?” he echoed, mock-thoughtful. One hand smoothed over your bare hip, his thumb digging into the sensitive dip. “But you were so clear about the terms just now. About it being just business.” He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “Business partners don’t do this, do they, Y/N?”
You were trembling. Your muscles clenched around nothing, aching. “Sunghoon, please.”
“Please what?” he purred, his other hand coming up to circle your throat. “Use your words. Tell me what you need.”
You were beyond pride, beyond the script of the novel, beyond everything but the pounding of your blood and the empty, throbbing want between your legs. “I need you,” you gasped, your forehead grinding against the cool glass. “I need your cock. Please. Please, just… fuck me. I need it. I need you inside me.”
“Where inside you?” he demanded, his voice dropping to a filthy whisper. One hand slid from your hip, around to your lower belly, pressing down. “Here?” He rocked his hips, the blunt head catching on your entrance, pushing in just a single, devastating inch before retreating. A broken cry of agreement left your lips. “You feel that? That’s where I belong. That’s where I’m going to fill you up.”
“Please,” you sobbed, shameless now. “Please, Sunghoon, I need it so bad—”
He sheathed himself to the hilt.
The world dissolved into a white-hot shock of sensation. The stretch was immense, breathtaking, a burning fullness that stole the air from your lungs completely. You screamed, the sound muffled against the glass. He was so deep, you could practically feel him in your womb.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his body going rigid against yours, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “God, you’re tight. You’re taking me so well, baby. So perfect for me.”
He didn’t move for a long moment, letting you feel every inch, letting your body adjust to the overwhelming intrusion. You could feel the heavy throb of him inside you, the way your own muscles fluttered and clenched around him, trying to pull him deeper.
Then he moved.
He pulled out slowly, almost completely, dragging it out before slamming back in. A choked cry was punched from you with each relentless thrust thrust that jolted you forward into the window, your palms squeaking against the glass. The sound of skin slapping against skin, of his ragged breaths and your desperate moans, filled the silent office.
“You thought you could leave?” he panted, his pace increasing, becoming less controlled, more frantic. He wrapped one arm around your waist, hauling you back onto him with every drive of his hips. “You thought you could walk away from me?” He slammed into you, and a sharp cry was punched from your chest. “I’d have found you. I’d have torn the world apart to bring you back. You’re mine.”
“Big words,” you managed to taunt, your voice shaking. “For a man who—ah!—needed a contract to get a wife.”
“You have a smart mouth for someone getting split open on my cock,” he snarled. The arm around your waist tightened, and his other hand came down in a sharp, stinging slap on your ass.
The shock of it made you clench around him harder.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his thrusts becoming harder, more erratic. “You like that?” He spanked you again, on the other side, and you moaned, pushing your ass back into the contact, into his thrusts. “This perfect cunt,” he hammered into you, “this perfect body. All mine. In a month, you’ll be my wife. Then it’s forever.” His breaths were shaking too, now. “You’ll carry my children. You’ll wear my ring and my marks and my cum every single day until you forget there was ever a time you weren’t mine.”
Your nails scrabbled against the smooth glass. “You’re—you’re insane,” you gasped out.
“For you,” he growled, nipping at your shoulder. “It’s all for you.” His pace became brutal, a piston-like drive that had you seeing stars with each impact. The tightness in your belly wound faster, faster, a spring of sensation ready to snap. You could feel the sweat slick between your bodies.
“That’s it,” he whispered, watching your desperate, pleasure-twisted expression in the darkening reflection of the glass. “See how beautiful you are? Taking all of me. Made for me. My perfect girl.” He slid a hand around your hip, his fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing tight little circles. “You want me to put a baby in you, don’t you?” he breathed. “You want to be so full of me you can’t forget for a second who you belong to.”
Your hips rocked back, meeting his thrusts, seeking more, deeper. “Yes,” you whimpered. “Yes, Sunghoon, please.”
In one brutal, fluid motion, he spun you around. Your back hit the glass with a soft thud, the city lights a dizzying backdrop behind him. Before you could process the new position, his mouth was on yours, swallowing your gasp. His tongue mapped the interior of your mouth as his hands gripped your bare thighs, hiking them up around his hips. He entered you again in this new, face-to-face angle, and it was somehow deeper. You could see his face—the dark flush on his cheekbones, the sweat beading at his temples, the madness in his eyes.
His cock sank back into your soaked pussy with a slick thrust, stretching you wide in this new angle that let him grind right against that spot deep inside. Sunghoon groaned low in his throat, his forehead pressing to yours as he started moving again, slow at first, savoring the way your walls clenched around him, pulling him in like you were made to milk every inch. "Fuck, you’re incredible," he rasped, voice rough with awe. "So tight, so wet for me. ‘S like your body's begging to keep me forever."
You clung to his shoulders, nails digging into the taut muscles of his back through his shirt as he picked up the pace, hips snapping forward. Each plunge drove him deeper, the head of his cock dragging along your inner walls, hitting that sensitive bundle of nerves that made stars burst behind your eyelids. The cool glass bit into your spine, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every thrust. All you could focus on was Sunghoon: his breath hot on your neck, his hands bruising your thighs as he held you open, fucking you so hard you were sure you’d forget your own name by the time he was done.
"That's my girl," he murmured, lips brushing your ear, his rhythm turning relentless. He loved it, the way your pussy fluttered around his thick length, the obscene wet sounds of him sliding in and out, the way your tits bounced with each thrust. He shifted his grip, hiking you up higher so that one hand could slide up to cup your breast, thumb flicking your hardened nipple while he lowered his mouth to the other.
Your head fell back against the window, a series of punched-out moan and whimpers tearing from your throat. His thrusts grew harder, faster again. You could feel him everywhere—his cock throbbing inside you, his hands on your body, his mouth on your tits, and the tightness climbed further and further, your clit pulsing under the friction of his body—until it snapped. You cried out his name as you rode the waves of your orgasm, legs trembling in his hold.
Sunghoon followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt with your name on his lips. His cock pulsed, hot spurts of cum flooding your depths, marking you from the inside out. He held you there, grinding deep as he emptied himself. Then slowly, carefully, he pulled out. A hot trickle slid down your inner thigh. He released you from his grip gently, his expression utterly shattered. He looked at you—your flushed face, your kiss-swollen lips, your dress rumpled around your waist—as if you were a miracle.
He leaned down and kissed you softly. “I’m in love with you, you impossible woman,” he whispered against your lips. “I think I have been since you shoved me out of the way to make congee.”
A watery laugh-sob escaped you. You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding on.
He kissed your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. Then his expression grew serious again, though the tenderness remained, and he reached for his discarded suit jacket, draped over his desk chair, and wrapped it around your shoulders. Then looked at the scattered shreds of the termination agreement on the floor, then back at you, a dark gleam in his eye. “And just in case you get any more noble, self-sacrificing ideas…” He placed his large hand over your lower belly again, thumb stroking the skin. “We’re not done here. We’re going home, and you can forget about work tomorrow.”
THREE YEARS LATER, THE SOUND OF GLEEFUL SHRIEKS WAS BETTER THAN ANY ALARM CLOCK.
You stirred, a soft smile already on your face before you even opened your eyes. The early morning sun filtered through the gauzy curtains of the bedroom in the penthouse—your penthouse, your bedroom—covering everything in warm, honeyed light. The space beside you in the vast bed was empty, but still warm. You could hear the distant, deep complaints of Sunghoon’s voice mixing with the high, piping laughter of your daughter, Via.
You pushed yourself up on your elbows, one hand automatically cradling the gentle, firm swell of your belly. Twenty weeks along with your second. A little brother for Via, the ultrasound had confirmed.
Padding out to the open-plan living area, you leaned against the doorframe, watching. Sunghoon, dressed in soft grey sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, was on his hands and knees, being conquered by a two-year-old warlord in ugly green dinosaur pajamas. Via was perched triumphantly on his back, tiny hands fisted in his shirt, shouting “Daddy, horsey! Faster!”
“I am a CEO,” Sunghoon grumbled, but his voice was full of laughter as he obediently crawled a few more feet across the rug. “I negotiate several deals before you even eat breakfast. I am not a horse.”
“Horsey!” Via insisted, shrieking.
“You heard the boss,” you called out, grinning.
Sunghoon’s head snapped up. His face, which still took your breath away, softened instantly when he saw you. Even with sleep-tousled hair, he still made your heart do that stupid flip with a smile that reached his crinkled eyes. “Look, Via, Mama’s awake,” he said, carefully rolling so he could scoop your giggling daughter into his arms as he stood.
“Mama!” Via reached for you, and Sunghoon carried her over, depositing a wriggling, warm bundle into your arms before leaning down to kiss you, slow and sweet.
“Good morning, baby.” he murmured against your lips. “How did you sleep?”
“Perfectly,” you said, meaning it. You kissed Via’s dark hair. “Unlike someone who was apparently running a rodeo at 7 AM.”
“She has her mother’s energy,” Sunghoon said, his hand coming to rest on your belly, his thumb stroking the curve. “And her mother’s terrible sense of timing.” he mock-frowned. “Why’d you have to get up now? I was just about to bring you breakfast in bed.”
“Mm, no,” you leaned into him. “This is much better.”
my first long-ish fic...thats why i used dividers but wow its lowkey too many sweats anyway she is my baby this took me so long (literally over a month lol) but i hope u like her....... to be honest with u guys,,, i dont like it 😭 i was super excited abt this idea but i dont like at all how it came out and i honestly think i could have done so much better but i just wanted to get this done even if it was shit i cant lie im sorry 😞 it felt so weird to finish off after everything,, im still pretty torn up about it so if anything at all came off a little weird thats my bad 🥲🥲🥲 anyway i hope u liked it tho, and i hope ur all doing good and keeping healthy (and boycotting belift !!) <3 much love from ur mona heedimples 💝
ʚɞ summary - everyone says cold, disciplined professor park is impossible to break. unfortunately, since you became his ta, you’ve spent months trying anyway. and now you’re in his locked office sitting on his cock while he makes you grade papers, refusing to let you move no matter how desperate you get.
ʚɞ tags - 18+ MDNI, f!reader, cockwarming, vaginal sex (p in v), unprotected sex, slight voyeurism (?), jealous!jay, brat!reader
ʚɞ w.c - 2.8k
You were perched on Professor Park’s lap in his office, your back pressed against the solid wall of his chest, his arms caging you lightly as his hands rested on the desk on either side of you. You were both fully clothed—you in a soft knit sweater and a skirt, him in his trousers and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. The only point of contact was where you were joined beneath your clothes, where his thick, hard cock was buried to the hilt inside you, stretching you maddeningly full.
And you weren’t allowed to move.
“Focus on the rubric, Y/N,” his low voice murmured, a vibration against your ear. His eyes were fixed on his laptop screen, scrolling through a dense academic article. “The arguments in these essays are weak. Mark them accordingly.”
You squirmed, a tiny, involuntary flex of your inner muscles around him. A bolt of pure sensation shot up your spine. He didn’t even flinch.
“Professor,” you whined, the word breathy.
“Jay,” he corrected automatically, his fingers tapping a key. You were the one insistent on calling me Jay, weren’t you? And the answer is no, by the way.”
“I didn’t even ask anything.”
“You were about to. The answer is no.” His left hand left the keyboard and drifted to your side, then up, his palm coming to rest over your sweater-clad tits. He squeezed absently, his thumb finding one of your nipples through the layers of fabric and bra, rubbing a slow pattern that made you gasp and arch into his touch. “You’re here to help me grade and to keep me warm. That’s all. Be a good girl and do your job.”
You let out a frustrated huff, your own fingers trembling as you picked up a red pen. The stack of papers blurred before you. This was your punishment and your reward, all in one. This was where months of dangerous games had led you.
It had started the first week of your senior year. Advanced Behavioral Psychology, a capstone course known for its difficulty and its professor: Park Jongseong. Late twenties, unfairly handsome with sharp features and an intensity in his dark eyes that could pin you to your seat, he was a former prodigy, a clinical researcher who’d published groundbreaking work on impulse control before he was twenty-five. He was the youngest person ever granted tenure in the psych department, and his reputation was built on a foundation of stoic, unshakeable control. He was marble. A cliff face. Completely and utterly untouchable.
You were his newly assigned TA, a role you’d fought for. You’d been drawn in by the challenge. The first few weeks were all business. You fetched coffee, drew up data sets, ran review sessions. He was polite and distant. His gaze never lingered. His compliments, when they came, were about the neatness of your annotations.
So your teasing was an experiment, at first. A subconscious test, of sorts. What would it take to get a reaction? You started small. Lingering a second too long when handing him a stack of papers, letting your fingers brush. Leaning over his desk to point at something on his screen, knowing your top gaped just a little. Using his name—Jay—in your emails, when every other TA called him ‘Professor Park.’
He gave nothing away. Not a flicker.
So you escalated. You wore flowy skirts that ended at the tops of your thighs, the thin blouses without a camisole underneath. You’d stay late in his office under the guise of work, the door propped open. You’d ask questions about his research into behavioral triggers, leaning forward, watching his eyes. They’d dip, just for a second, to the column of your throat or the curve of your lip, before snapping back up with icy discipline.
“You need something else?” he’d ask, his voice a calm, deep pool.
“No, Professor,” you’d say, smiling sweetly. “Just trying to understand what makes people tick.”
The breaking point came one day in October. You’d been arguing about a grading curve for a notoriously tricky exam, your frustration boiling over. “You’re being a hardass for no reason!” you’d snapped, slapping a paper down on his desk.
The sound was too loud in the quiet office.
He went perfectly still. The air felt as though it had been sucked out of the room. He looked up from his computer, and the mask he always wore shattered completely. His eyes went black, his jaw so tight you could see the muscle jumping, and he stood up, looming over the desk, his height and breadth suddenly dominating the small space.
“You think this is funny?” His voice was low, gravelly, and it didn’t sound like him at all. “You think you can waggle your ass and bat your eyes and undermine my authority in my own classroom?” He came around the desk, his steps slow, deliberate. You stumbled back, hitting the bookshelf with a thud. He didn’t stop. He kept coming until he was right in front of you, close enough you could feel the heat radiating off him. He caged you in, one hand slamming flat against a shelf by your head. “I could have you removed from this program with one email. I could make it so you never get into a decent grad school. You’ve been dancing on a line, and you have no idea how close you are to going over it.”
Terror trickled down your spine. Your bravado vanished. “Jay, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“Professor Park,” he corrected, the title a whip-crack. His other hand came up to grip your chin, his fingers firm, forcing your gaze up to his. The anger in his eyes was terrifying, but beneath it, swirling in the darkness, was something else. Hunger. “You wanted a reaction, didn’t you, Y/N?”
Then his mouth crashed down on yours.
He kissed you with an intensity that was hot and demanding and brutal, his lips moving against yours with a furious desperation. A surprised half-moan was ripped from your throat. His tongue plunged into your mouth, and you kissed him back, your hands flying up to clutch at his shirt, fisting the crisp cotton. You kissed him with all the pent-up frustration and attraction of the last two months, and he met you with fury. When he finally pulled back, you were both gasping for air. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes shut tight. “Fuck,” he breathed. “You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me.”
That was three months ago. Now, the dull, constant ache between your legs was becoming a throbbing, insistent demand. He was so deep, so still. You tried to focus on the paper in front of you. ‘Discuss the ethical implications of Milgram’s obedience studies…’ The words swam. You could feel every pulse of him inside you, and you tried to rock your hips, just a centimeter.
His arm tightened around your waist, holding you utterly immobile. “I said still,” he growled, his voice dropping an octave. The hand on your breast squeezed harder, his thumb pinching your nipple through the fabric until you whimpered. “You take what I give you, and be grateful.”
You were dripping around him, your own wetness making the tight clutch of your body around his shaft a slick, hot torment. You dropped the red pen, your hand fluttering to your own thigh. “Please, Jay. Just let me move, just a little. I’ll be so good.”
“You’re good when you’re quiet and still,” he said, his focus returning to his screen. He began typing again, the click of the keys almost seeming to mock you. His other hand resumed its absent-minded exploration, sliding from your tits down to your stomach, then tracing the waistband of your skirt. He’d palm you through your clothes, then drift away, leaving you gasping. It was evil.
You fantasized about him finally snapping, about clearing the desk with a sweep of his arm and bending you over it. But Jay was a man of monumental control. You’d teased that control to its breaking point once, and now he wielded it like a weapon.
That was when your phone buzzed on the desk, lighting up with a caller ID: Nishimura Riki.
You froze. Jay’s typing stopped.
“Ignore it,” Jay said, his voice flat.
But a reckless impulse seized you. He was ignoring you. Why shouldn’t you take a call? Maybe it would finally get a real reaction from him.
“It might be about the study group I’m in,” you said, your voice too bright. “I should get it.”
Before he could stop you, you snatched up the phone and swiped to answer, bringing it to your ear. “Hey, Riki!”
Jay went utterly still behind you. Not a muscle moved. It was a more terrifying reaction than if he’d grabbed you.
“Y/N!” Riki’s voice came through. “You free tonight? A bunch of us are going to that new bar downtown. You should come.”
You felt Jay’s breath stir your hair. His hands were still on the desk, but the tension in his body was a live, thrumming wire. You decided to push it. “Oh, I don’t know, I’m—I’m kind of tied up with work right now.”
“Come on, it’ll be fun! You’ve been so busy lately, always in Professor Park’s office.” Riki laughed. “He been working you too hard?”
“Something like that.” Jay’s finger hooked under the lace of your bra, pulling it down. His thumb rasped over your bare nipple, and you bit your lip hard to stifle a gasp. “But—fuck—yeah, I dunno, I’m pretty swamped, Riki,” you managed, your voice trembling.
“Just for a couple hours? I’ll buy, if you want. We can catch up, just the two of us.” The implication in his voice was clear, and you knew Jay heard it too.
Jay’s other hand moved then, sliding down your front, over the bunched fabric of your skirt. His fingers dipped between your thighs, finding the soaked, bare skin of your inner leg. His fingertips traced the outer lips of your pussy, slick with your arousal.
“I—I guess might be able to,” you breathed into the phone. You wanted to see Jay lose it. “What time were you thinking?”
“Nine?” Riki said, sounding hopeful.
Jay’s finger pushed along the stretched, sensitive seam where your body gripped his shaft, and rubbed the swollen, slippery flesh of your cunt right against where he was buried. Your vision blurred. A low, choked sound escaped you.
“You okay?” Riki asked.
“Fine,” you squeaked. “Just—uh. Stubbed my toe.”
Jay leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. His voice was a low, venomous whisper, for you alone. “Hang up. Now.”
You pressed your thighs together, trapping his hand. “Nine sounds good, Riki. I’ll—”
That was all it took.
In one brutal, fluid motion, Jay’s arm locked around your waist, yanking you back hard against him. His other hand snatched the phone from your grip and tossed it onto the sofa across the room. It clattered against the cushions, Riki’s voice faint, tinny, and confused before the call ended and it went silent.
Then he moved.
His hips jerked up, driving his cock impossibly deeper, a sharp thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.
“You think you can fuck with me?” he snarled, his voice guttural against your ear. His hands were everywhere at once. One fisted in your sweater, yanking it and your bra down to your waist, baring your tits to the cool office air properly. The other circled the swollen nub of your clit roughly. You whimpered, and he fucked up into you again with a hard, fast stroke that dragged against every sensitive inch inside you punishingly.
“You want to go out with him?” Another brutal thrust. His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You want to let him buy you drinks?”
“N-no, Jay—” you tried to say, but it turned into a moan as his thumb pressed hard on your clit.
“Too fucking late for that.” He shifted his grip, one arm like a steel band across your collarbone, holding you in place, the other hand working your clit. His hips were a machine, pounding up into you, the sound of skin slapping against skin, of wet, slick friction filling the office. The desk shook. His laptop screen wobbled, forgotten.
The feeling was overwhelming. He was fucking you with a furious intensity, each drive of his hips hitting a spot deep inside that made you see stars. Your own hands scrambled for purchase, gripping the edge of the desk, your knuckles white.
“You’re mine,” he panted out, his breath hot and ragged. His palm covered your bare breast, squeezing roughly, his fingers pinching and rolling your nipple until it was a tight, aching peak. “Every part of you. This cunt—” he slammed home, making you shriek, “—these tits—” another rough squeeze, “—this bratty little mouth. Mine. You understand?”
You could only nod frantically, your head lolling back against his shoulder. Pleasure was roiling tight in your stomach, and his fingers on your clit were relentless, the pressure perfect even through the rough treatment. The pounding fullness and the insistent circles on your clit together were pushing you toward the edge faster than you’d ever gone.
“Jay,” you whined, your voice fracturing as his cock dragged against your inner walls with every punishing thrust, the thick length stretching you wide, filling you to the brink of too much. He was buried so deep, the head of his dick nudging that sensitive bundle inside you, sparking bursts of heat that radiated through your limbs.
His fingers dug into your hip, holding you steady as he rutted up into your cunt, the wet squelch of your juices echoing off the walls. “That’s right, let everyone know who’s fucking you,” he growled low in your ear, his other hand abandoning your clit for a moment to slap your thigh hard enough to leave a red mark, the sting blooming into heat that only fueled the fire in your core. “Such a greedy little slut for my cock.”
You bucked back against him involuntarily, your body chasing the friction, the fullness that had you teetering on the brink. His palm returned to your swollen clit, rubbing it in tight, filthy circles that had slickness gushing out around his cock. Each thrust was punishing, his hips snapping forward with a force that jolted your whole body, your tits bouncing wildly as he mauled one with his free hand, twisting the nipple until tears pricked your eyes.
“Fuck, your pussy’s gripping me so tight,” he rasped, his breath hot against your neck as he nipped at the skin there, marking you with his teeth. “You like being used like this? Bent over my desk, getting railed until you can’t think straight?” The desk creaked harder and harder, papers scattering to the floor, but neither of you cared—nothing existed beyond the obscene slide of his dick splitting you open, the way your pussy throbbed under his touch. “Answer me.”
Your moans turned into sobs of need. “Hngh—yeah, I love it," you gasped out, your voice breaking on a whimper as his teeth grazed your neck again. “Love—hah—when you make me feel it,” His pace quickened, hips pistoning faster, the head of his cock battering your cervix with each deep, savage stroke. You could feel him swelling inside you, his balls drawing up tight against your ass as he fucked you harder, chasing his own release while dragging you along with him. The pressure on your clit intensified, his fingers slick with your cream as he flicked and pressed, sending sparks shooting through your veins. Your pussy spasmed wildly around him, the lewd sounds of your coupling growing louder—sloppy, desperate, utterly depraved. “Jay—oh!—hngh, it’s too much—” you gasped, but your hips rolled back to meet him, betraying how much you wanted it, how your body was betraying you into total surrender.
He groaned. “Gonna fill this tight cunt up,” he muttered, voice thick with lust as he kept hammering into you. “Pump you full of my cum.”
Your orgasm shattered inside you without warning, an all-consuming wave that seized every muscle. Your pussy clamped down on his cock as you came hard, juices squirting around his shaft. The sight—or feel—of you must have pushed him over the edge too, because with a final, brutal thrust, Jay buried himself and finished inside you, his cock twitching as thick ropes of hot cum flooded your spasming walls. He ground against you, his release spilling deep inside until it overflowed, trickling down your thighs in messy droplets.
Then he nuzzled your hair, his lips brushing your temple. His voice, when it came, was hoarse but calm. “The next time your phone rings while you’re on my lap,” he said quietly, “you will let it go to voicemail. Or I will answer it myself and tell your little friend exactly what you’re doing. Is that clear?”
You nodded weakly. “Yes, Jay,” you whispered.
“Good girl.” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Now. Let’s get you cleaned up. We still have papers to grade.”
i wrote this like 2 days before the evil news came so anyway i hope its ok, i did edit it! lowkey i wish I could hit dat but idk guys sometimes i just read my own stuff and gain consciousness and im like ew what the fuck. like imagine a guy said this to me irl. i think id laugh in his face so hard he would cry but this is fiction for a reason AND its dada jay so idec i would let that man do awful and evil things to me
summary: What happens when a five-century-old vampire accidentally becomes the landlord of three very broke, very human students? He gets migraines. He gets bullied for his wealth. He gets introduced to smartphones, thin TVs, and iMessage. And worst of all—he gets introduced to K-pop. Now, his immortal heart belongs to one idol. Or, Sunghoon is a painfully old-fashioned vampire whose bias is you.
pairing: vampire!sunghoon x idol!female reader
genre(s): SMAU, humour (i hope so), vampire x human au
warnings: will be stated in each chapter
profiles: RIKI PLEASE PAY YOUR RENT + MEET ME AT THE BACKSTAGE
⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ S in which nothing cuts deeper than your hatred for park sunghoon, except the desire that waits underneath it. 、masterpost PAIRING 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗇 ۶ৎ 𝘧𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋. 💿playlist WC 3.3k
𝓦 。ᐟ nothing much just fluff flashbacks hello, angst, 30 smau screenshots, with a dash of babygirl bestfriend heeseung 💿 in my head — ariana grande, i wish i hated you — ariana grande, you get me so high - the nbhd two slow dancers - mitski
𝓢ummer taps mic … hello is this thing on... i’m sorry for being so awol my sweeties i’m in the fucking trenches. i decided to post this separately instead of including it in chapter 16 hehe i got carried away pouring my despair into writing over the past 5 months (crazy sentence) so here is a cumulation of my babies before their downfall + bits of reader's diary :3 i love you all so much. thank you for being here
・・・・・ ✷
FOUR SUMMERS AGO, you came home from a three month long summer trip and found a stranger wearing your favorite person’s face.
Eventually, you started to wonder if you exaggerated everything the two of you had and embroidered the whole thing with too much hope. Maybe you were just young and stupid, and it was unrequited love, because that is what he told you, wasn’t it?
“You’re just needy, delusional, and spoiled. And I could never be with someone like you.”
In the end, Sunghoon chose his empire over you, too cowardly to fight against a system his father set up. And you lost your best friend in the process, too. That’s what happened.
You know what happened after that, what he turned into.
But he wasn’t always like that, no matter how hard you try to rewrite your memories to lessen the pain.
THREE YEARS AGO. ’Twas a warm, still, joyful spring evening from an entirely different lifetime.
Back when you were beguilingly unaware and unworried about what would happen in the next three years, much less in the next few minutes, inside the cozy corners of your bedroom, which smelled like a Pomander Diptyque candle while Obvious by Ariana Grande sounded through the ApplePlay on your TV.
At the time, you weren’t worried about your sexuationship with your ex-best friend, who turned into the mortal embodiment of Hades and, as fate would have it, twistedly have it, your (PR) fiancée at all. You only had three real concerns, and they were all oh so very simple:
What the hell were you supposed to wear to Jay’s surprise birthday party tonight?
Which bag would best fit all four of your lipsticks and your 3 different compacts (because what if you need to touch up highlighter, powder, and blush?) a power bank (because Sunghoon’s phone always ran out of battery), wipes, hand sanitizer, and Midnight Sun by Stephenie Meyer, because you were fixating on reading again and planned to sneak away to finish a chapter even though you were not antisocial, but just obsessed with Edward Cullen. Maybe the Chanel 19? But what color? And if the bag changed, then the outfit changed. And if the outfit changed, then the shoes changed. Obviously.
How irrevocably in love you were with your best friend. (Don’t worry, in here, he’s not Hades yet. He’s still your Hoonie.)
Hoonie, by the way, arrived way too early to pick you up, so now he was lying across your couch in your gigantic pink bedroom at your family manor, scrolling through TikTok obnoxiously loudly while you stood inside your walk-in closet, digging through dresses and ranting about some guy you gave a chance the night before. (Sungchan, irrelevant to the plot, however, he was cute. Definitely your type. Definitely into you. Were you? Not so much.) But you finally said yes to a date with him because you could not be hung up on your best friend forever, right? Especially not when said best friend had sworn off love like fucking Simon Basset or whatever. (You didn’t say this out loud, duh)
“…And then he tried to kiss me, and I was like… not in those ugly ass shoes. I was not having my first kiss—” You stopped, because that’s not factually correct. “Well. Not my first kiss. You were my first kiss.”
“I was your what?”
“My first kiss,” you repeated, cocking a brow up, even though you were in your closet and Sunghoon couldn’t see you. (This was approximately a few weeks after you’d tipsily kissed him in Heeseung’s house, by the way.)
Sunghoon was silent for a while, and then a loud thud sounded. You peeked out just in time to see Sunghoon dragging a hand down his face from your cream sofa, looking exactly as stupid as he clearly felt. “Shit. I forgot that you’re… You.”
You scrunched your nose, indignantly. “What the hell does that mean?”
He looked at you, still in your pajamas and with absolutely no makeup done, and paused for a moment. “How long are you planning to take?”
“What do you mean, I’m me, Hoonie?” you repeated, giving him a look that said, I will now take longer because you asked.
“I mean… you’re you.” He pointed up and down at you. “You have standards and rules.” He looked down at the blanket under him on your cream sofa with the pink Hermès pillows and the matching jacquard merino cashmere blanket, a blanket which was there because no outside clothes touched your couch and even your bed. “And standards for the rules. You just said you rejected Sungchan because of his clothes.”
Oh. You get what he means now. Translation: you’re you, aka stingy with your attention and operating with an insane, clearance system when it comes boys (and girls, if only society wasn’t so… como se dice… homophobic!) Nevertheless, you barely let anyone make it past the talking stage before you find one tiny flaw and send them to the metaphorical guillotine.
And how you’ll never date unless it’s The One.
“And?” You shrugged.
Side note: You rejected Sungchan because he was not Sunghoon. Plain and Simple. But also, his clothes were really ugly.
“Ugly fashion choices are a reflection of one’s soul. Like, who wears Prada loafers with a flashy Gucci shirt and a Loro Piana belt? Disgusting mix and match. The sexiest thing a man can do is know when to stop,” you add.
Sunghoon stared at you for a long moment, growing a bit smug, because he was currently your thesis statement in human form. Black Zegna Polo. Black Zegna trousers, and his very own Prada loafers (which are taken off downstairs because, of course, no shoes in the house.) He looked back at you, and he licked his bottom lip. Ugh. “Right,” he said. “So I’m sexy?”
You rolled your eyes. “Keep dreaming, Park.”
“Think you do that for me just fine.” His ears were pink now, despite how smug he was, and you felt a flush go over you all the same. “But…” He paused. “I really was your first kiss?”
You exasperatedly laughed. “How the fuck did you not know that? I’m actually taking great offense to this. Do you even know me? I dropped Winter because she said Breakfast at Tiffany’s was overrated. I have watched Pride and Prejudice nine times—”
“I know. I was with you three of them,” Sunghoon cut in.
You clicked your tongue at the interruption, frowning a bit at the general context of everything. “Did you really think I was out here kissing random people? Me?” You pointed at yourself, genuinely appalled. “I’m not you.”
Sunghoon looked increasingly guilty the longer you spoke, and clearly, he knew that was a jab at how he’d gotten drunk and kissed Sooha at a party one time. “Okay, when you put it like that… I didn't forget,” he argued weakly. “I just…” He paused, running a hand through his hair as you crossed your arms and threw him another annoyed look. “Don’t look at me like that. You're eighteen. I thought maybe.. I don’t know. Maybe you didn’t tell me? You’re so pretty, and everyone fucking likes you and—”
“Didn’t tell you?” you repeated, and he nodded with an even guiltier look. “Hoonie, you’re the only person I ever tell anything to other than my mom. You’re my… best friend. Do you think I would keep my first kiss a secret?” You rolled your eyes. “You forgot because you’re a man. Just say that.”
“I forgot because I am a man,” he said obediently.
“And because you’re so, so, very stupid.”
Sunghoon’s expression said, nice try. “Don’t push it.” His mouth twitched, then he paused again for a bit, the gears in his head turning in real time. “Was the kiss good, at least?”
Well, now you were only thinking of kissing him again. How inconvenient. “It was terrible. Society would collapse if they found out their precious Park Sunghoon can’t kiss for shit.” You lied. Obviously, you had no previous experience, but you knew it was still the best kiss. (This can be confirmed today, too.)
Sunghoon cocked a brow, his shy demeanor washing away and being replaced by a smug one. He could always tell when you were full of shit, and you hated it. “Oh yeah?”
You threw one of your Hermès slippers directly at his head, but he had the reflexes of an Olympic athlete, so he caught it one-handed without even looking away from you, and this only irritated you even more. “Actually, it was traumatic,” you doubled down, crossing your arms. “Made ten times worse by the fact that the criminal responsible made me promise never to talk about it again.”
He frowned. “I’m sorry.” And damn him, he meant it. You could tell he really fucking did.
“Save it. You’ve ruined romance for me forever.”
Sunghoon clicked his tongue, and you went back inside your closet. “Fuck. We can’t have that, can we?” He cooed, and suddenly you heard him get up from the couch, so you peeked out again. Oh, God. “I guess I have to make it up to you.”
The atmosphere shifted as he moved closer, and closer, each step feeling as if he were tiptoeing along your ribcages and into your heart. You pursed your lips together as tension curled all around the room and into your being, because you’d never seen Sunghoon’s eyes so dark with want. “And how do you plan on doing that?” you asked.
Sunghoon stopped right in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes — which he did for you, thumb brushing beneath your jaw in a feather-light touch, and now all you could smell was him, and him, and him. His Tom Ford cologne, Fucking Fabulous
Sunghoon’s eyes dropped to your mouth, and your heart dropped with it, too. “By practicing,” he said.
And all you remember thinking at that moment was, this is really happening, and we’ll never be the same again.
“Fine,” you said, trying to sound casual as if your heart was not on the tip of his thumb that brushed your chin. “But only because your technique needs serious work, and I’m sooooo charitable.”
“Of course. I mean, you are my best friend, right? And… If I’m really so bad at kissing, then who else but you to help me out?” Sunghoon smiled boyishly, and then he kissed you again before you could say anything, sweeping you off your feet.
And you would later write in your diary that it felt like one of the kisses from The Notebook, except better, because this was not Ryan Gosling in the rain.
This was Park Sunghoon in your bedroom, kissing you like he finally stopped pretending what was between the two of you was inexorable in the face of everything: his family, society, his defences, and his belief system.
Later that night, at Jay’s birthday dinner, you would sneak away — not to read Midnight Sun at all — to kiss your best friend. Then again and again and again.
From then until Paris, that was all it became between you two. Sacred, stolen glances and secret moments, and no one knew.
(With the sole exception of Heeseung and Jay.)
Yes, you were seriously just best friends. That’s the foundation for every great love story, though, isn’t it?
And as much as you wanted it — and God, you did want it — you never had sex. You got close once in the back of his Lamborghini, parked under the trees outside the Ritz at the going-away party Wonyoung and Sunoo threw for you, while your dress was bunched around your thighs, and his hand trailed higher, and higher, goosebumps trailing in their wake. But he stopped, and then he said you deserved better than your first time being in the backseat of a car. His first time, too, actually.
So a promise was made. Because promises are sacred and you can never, ever break them, right?
Forever and always.
And then you went to Paris high on the feeling of being his but not quite fully, but anything was better than not being his at all, and you fell asleep on calls and missed him in every Parisian corner that should have felt magical but didn’t, because he was not there to give its beauty meaning and say something funny that would become your favorite part of the day.
・・・・・ ✷
・・・・・ ✷
June 5th, 2022 6:10 PM
Dear Hoonie Moonie,
“I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you’re everything that exists, the reality of everything.” — Virginia Woolf.
i like that you send me poems sometimes, so i’ve decided this diary will now include a quote of the day whenever one reminds me of you.
after ballet today — which i was half asleep through because SOMEONE thought it was acceptable to keep me on the phone until 5 a.m. my time because he was clingy — i went to the musée d’orsay with tae and jennie, which you’ll know when you wake up anyway, but i find the need to immortalize everything on paper. duh. we know this by now. they flew in from new york as a surprise (cough, cough, take notes) naturally, tae ended up third wheeling us again. #ilovemysisterinlaw.
anyways, im already dreading just thinking about that luncheon i’m going to tonight without you to keep me company :(
and for my question of the day i shall pose: would you still love me if i went bald?
bisous bisous,
your pink mirage
・・・・・ ✷
July 14th, 2022 1:00 AM
Dear Moonie,
“There are times when my longing for you overwhelms me, so often I can think of you only with teeth clenched.” — Franz Kafka.
there were fireworks everywhere and it was a beautiful day and i wish you were here.
it’s been six days since i last heard your voice properly and i feel like i’m going to die.
ugh. i sound whiny and annoying. what are you doing to me, park sunghoon? i talked to heeseung about this whole thing and he told me i’m the neediest girl alive… first of all needy by ari is my national anthem for a reason, but i’d rather die than admit a man is right.
and i am busy too, but i still manage to not be too busy for you.
that was bitchy but i don’t care. i’m not even mad that you are sort of ghosting me. you could go years and years without talking to me — and i’d go out of my mind — but i’d still love you. but i’m just worried. i feel like there is something you aren’t telling me even though you insist there isn’t.
it’s just that i am so confused about everything, and this on top of it is making me overthink every last thing ever. call it female intuition but impending doom is at bay… in my heart.
i am so fucking confused, hoon. i know you’re in love with me and i know saying things has always been harder for you than acting on them, and i know you are scared, but why is this the one thing you can’t say when you say everything else?
my question of the day: how do you kiss me and get jealous the way you do and still leave me here like this? am i not worth it?
i keep trying not to think that maybe you regret these months… okay wait. i should just shut up. six days of us not being the way we always are and i’m acting like i imagined everything. god. i’m just being dramatic.
please just be okay.
forever and always,
your sunshine
p.s. it’s a full moon tonight, so at least you’re here somehow.
・・・・・ ✷
September 19th, 2022 11:55 PM
Dear Sunghoon,
“I guess this is the end / I'll have to learn / To be somebody else / It's been you and me / Since before I was me / Without you, I don't yet know / Quite how to live.” – Mitski.
i don’t know why i’m still writing in this. but this is the only place i can still talk to you. i’ll never understand what changed, and as hard as i have tried, you have made it very clear you don’t want me in your life anymore, so i guess this is it, isn’t it?
i saw a pretty car on the street today. you know i don’t know shit about cars, but i think it was a maserati or whatever. it was black and tinted and my first thought was, sunghoon would love this. isn’t that fucking pathetic? you’d call me that, i guess. better pathetic than a coward.
every beautiful thing turns around and points to you, and i never thought there would be a day where i would see something and not be able to tell you about it. so much for forever and always, huh?
i love you.
i hate you.
question to the gods who rolled my fucked up dices: how do i stop loving someone who is embroidered into the tapestry of my soul?
Dextrocardia. Originally a medical term, but also a way to describe someone who's got their heart in the right place.
"She's been moved to another operation to help out. This pairing is necessary because you'll be undercover as spouses. I know you two can be professional about this."
"What?!" It's Jeongguk's upset voice that sounds, and for once, you share his displeased opinion.
You’ve felt the change over time, but sometimes, it really hits you how different the station is these days. It used to be filled with men, and yeah, the majority of employees are still male, but it feels… empty. Or maybe just quiet?
You used to walk these halls in semi-denial yet fear-fueled anger, knowing for certain what a bunch of your male colleagues were capable of and unsure what to expect of the rest.
But now?
Slowly but surely, the calm that used to reside as a facade at the surface has trickled down with every unreliable, untrustworthy man fired. Now, with the final bunch apprehended, you feel relatively safe.
Of course, nothing is ever guaranteed, but you feel like any remaining seething sexist knows what happens to those that show their true colors. And if there happens to actually be one little man, conspiring to get rid of you in Hoseong’s name… you don’t feel like you have it in you to care anymore. Paranoia—either masked by denial or not—has had its long, thin claws in you for so long that the holes they’ve created in your flesh are simply too big and too loose to provide grip anymore.
But as the sound of your sneakers echoes down the hall, you’re still feeling worry. God forbid the case doesn’t hold and any of the men are let out, especially Hoseong, Ryung, or Seonghwan. Most men might be a risk in your eyes, but those are an actual proven danger. Junseo and JJ, you’re not that scared of since you don’t feel like they’d act on their own if released, especially knowing that Hoseong sold most of his friends out.
Sometimes, you even wonder how much Junseo wished to partake in what he did, but then you remember that… if you don’t speak up, you’re complicit, and although you might not be able to put a pin on their exact mental location, you know they’re all somewhere on the spectrum ranging from evil to simply indifferent.
“Come in!”
You open the door, curiously meeting Jihyo’s dark eyes as she waves you closer and gestures for you to shut the door behind you. You do, approaching her desk and sitting down in the chair opposite her, eyebrows raised as to why she called you. Dressed in a brown pantsuit, she leans forward.
“I’ve got some news for you if you’re interested. Unofficial and unconfirmed, and you didn’t hear anything from me, of course, but I have a feeling you’d want to know.”
Scooting closer to the edge of your seat, you nod. You wish Jihyo would show just a tiny bit more emotion instead of looking so professional and cautious because you have no idea what she’s about to reveal.
“So, Hoseong’s been interrogated for a few days now, and while he denied attacking you—or even the intent to attack you—he did admit to being at your apartment.”
“Stupid not to; his blood was splattered on my walls.”
“Yeah. And he must realize that I personally—along with the three other officers—will testify to finding him at the scene.”
You feel your forehead crease. “But then… what’s the reason he claims to have been there?”
Jihyo licks her lips and leans back in her chair. “He said he was tricked. Said Jeongguk contacted him and offered to ‘talk it out’ like old friends, but then essentially attacked him. And then attacked you, trying to pin it on him.”
“He can’t get away with that, though, right? There must be something—something that shows he was the instigator?” you ask, feeling frustration and a small bout of panic hit you.
“Don’t worry, there’s been multiple things he can’t seem to explain or prove. Like how he claims Jeongguk contacted him. At first he said Jeongguk called him, but forensics said there’s been no call or message between their phones. Jeongguk, naturally, didn’t have Hoseong’s new number. So he then switched up, claiming Jeongguk left him a letter at his house, but he can’t say when or show us the letter, probably because he realizes he doesn’t know if and when we had the house under surveillance and when Jeongguk would have an alibi. And the letter is… conveniently gone, so there’s no way to test it for DNA.”
You listen carefully, at least relieved to hear Jihyo’s skepticism.
“So he hasn’t been able to prove how Jeongguk contacted him, nor explain why Jeongguk’s phone could be pinged so far away while Hoseong’s was already at yours.”
“But..” you start, feeling the need to play devil’s advocate. “Couldn’t he say that Jeongguk was running late? Or that he wasn't with his phone? But why would they even meet at my place?”
Jihyo shrugs. “As a plan for Jeongguk to stage everything and pin it on him, presumably? And claiming that Jeongguk was late or not with his phone would be Hoseong painting himself into a corner. Jeongguk used face-ID to open his phone while it was pinged out of town, so he’s definitely with the phone. If Jeongguk wasn’t there, who attacked you? There aren’t any signs of anyone else involved besides you three, and while none of your neighbors thought to call the police, some testified to having heard a commotion."
You nod, trying to process all the details and match them to the real events.
"Additionally, Jeongguk was driving… not very safely, and gathered quite a bit of attention when he ‘parked’ on your street and ran out. So we’ve got a pretty exact timestamp for his arrival thanks to the public.”
“But he’s claiming Jeongguk was already there anyway? And that he for some reason attacked me as well?”
“Mhm. To get back at him for what happened during the Jung mission, when Hoseong nearly killed Jeongguk. Which, by the way, Hoseong claims was self-defense," Jihyo says, rolling her eyes at the absurdity. "You falsely accused him of rape and then your boyfriend took your side, confronted Hoseong, sparking a fight that forced Hoseong to nearly kill Jeongguk."
As more and more details trickle in, you glimpse a bigger picture.
"But forensics found only Hoseong’s DNA on the knife and on the pried bathroom lock, as well as his fingerprints, in your blood, on the bathtub… He also can’t explain why you’d call Jeongguk—and why he’d answer—if he was, one: already there, and two: in the middle of attacking you. Nor can he explain why Jeongguk would leave him alive and rush you to the hospital. If Jeongguk planned on attacking either of you, he would’ve realized that leaving anyone alive would be leaving a witness, and he had ample time to get rid of you both, had he wanted to.”
The smile slowly growing on Jihyo’s lips has a big burst of relief slowly but surely flooding your veins.
“There’s more stuff, but that’s the gist. My… sources tell me the current project is to keep cross-examining them all to see if they’ll testify against each other, and to decrypt the last of their phones and devices. We’re also bringing in the person who worked at the rental where Jeongguk got the car, and the last of your neighbors—just to leave no stone unturned.”
You nod, feeling like it's easier to breathe than mere minutes ago.
“So you’re saying we've got him? Like we’ll get him get him?” you ask, a grin growing.
“You know, nothing’s certain, but I can’t see this going any other way. We have the evidence placing him at the scene, using the weapons, and we have both intent and motive. While he could try dragging Jeongguk down with him for excessive force considering the disparity in their… injuries, I personally doubt anyone would side with him. At the end of the day, he can try all he wants; he just isn’t credible.”
You try not to celebrate prematurely, but Jihyo’s update does instill a sense of calm in you. A light version of euphoria, even? You can barely even imagine it; not only being safe but maybe also getting justice?
Perhaps with one less worry (or at least less severe, seeing as it appears to possibly go your way), you’re free to focus more on… the other things.
“As long as women have a harder time getting these jobs, I don’t see a problem with quotas,” Jeongguk says, taking the steaming coffee mug and passing it to you before pouring another for himself.
You take a very careful sip, eyes lifting when someone else rounds the corner into the small kitchen area. It’s Sana, and she smiles in greeting, phone pressed to her ear. You watch as she passes, trying to explain something to whoever she’s talking to.
“You don’t think it’s unfair? Shouldn’t the most qualified person get the job, regardless of gender?”
“Ideally, yeah? But that could also be a woman, could it not? Men can compete with each other and women against women too; I can’t imagine there being a big difference between the sexes, anyway. At least not to the men’s advantage. Unless it's a job you have to be like… super strong for, where the most capable applicants probably are men."
Hmm.
“Do you think there are jobs men shouldn’t be allowed to do?”
“Uhm… jobs like…?”
“Like… daycare with kids or gynecologists..?”
He looks up and to his left, visibly thinking, and you take the opportunity to discreetly check him out. Having been out on patrol for a few hours already, he’s decked out in uniform, the dark blue sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his heavy black boots thudding against the floor when he walks.
You like to see him like this, something you’d never thought you’d admit. Not only does he look hot, but he’s so… cool? And knowing that someone like him works all day to protect and serve the public feels good. Instead of imagining someone, maybe a woman, calling the cops for help and someone like Hoseong showing up, you picture Jeongguk stepping out of the patrol car, ready, capable, and wanting to help. A few butterflies flap their wings in your chest.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t want anyone to never get the chance to do what they love due to their sex, but I can also see why women might not want a male gynecologist either. And would I be comfortable sending a kid to daycare, knowing it might be alone with a man? I don’t know? Probably not without meeting the man first. For your examples, I think women should be able to choose the sex of their gynecologist, and I think people working with kids should be thoroughly vetted in general. I don’t know if that answers your question.”
You hum, considering it an… interesting but good enough answer. Personally, you wouldn’t mind if men weren’t allowed to work alone with children or women in vulnerable situations.
Just then, someone calls for Jeongguk over the radio he wears on his upper chest; a quiet and laggy transmission that he furrows his eyebrows at, trying to grasp what they’re saying. You lock eyes, both confused, before he pushes the button to speak.
“Say again.”
The voice sounds again, and this time, Jeongguk looks like he understands more than you, nodding to excuse himself as the voice tells him something. You’re used to it, and you watch him leave with the mug still in hand. "Copy that."
Turning around, you're surprised to see Sana already watching you. She’s leaned against the counter, no phone in sight.
“It’s kinda mean, what you’re doing, you know?”
You look away, blowing on your coffee while pretending you don’t know what she’s talking about. While you haven’t been overly concerned with the privacy regarding your conversations, you didn’t think anyone noticed.
“Dangling forgiveness in front of his face like that.”
“I’ve already forgiven him. He knows that.”
You feel her eyes on you even without meeting them.
“You know what I mean. I know he truly doesn’t mind you staying with him and that he wants nothing more than to help you, but you’re also dangling… something with you in front of his face, threatening to pull it away if he answers wrongly.”
“He’s not an animal.”
The prolonged silence that follows forces you to look at her, discovering that she’s giving you her best ‘you know what I mean’ look.
You sigh. “I don’t want any surprises.”
Sana relaxes her shoulders, tilting her head slightly. “I get that, but I don’t think you have anything to worry about. At some point, you might have to take a bit of a chance, and if not for him, then who? Assuming you like him, obviously, but I think you do: you wouldn’t bother doing all of this if you didn't.”
You know that Sana's only looking out for you—and Jeongguk—and that she might very well be able to see things for what they are instead of through the pessimistic sepia tint that your baggage brings.
Peering down into the dark depths of your coffee, you wish things weren’t so complicated. Maybe mostly that you weren’t so complicated.
You’re already home when Jeongguk enters the kitchen, a rare type of exhaustion looming over him. Your heart beats harder at the sight of him like it so often does, and you smile.
“Hey, welcome home. I was gonna watch something, wanna join? I'm also having the weirdest craving for popcorn.”
He smiles, but there’s no spark in his eye. “Maybe tomorrow? I think I’ll just take a shower and head to bed.”
“Oh,” you say, not having realized he was that… low. “Something happen at work?” you poke carefully.
While he's handsome as always, wearing an army green t-shirt and black jeans, his hair messy after his hand having run through it one too many times, he does look tired.
“No.”
Unsure of what to say to that, you let a silence follow, which urges him to elaborate.
“I’m fine, I promise. I’m just tired.”
Although you feel like he isn’t being entirely truthful, you don’t call him out on it or insist that ‘you can talk to me.’ Maybe it’s internalized sexism or maybe you just know that nothing good ever comes from what’s so often described as ‘nagging,’ so you nod. He turns to leave.
Men lying is a red flag for you, but considering that it’s Jeongguk, you’re willing to not read too much into it. Or at least you’ll try not to.
But he only takes a few steps before he halts, and when he turns back to you, it's with closed eyes and a deep breath. Then he leans against the counter, running a tattooed hand over his face. He probably guessed what thoughts his actions would invoke in you.
“It’s just a feeling," he says, opening his eyes to meet yours. "I’m not saying that I’m right to feel this way, so you’ve gotta promise me you won’t hold it against me, okay?”
“...Okay.”
“I want you to like me,” he starts. “You’ve said that you do, right?”
You nod slowly. No reason to hide that anymore.
“I want you to like me for me. I know that you’ve been through hell and back, partly because of me—I won’t deny that—and I’ll never fault you for not trusting men or doing what you do to feel safe, but… it would be nice not to have to answer for all of men's wrongdoings. Being a man affects everything I do, everything I am—not only the bad but also the good—and I’d really like… just for once… for you to like me as a man, not despite it. Maybe even want all of me, even if I'm not perfect."
Watching him, you let his words sink in while trying to untangle your own thoughts. You had no idea he felt that way, but maybe it makes sense.
Do you hate men? Yeah, most definitely.
Are you also attracted to them? Unfortunately, yes.
If it weren’t for Jeongguk, you’d be able to confidently say that men, to you, are for looking at. They can be hot, maybe even gorgeous, but you don’t want them near.
Except for Jeongguk, who—like always—complicates things. For one, you feel guilt creeping up your spine. Fuck, maybe Sana was right.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel that way,” you say, and it’s true.
A part of you absolutely knew what kind of message your questions could send, but you—perhaps ignorantly—relied on Jeongguk’s selflessness and… proven ability to remove himself from the scenario and think objectively. But he’s only human, isn’t he?
"I'm just trying to get to know you better. Just in case…"
Just in case of what? You feel stupid. You shouldn’t have asked so many harsh and, in a way, accusatory questions, putting your own insecurities over his feelings. At least not without communicating what it was you were doing and why. Maybe you could've also phrased them kinder.
Meeting his soft eyes, you don't think your brief explanation offended him. You bite your lip, deciding to bite the bullet and let him in on more of your thoughts.
“And—this is strictly between you and me, okay?” you say, smiling a small, almost embarrassed smile while feeling your skin heat.
He watches you, a very familiar look of curiosity and understanding coloring his expression.
“I only like you like this because you’re a man, and it’s… uncomfortable for me. When I say that I hate men, I don’t mean that I hate parts of you or that you’re not a man. I’ve just… never met a man like you, where masculinity is a good thing instead of a problem. I’m so… I don’t know… comfortable in the independent, man-hating role I’ve built up, but then there’s you, and I…”
Your skin heats further, especially your cheeks.
“I do like all of you, and I just don’t know how to deal with that. Or you. I know how to change a tire, but I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't much rather watch you do it. And maybe I would sometimes like to cook for you, and bring you lemonade while you mow the lawn in the summer. I even like just standing next to you more than I’d like to admit because you’re big and I get to feel small and feminine.”
Although he tries to stay calm and quiet to let you finish, you can see the smile just waiting to break out.
“You’ll have to waterboard me before I repeat this ‘cause I don’t like to admit that I, in some ways, maybe don’t want to be entirely independent. Or, of course I do, but I would like to… have a man to rely on as well. I’ve learned to take care of myself, but… I don’t know, maybe I’d really, really like to just have someone stronger open a jar for me even if I’d get it open sooner or later. Maybe even offer to open it for me before I’ve even tried, because he’s nice and knows he’s stronger. I'll probably never admit to needing a man, but maybe… I mean, what if I want one?"
That hypothetical man being Jeongguk, of course. There's no one else. Tilting his head, Jeongguk listens intently, and you feel the guilt return.
"I know that you’re a good guy, and I don’t blame you for all the stuff men have done, nor am I holding our past against you in any way, or trying to make you feel like less of a man. I guess I’m just trying to navigate my own feelings when it comes to femininity and masculinity. Especially how I feel about myself for liking a man again. Especially one that's very masculine and in a way that makes me want to be feminine.”
What started off as a small hint of a smile has grown, just like you suspected. You lift your head when he steps closer and carefully puts his hands on the counter behind you, palms flat on either side of you.
It definitely appears your confession about how you enjoy feeling small next to him was heard.
The sweet smile he gives you tells you that he’s teasing you just a teeny-tiny bit, and if you had to guess, you’d say that he’s probably very mindful about not taking it too far.
You don’t say anything, but your heart is beating quickly.
Standing in front of you, he puts his right hand over the left side of his chest. “I promise to get every last jar for you for as long as I live.”
A laugh bubbles out of you. “You got the wrong side again.”
Smoothly, he switches, holding the right side of his chest like nothing happened.
“Thank you,” you continue. “But you still can’t tell anyone, okay? Because I’m not ready to admit anything like that to anyone else. I’ve tried for so long to hold my head up, over the water, and to be able to hold my own. Every loss just proves to these damn men that they’re right in thinking they’re superior, and I’ve built my whole life around that. And then there’s you. It’s already damn near impossible to compete with you and claim that I’m not inferior as a woman.”
Would you get angry if he told anyone what you just said? No, of course not. The audience that would laugh at you for desiring a man have all left (to jail) anyway, but it’s a healing bruise, still sore under pressure.
Jeongguk tilts his head, his dark eyes turning more… gently understanding. You don’t know how much of what you said actually addressed his feelings, but… well, it’s out there now.
“You and me…" he says. "We are on the same team.”
They’re just six words. Six small words spoken so easily, yet they pull the plug on the sink carrying close to its capacity. One sentence and you’re watching your inferiority complex and the primal need to never admit a weakness to a man slowly drain.
“I might be physically stronger and faster than you, but I don’t consider myself a superior human for that. I can open jars for you and carry stuff that's too heavy for you, but you can open the little lock on my bracelet or reach your arm in behind the wall-mounted TV to access the HDMI cable."
While true, most would usually consider the first feats objectively superior.
"You’re better at problem solving, especially under pressure. Like during the assignment at the Jungs’. If it weren’t for the image of a married couple, you wouldn’t have needed me at all. I was just a glorified bodyguard and pretend-husband.
"In fact, my dislike for you and my stupidity could've very well gotten us caught, while you not only knew exactly what to do, you were able to keep your cool and still get shit done while working together with me. Who was not only incredibly rude, but very much feeding into your fear, even if it was unknowingly. And don't think I didn't see a certain pattern of male officers and investigators taking your credit when I first started digging, Hoseong most definitely included."
God, this man and his words. Even that last part… It's been the least of your worries for such a long time, the fact that your efforts and contributions to solving cases were downplayed and credit stolen. But even that, he's aware of.
"You might not take me—or most men—in arm wrestling, but don’t forget that you had at least five strong, trained men after you, wanting you dead, and how did that end? You’re here, free and probably stronger than ever, and they’re all behind bars. Hoseong will never set foot outside prison again.”
“That wasn’t my doing.”
He nods, his eyes earnest as he looks down at you between his arms. “It was, though. Don’t sell yourself short. Sure, maybe you needed a gun or some hot water, or even a little helping hand from a bank robber or two, but that was just leveling the odds.”
“Suspected. And you.”
He chuckles. “Right. Suspected bank robbers. But when it comes to me, I was just a tool. Knowing how to use tools is definitely something that proves intelligence and capability.”
“Do you remember what actually happened at the end of the assignment, though?” you ask quietly. “Cause I had given up and I was just… going to let him kill me. I wouldn’t call that being good under pressure.”
Not to mention this last time, when Hoseong showed up at your apartment. You were very much on your last leg, and you don’t know how much longer you had it in you to fight.
“I know. I’m not saying that you’re superhuman or invincible or… Megamind or whatever, and I know that sometimes, your traumas get in the way. What I’m saying is that you’re no less than a man. Cause who ended up almost kicking the bucket that time? It wasn’t you; it was me.”
“Yeah, cause it was you against a whole squadron, and I wasn’t doing anything to help.”
He rolls his eyes. “You understand what I’m saying. You’re no less than a man in any way. I don't need to mansplain that to you because you definitely already know that, but now you know that I have never considered you such either. Although I get it, you have nothing to prove in order to show that you’re not a ‘weak woman’ or whatever, especially not to me.”
His eyes move slowly between yours, probably waiting for you to process his words. You feel grounded, like you have your own strong legs to stand on. You’re not sure anyone’s ever understood you like this; maybe Jihyo or Sana would’ve, but you’ve never talked in depth about certain things. It’s always been a given; men are bad and women are good and strong, but maybe the foundation of the clear pool you’ve been visiting together for so long has always been a bit muddy.
Are you truly the traitor you feel like for liking a man and for… enjoying his masculinity? In some way, while you've despised masculinity, haven't you also tried your goddamn hardest to achieve it? As if even someone like you—a hardcore feminist—subconsciously still views its traits as superior, needing to prove that women are equal simply because they also can achieve them? As if the best women are the masculine ones.
God, isn't that an eye-opener, looking into yourself and discovering your own flawed feelings. It's still a bit muddy, and maybe you don’t have words for every little emotion in your web just yet, but you feel… better.
It’s times like these—alone in Jeongguk’s kitchen with the sun setting outside—that it’s much clearer what he really means to you and how much you like him. You almost want to kiss him. Or to reach up and stroke his cheek.
“Anyway, I’m gonna shower and head to bed. Maybe we can watch something tomorrow?” he suggests, pushing himself off the counter like he didn’t just therapy you fifteen pounds lighter.
“Sure,” you nod before remembering. “Wait. Did I make it better? Make you feel better, I mean? Cause I didn’t mean to make you feel like I’m blaming you for anything, or setting you up for failure. I’m just… trying to get to know you better.”
That’s all you can say, not feeling like you need to tell him that there’s still a seed of paranoia growing in you that forces you to make absolutely sure he is who he claims to be. He knows that, and you know that, and you don’t need to dive into that now.
“Yeah. Thank you,” he says, shooting you another soft smile before he exits the kitchen. “I’m glad to know that you have a weakness for big, strong men.”
Your eyes widen at his words, but he’s already out of sight.
“Jeongguk! I take it back!” you call, hearing his boyish laughter.
It’s with a busy mind that you walk toward your favorite bathroom, a set of clean clothes and the new shampoo you bought yesterday in your arms. The music still blasts from the garage where Jeongguk is working out.
Or… where you thought he was working out. The music apparently also drowns out the sound of the shower already running. And because the door is unlocked, you open it, immediately closing it a second later with an image you’ll never forget burned into your retinas.
“Oh my god! Why wouldn’t you lock the door?!” you sputter, trying to process the vision of a very much naked Jeongguk in the shower.
With your back against the wall outside, and your cheeks very warm, you open the door a sliver, not looking inside. “And didn’t I tell you I was gonna shower here?”
“Sorry, my bad,” he chuckles, and judging by the sound of his voice over the running water, you’re the most traumatized. “And I thought you’d already showered since you spoke about it like… forty-five minutes ago.”
“No. Just… don’t make it one of your forever-showers,” you warn.
“You can always join me,” he offers. “I’ll keep my eyes closed, I promise.”
Raising your eyebrows, you blink twice. “Are you serious?”
“It was mostly a joke, but I mean… yeah?” he calls casually, and you can imagine him shrugging his wet shoulders. “But you don’t have to, of course. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful if it came off like that.”
You lean back against the wall, pressing you head against it with your lip harshly bitten. For three long seconds, you bite it some more.
He’s standing under the black shower head, his back turned to you, when you enter. This is your favorite bathroom to shower in, seeing as the other bathroom is a shower-tub combo, and you’re always a little paranoid about slipping in the tub. But it’s not only that; this bathroom has the prettiest olive-green vertical tiles, the green dripping down to the small square floor tiles, where it blends so beautifully with nuances of white and black. A half wall of glass separates the white vanity with black details from the sprays of water.
But the most jaw-dropping thing in the room is most definitely Jeongguk. Probably sensing movement—because you were very quiet—he looks back over his shoulder. There’s a second of understandable surprise on his face as he watches you grip the bottom of your hoodie before he shuts his eyes with a grin.
“Didn’t think I would?” you ask.
Despite being understandably nervous, having the baggage that you do, your voice sounds surprisingly stable. A little quiet maybe, but stable.
“No,” he answers honestly but without judgment, shaking his head.
You try so hard to stay as confident as possible as you shed item after item. First the hoodie, then the t-shirt. After that, there’s the bra, and then the socks, the jeans, and the underwear. By the time you’re naked, your heart is beating out of your chest. You know he won’t look—and a part of you thinks it would be okay even if he did—but the concept of being butt-naked in the same room as him is still nerve-racking.
When you look at him, he’s facing forward again, his back to you, and you take the opportunity to really look at him. The water is running down his glistening body, all the way from his black hair, over his shoulders and his back, down to his ass and then his legs.
He looks even bigger than the last time you saw him shirtless, and the way the muscles ripple in his back when he shifts slightly under the water has you going just a little crazy. Even the tattoos, all the way from his shoulder to his knuckles, are darker and more defined in the water.
Then he turns, and your eyes fall. You knew. Of course, you knew. You were right all along, thinking he was big and pretty. Even soft, he’s impressive, and you don’t even want to think about how he looks hard. The thick vein running along the shaft and everything? Goodness. It doesn’t come as a surprise that he keeps himself trimmed short and neat. He definitely gives off the vibe of someone who likes to keep himself well-groomed but not to an extreme.
You bite your lip again, forcing your eyes higher and finding it surprisingly easy. Everything about him is easy on the eyes, but as you step inside the glass wall, you find your gaze moving up his broad, wet abdomen, chest and arms, and to his face.
Still keeping his promise and his eyes closed, you wonder if he feels nervous at all. Standing naked in front of anyone besides a long time partner and without your vision could crumble anyone right? If he is nervous, he doesn’t show it; his posture confident and his breaths slow and stable.
“Turn it up?” you ask, watching him blindly reach behind him to crank the water up. He moves as well, making space for you under the water.
And you’re comfortable there, in the warm water and the silence, looking at him. His dark eyelashes, fluttering occasionally as drops of water touch them. The defined cheekbones, sometimes casting a shadow under them depending on the light. Watching him like this, you can’t believe that you know what his lips feel like against yours.
“Are you looking at my dick?”
His blunt question, asked with a grin, has a quiet laugh leaving you.
“No, I’m looking at your face,” you answer truthfully, admiring that face for another second just because you can. “I already looked at your dick.”
He chuckles. “I’m a grower, not a shower.”
His words have you snickering again because he’s already quite the shower. Then, slowly, the laughter dies down. Not awkwardly in any way, it just… fades.
The water feels nice against your naked skin. You’ve never showered with anyone before, but you’ve heard that it’s supposed to be awful. Jeongguk’s shower is pretty spacious with good water pressure and a ceiling-mounted shower head, so you guess that helps.
“What do you want? With me?” you finally ask. Your voice is quiet, barely audible above the running water.
“What do you mean? I want you to be comfortable.”
“Yeah, but… if everything went the way you wanted it to, what would that look like?”
Jeongguk tilts his face up, letting the drops hit it directly. You watch as water follows the shape of his jaw and then his Adam's apple. He takes a small step back, “looking” at you.
“I'd be lying if I said I didn't want you as my partner. I’d love to take you out on a real date and do all the romantic shit with you. Get you flowers and take you on motorcycle rides and all that. Or just stay in bed an entire day.
You watch him again. Top to bottom. This being is more beautiful than Adonis himself. And for the first time tonight, you let yourself feel it what you try so hard not to.
“Am I even attractive to you, though?” you ask, and it’s not in any way accusing. If anything, it’s sad.
“Yes.”
It’s constantly shifting, your confidence around him. When he called you beautiful and almost made you lose an earring, you felt on top of the world, but you were also all made up and in a pretty dress. It feels different when you’re naked in front of him. More so when he probably looks his very best in the nude. Guilt creeps up on you because what else can he do to convince you? He’s already told you, over and over.
“I want to believe you, I really do…”
But there is no way for you to ever know. That’s the problem, not his genuine-seeming lack of motive to keep telling you how attractive he finds you or how long has passed since he claimed something else. Why would he look past the flaws you so obviously see?
He licks his wet lips, thinking.
“Can I show you?”
Your forehead creases with confusion. “Show me? Show me what?”
“How you affect me. Since I can’t show you my thoughts.”
“How?”
“Feel me,” he says. “Put your hand on my chest, and I’ll show you.”
Unsure what it could possibly accomplish, you place your right hand slowly on his chest. He’s warm and firm under your touch like always, placing his larger hand over yours and slowly moving it upward. Your palm glides over his wet skin, gracing his nipple on the way toward his neck.
“Feel my pulse,” he says, adjusting your hand to where your fingers rest just under the side of his jaw. “I’m trying very hard to think about doing the dishes right now.”
“Okay,” you say, definitely feeling the strong beat of his heart under your fingers.
“I’m trying not to think about the fact that you’re naked in the shower with me and just… I’m thinking about… mold. Taking a bite of something moldy.”
Trying not to laugh, you instead focus on his pulse. It’s strong but calm.
He’s quiet for a little while, surely picturing the furry mold he claimed to have found in the back of the fridge last week.
“And now... I’m thinking about you. The first time I saw you, your hair wet from the rain.”
Your eyes widen because you could’ve sworn that his heart skips a beat.
“I’m thinking about you... in that yellow dress. And the blue one. Any dress for that matter. The way they flow around your legs and define your waist. What you look like with your hair down.”
With every word, his pulse quickens, until it finds a new base level.
“I’m thinking about when you called me ‘Gguk’ and when you slept in my arms that first time. I’m trying not to think about the guilt, just… you.”
That first detail takes you by surprise. You vividly remember calling him by the nickname by pure accident and then trying to just… pretend like nothing happened, hoping he wouldn’t catch it. You hadn’t thought he did. Not thinking about it too much, you move your fingers from his pulse point to his jaw, stroking it.
“Does that answer your question?”
You sigh quietly, mostly at yourself. You wish it was easier. “I don’t know.”
“Why not?”
“It’s sweet, and I don’t doubt that you… like me. Thank you."
"But?"
"But it doesn't say… that much. So many things influence pulse, and though I want to believe you, you could technically just be thinking about wanting to raise it.”
Keeping his hand over yours against his neck, he seems to consider something.
“Are you okay with… touching me? Just… feeling? You can say no; you don’t have to.”
At the thought of touching him, your own pulse increases, skipping what feels like ten beats in a row. You clear your throat, nodding even though he can’t see it.
“Okay.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah.”
With your permission, he holds his other hand out, guiding yours to his stomach when you take it. There, he puts his hand over yours, just like he did the other, and begins the descent.
It’s hard to tell due to your own nerve-racking kind of excitement, but even though he looks focused, his pulse—that had just enough time to calm marginally—increases noticeably.
“Like I said; if I could let you read my thoughts, I would. What I feel is not just sexual, but I guess this is the best way I can really show you.”
Soon enough, your hand reaches his cock. It’s still mostly soft under your touch, and he uses his hand to guide yours under it and up, gently pinning it against his lower stomach. You feel his pulse, his cock, and his breaths, even and strong but definitely less calm than a few minutes ago.
Of course, it’s not an exact science, and for all you know, he could be picturing whatever porn video he watched last. But you can’t deny that the thought of it being because of you is intoxicating.
“How honest do you want me to be?”
What kind of question is that?
“Uhm… entirely?” you answer, trying to concentrate. Luckily, his warm hand over yours keeps you from… accidentally moving and feeling too much. If there's a brink of insanity, you'd say it's here, in Jeongguk's green shower.
“Okay, then, how much in detail do you want me to go? Some things I'd prefer to keep to myself, but I’ll tell you in depth if you want me to.”
You’re not sure why, but that comforts something in you while also sparking your curiosity.
“You don’t have to tell me everything, but give me the gist, maybe? Just... be honest, don’t say anything just to make me feel better, please.”
“Okay,” he nods. “You want to know if I find you attractive?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you remember when we sat on the hammock?”
In the blink of an eye, you’re transported back to that surprisingly chilly summer night, and yeah, you do remember.
“You were wearing a dress and my sweatshirt, and I kissed you. I remember the feeling of you on my lap and my hands on your waist and your thighs. We didn’t even kiss for long, and I knew we weren’t exactly going to take things further, yet I—”
He exhales shakily, and it’s like you can feel every drop of blood rushing down his body, not only judging by how fast his pulse gets but by how he's definitely already a tad bit harder under your palm. It could definitely be your imagination—it probably is—but it doesn't feel like it.
“I got hard like a teenage boy, like.. pathetically fast. I loved kissing you so much, loved your sweet lips and your mouth and how you tasted, and your body on mine, and it broke my heart when you ran away. Made me feel guilty as fuck.”
Something in your chest tightens as you recall how he tried to talk to you about it, and even back then, you saw the worry in his eyes.
“I’ve loved all the times you’ve kissed me, even when it was just for show, but especially when it wasn’t. Another thing I felt bad about… When you sprayed me with the hose, and I—”
“—By accident,” you interject.
“...By accident,” Jeongguk adds, smiling, and you feel his abdomen temporarily tense against your hand. “And I sprayed you back until your dress was see-through and clinging to your body. And I looked,” he confesses, stepping closer. Water drips from his hair.
“I wish I hadn’t for multiple reasons. One: I knew I shouldn’t since it wasn’t voluntary, and two: because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since. It was right after we argued about how you threw me under the bus, claiming I snore, when Eunha and Hoseok saw one of us sleeping on the couch, and I was still telling myself how much I hated you. Yet, I found myself briefly wondering if it would really be that bad if I just fell to my knees and begged you to let me have you. Just once.”
You gulp, trying to ignore the arousal building up in your lower stomach. Remembering how you thought it was sweet of him to not look, you can’t say that it changes anything to know that he did. He wasn't staring or trying to make you uncomfortable.
“God, I remember being so distraught that day that I almost walked right into a door. Namjoon saw me and asked if I was dehydrated.”
You laugh loudly, a sound that makes Jeongguk grin too before he focuses again.
“I’ve never been so pathetically frustrated before because I’ve seen tons of women naked, I’ve had a lot of sex for crying out loud, yet you—my sworn enemy—in a wet, see-through dress is what breaks me? But it was the way it hugged every little curve, giving me such a small taste while keeping the rest from me.”
Hearing him speak with such frustration almost has you feeling… giddy? But it also leaves you feeling impressed; you would’ve never guessed. Then again, you knew from the start that Jeongguk was a good actor; that was the root of all your problems.
“You know… I had a dream about you when you first came to live with me… It’s shameful because with everything going on, it definitely wasn’t what I was supposed to be thinking about, and I tried not to, I really did…”
“But it was a dream? Dreams aren’t consciously chosen.”
“Yeah...”
“What… was it about?”
You feel how he holds his breath, however his pulse betrays him, and so does his fat, mostly hard cock, twitching against your palm.
“It was you, letting me repay all my sins.”
A chill runs down your spine. You know he can’t see you with his eyes closed, but it definitely feels like he can when he speaks directly to you like that. If he just opened his eyes, he’d be staring right at you.
“I think about that dream all the time, especially lately. I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to. Sometimes I do it when you’re not home, but mostly I do it in the shower. Right here. I know it’s not a logical dream, especially back then, and that it’s not how things are supposed to go. It wouldn’t even be that good of an idea, but it’s all I want—erase all the bad things I did and please you instead.”
“Please me?” you question quietly, embarrassingly mesmerized and carefully turned on. “How?”
“In all the ways that have your legs shaking and you moaning my name.”
You gasp but the running water drowns the sound of it out. You think it’s unintentional how he moves his hand—and subsequently yours—a fraction over his possibly leaking cock. Seeing him like this, naked and about to lose himself to a dream of you, is the most arousing thing you’ve ever witnessed.
Slowly, you move your hand. Just a bit.
“Keep still,” he says, holding your hand. “It’s already hard for me.”
You take a breath, counting to three. Should you? Is it a good idea?
“Can I?” you ask carefully.
“...You want to?” he asks and almost seems puzzled, a little wrinkle between his black brows.
“You have no idea what you look like right now.”
He exhales, licking his lips, and you watch water drip from his nose.
“Okay. If you’re sure,” he says, and while you know he really wouldn’t want you to if you’re unsure, his body betrays him. His heart skips a beat at something and his cock twitches again.
“Okay,” you smile, “put your hands on the wall so you don’t slip.”
You move with him as he turns and puts his hands on the green tiles on either side of your head. You keep your hands on him, though, amazed at just how hard and big he is already.
Maybe a tad hesitantly, you adjust your lower hand, gripping him instead. The other hand falls from his neck to his shoulder. A shaky breath leaves him, and you can’t help but smile.
“What is the dream about?” you wonder quietly, slowly tugging on him just to test the waters.
He swallows. “Do I have to share?”
“You don’t want to?”
He shakes his head. “Maybe another time.”
“Okay. Think about it for me, at least? The dream? Where does it start and what do you do?”
His stomach tenses when you start to move your hand properly, and a deep groan escapes him.
“I can’t believe—You’re touching me.”
“Is it part of the dream?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve never imagined anything close to this.”
You chuckle in disbelief. “I can’t believe I'm doing this either.”
“You sure you want to?” he asks, his voice strained as if he’s worried you’ve changed your mind, but not urgently so.
“I do. You are… so attractive. So… addicting. I always knew you were big and so, so pretty,” you say before quietly adding, “You have no idea how wet you make me.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
"I'll come.”
You laugh. “That's the point, is it not?
“I don’t know? I was just gonna shower.”
“But then you invited me?”
The water isn’t the best lube, so you pause, collecting as much spit in your mouth as you can and letting it drip down onto him. You know it’ll be washed away soon but it’s better than nothing, especially since his back protects you from most of the water.
“Mhm… God,” he curses when you rub your thumb over the head.
Seeing him lose himself is the best thing you’ve ever witnessed, and you increase the speed at which you’re jerking him, applying extra pressure. The need to see him come is like nothing you’ve ever felt but at the same time, you’re suddenly overcome with the desire to… spoil him? No less for what you put him through, somehow making him believe you didn't like all of him. Him.
“Where can I touch you?”
“Every—everywhere.”
You move your hand from his shoulder, up over his throat and his jaw while keeping an even but quick pace, enjoying his shallow breaths. “You are so handsome, you know that?”
“Mhm,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like he registered the question.
Slowly, you move your hand, putting two fingers on his plump bottom lip. You weren’t necessarily asking him to, but he opens up, taking your fingers in his warm, wet mouth.
“Are you always like this?” you ask. If it was one thing you wouldn’t have pegged the old Jeongguk to be, it was submissive.
“No," he pulls back to speak. "I’m j—just incredibly desperate for you. I can... take control too, but it’s harder when I... when I can’t see.”
You slow down, noticing his quick breaths slow too. You bite your lip before tentatively asking. “Do you want to? To see?”
Maybe it’s for the best that he shakes his head because you would’ve let him if he wanted to, and you’re not entirely sure how that would end. Your heart feels like a jackhammer on steroids at the mere thought.
“Not today. Another time. Besides, I saw you in that see-through dress; I know what you look like.”
It’s the cheeky smile, paired with his shaky breaths, that make you put your fingers back to his lips.
He understands his punishment—probably hearing your quiet chuckle—and without hesitation, takes them into his mouth again, sucking on them as he takes a step forward.
In turn, you work your hand harder, making sure to apply a good amount of pressure and with every other stroke, rub your thumb over his head.
Somewhere, he ends up with his face close to yours, just slightly above. You press down on his tongue before removing your fingers from his mouth, making sure to coat his cock in his saliva. Then you put your free hand on his back, holding onto him while increasing the pace further.
It doesn’t take long after that. A few words from you, spoken directly into his ear, and he comes into your hand and onto your stomach, granting you first row to the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen. You let him ride it out before you let go of him, and you don’t doubt that the vision and sound will live rent-free in your head forever.
Catching his breath, he leans his forehead against the tiles, and you let whatever water reaches you wash away his come from your skin.
“Washed your hair yet?” you ask softly over the running water.
Jeongguk straightens up to shake his head, and you—with a last look at his post-orgasm face; a tick in his jaw and furrowed brows—leave the shower for a short second.
“Let me?” you ask when you’ve returned, your new shampoo in hand.
Still without saying anything, he nods, leaning his head down. Opening the bottle, you squeeze out an appropriate amount before putting the bottle on the floor and starting to massage the shampoo into his hair. It’s so soft under your fingers, and you take extra care to massage his scalp. In the most unsurprising way, he’s patient, even when the shampoo starts to drip down his face.
“There. Rinse.”
As he straightens back up again, you pick up the bottle to wash your own hair.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have let you do that?” he finally speaks.
It doesn’t worry you a whole lot because he doesn’t truly sound regretful, just… considerate.
“Wash your hair?”
“Jerk me off. The thing is that the sexual aspect is the least important. I know that you feel… iffy about things like that, and it’s really not what’s important. I just don’t want you to think that you have to be sexual with me. Or think that I’m always picturing you wet and naked or something. Cause I really don’t. On a normal day, I think about you and your smile and your safety and how warm you look in your hoodies or whether you wanna hang after work or not a hundred times over before I think about sex or that… dream.”
Warmth spreads through your entire body, hearing his genuine words. But what do you say? Thank you? Thanks for explaining? I’m glad you tried your best to address my worries?
For some reason, it’s surprisingly scary considering what you’ve just done, but you gather your courage, rinsing out the last of the shampoo in your hair, and you step forward. Still blind, Jeongguk startles when you touch his chest, standing still with his arms slightly lifted as he feels you slowly snake your arms around his waist.
The water rains down from right above you, and you’re hyper aware that he feels every inch of what’s pressed against him as you hug him. It’s mostly your chest, but that’s always been one of your biggest insecurities anyway.
When you lean your head against his chest, he finally wraps his arms around you too, gently holding you to him and rubbing his thumb over your shoulder.
<previous | next>
author's note: heh, please lmk what you think??????
PAIRING: Death Eater!Sunghoon X Fem!Reader (MDNI 18+)
SYNOPSIS: At Hogwarts, you were golden. He chose darkness and shattered you. Years later, you hesitate to kill him. He kills for you instead. Now you teach at Hogwarts, trying to forget him. But Park Sunghoon never forgot you, now he has decided he won’t lose you twice.
WORD COUNT: 50.1k (updating)
WARNINGS: Listed in each chapter, will contain angst & smut
A/N: It was supposed to be a oneshot. But i really wanna expand the story and tumblr wont allow it. So i have to cut it into chapters.
kinktober special 𝐏. 𝐉𝐘, 𝐒. 𝐉𝐊 !! warning: unprotected sex
notification centre
new match on tinder!
park j. has sent you a message
weeks ago your best friend had pushed you into downloading tinder.
why? ‘cause you were hot and horny.
any other particular reason? not really.
“fuck it” you thought as you pushed the download button on your screen.
you matched with someone quickly. park j.
you started talking on the app and then exchanged instagrams, numbers.
talking with him became a daily routine. from sun rise till down you were talking.
thought you hadn’t even met yet you felt something for him. and you hadn’t even seen him properly. only from stories of him with people.
you knew he talked about you to other, saying how excited he was to finally see you.
and that’s why you planned to meet up today at his place at eight.
you were there early so you sat in your car thinking. some of your friends were excited for you. yet some were concerned.
you hadn’t really met him. what if he wasn’t who he said.
at eight sharp you rang the bell, waiting for him to open the door.
soon someone opened the door. and thankfully, you had seen him on some of his stories.
he didn’t mention someone living with him so you assumed it was him.
his frame shallowed you as he leaned on the door frame.
god—he was even prettier than he seemed on insta.
‘hey’
his voice brought you back from your thoughts. “hey, park right?”
“ ‘course. but call me jake alright?”
“alright, and call me yn as well.”
“come in, don’t stand there pretty.”
you walked inside and took your heels off. his place was beautiful. the lighting was dim, blankets thrown on the couch.
“want a glass of wine pretty girl?
the nickname made your stomach twist, your cheeks blushing. “yeah sure”
you started talking while drinking your wine, sharing experiences and interests. it didn’t take long to head to the bedroom.
jake left kisses on your neck, slowly going back to your face. leaving a trail of kisses on your neck, jaw, cheeks and lastly, on your lips.
the kiss was intimate, slow. you turned him over, legs around his waist. the thin fabric of your shorts not doing nothing to keep you from feeling him.
your hands yanked his pants and boxers down in one go before removing your own pants and underwear.
he helped you remove your shirt, leaving you uncovered.
his hands moved to your chest, the kiss muffled your moans.
you couldn’t help but roll your hips onto his, rubbing your core directly on his hardened cock.
you couldn’t wait anymore. you raised your hips, aligning his cock to your entrance and slowly let him enter you.
the condoms you had bought beforehand were still in your bag downstairs, forgotten.
moans, whimpers, gasps left his mouth as he bottomed out. his hands holding your ass so tight you were sure you would have bruises tomorrow.
his hands held you there, sweat already rolling down his forehead.
his eyes were shut, his head thrown back, mouth open letting every beautiful noise come out.
you raised your hips, only leaving the tip in before taking the rest of him. again and again. your breasts bounced with every move.
your eyes rolled back from the pleasure. suddenly, his hands held you firmly for a moment before slamming his hips against yours going on a feral pace.
your moans were becoming louder, “yeah baby, let the neighbours hear how good i’m making you feel, yeah? don’t stop.”
soon, his thrusts became sloppy, his moans grew loader, letting you know he was close. you didn’t let him stop.
“baby i can’t finish in you—” “im on the pill.”
“fuck pretty—” he finished slowly after you, his legs trembling, soft moans escaping from his lips.
you waited for a moment before getting off him. you collapsed right next to him, you felt every muscle in your body twitch.
he tacked a strand of your hair behind your ear before holding you close, like he was afraid you would leave.
“goodnight pretty.” “goodnight handsome.”
sunlight coming from the window woke you up. your phone buzzed from the nightstand. you read the text on your screen over a hundred times.
park j. : sorry for yesterday. i guess my shitty brother told you i wasn’t coming home. an emergency came up. can i pay back for the inconvenience tonight?
jungkook is a virgin, a big one, and believes he might not be all that interested in the act. but as he finds himself stuck with you at taehyung’s summerhouse — his body seems to be reacting strangely to yours.
⭒ pairings. jeon jungkook x female reader
⭒ word count. ish 18k
⭒ tags & warnings. summerlovin, smut, virgin!koo, sub!koo, switch!koo, i’m afraid of flagging so the smut will be sort of like unwrapping a gift on christmas day lmao (but just know there’s a creampie on the way)
notes. this is just a written fantasy i came up with as i rewatched ays season one. notice the shirt jungkook is wearing during the smut… does it sound like a familiar look? mehehe. also, i love me a subby koo. if he ain’t pussydrunk i don’t want him. wrote this in two days so eat up this slop girlies <3 also banner by @voyter who is my wife.
It has been twenty years. Jungkook has been alive for twenty years. And during these twenty years, he has never once had sex. Not even once. This cannot be stressed enough. Twenty years. Two whole decades.
But, oh well — there’s a tiny, insignificant detail that might be the reason behind this. Jungkook believes he might not be interested in sex, like at all.
In his defense, it has been twenty years. Twenty years of Jungkook not being all too excited about the thought of touching someone of the opposite sex. He once asked his close friend Jimin (who had dabbled a bit), if this might mean that he’s gay. Jimin responded with a snicker that left Jungkook at unease, but followed it up by telling him it might just be the strange way Jungkook’s brain moves.
Because his brain is strange. He’s a restless boy, an overachiever, excelling at everything he does. And Jungkook does do everything. He plays the piano, he cooks, he dances, he paints, he writes, he plays video games, and he can’t keep still for more than a minute. And for some reason, he seems to be interested in every single hobby except for the one that involves sweaty bodies merging together after a night out.
He got a handjob once. That’s something, at least.
It was while he was still in high school, this very lovely girl named Hana, who he had been partnered up with for a science project. She invited him over to her house, while her parents were still home, and jumped his bones the second the door to her bedroom was shut.
But Jungkook couldn’t get a hard on. Because he was actually thinking of the science project the entire time. Who in their right mind, as a seventeen year old boy, would be worrying about school while getting their belt unbuckled by a beautiful girl?
She told her girlfriends about his softie, something that lead them to believe he was gay too.
And after that mishap, he has not only been extremely nervous about putting himself in a similar position again — but he has simply stopped seeking out girls. He goes to clubs with his friends, joins whatever party he’s invited to, but he never really takes notice of the girls that are around.
Even though he can appreciate their beauty, he just doesn’t feel like he has it in him to do anything about it. It’s too nerve wracking. Also, he looks very intimidating.
Tall, dark, handsome, tattooed — everything the girls on Love Island and Single’s Inferno believe they’re looking for. But when it comes to it, they sheep out. He just kind of looks like a guy who could break their hearts with a snap of his fingers. So everything seems to be working against him.
But that’s alright. He doesn’t care about that. He has better things to tend to. Like the trip he’s going on with Taehyung. To his parents’ beach house, which strangely enough also has a pool.
It’s just for them to blow off some steam, to cool off before the semester starts up again. They haven’t invited anyone else, and they’re just staying there for a long weekend — Thursday through Sunday. A very relaxed vacation. A place for them to swim, cook food, drink some beers, play video games.
But as Jungkook and Taehyung pull up into the driveway, the idyllic, solo-weekend is shattered instantly. For Jungkook, at least.
“What the fuck—that’s Sara’s car.” Taehyung tries to mask the grin on his face as he notices Jungkook’s obvious disappointment. His poker-face isn’t all that great, and he actually manages to roll his eyes upon seeing Taehyung’s girlfriend’s shiny Mercedes.
Taehyung bumps his shoulder, parking the car next to his girlfriend’s. “Hey, don’t sulk. She’s probably just here to steal some of my mom’s wine again.”
“You let her do that?” Jungkook huffs, sinking further into his seat, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. He just can’t help it but pout.
With a jerk of his neck, Taehyung tongues the corner of his mouth. “With tits like that I let her do anything.”
They throw their bags over their shoulders before heading for the entrance door, stopping in their tracks as they hear muffled laughter coming from the other side of the house. The side where the outdoor pool is located.
Jungkook throws his head back, obviously frustrated that there’s even more people here.
Instead of taking the front door, they snake around the house, walk across the grass until they reach the pale cobblestone that surrounds the pool, the dining table, the sun-beds.
There stands Sara, drenched in water from head to toe, only wearing a tiny bikini. Her feet are just about to lift from the ground and head for the pool, but as she sees Taehyung, they take on a new journey. She shrieks, running over to her boyfriend, throwing herself over his shoulders without caring if his shirt gets drenched. Jungkook catches some of the droplets too, landing in his eyes. He pouts yet again.
“Finally—oh my god we’ve been waiting forever!” she cries out, lathering him in kisses. Jungkook thinks he might vomit. Also, who’s ‘we’?
Taehyung places both hands on her waist, letting his bag slip from his shoulder. He laughs for a minute, kissing her back, before he looks at her with a mildly confused expression. “That’s so… Sara sorry, wha—what are you doing here?”
As Sara answers, Jungkook hears something moving in the water. He turns his head away from the disgusting couple, and lets his eyes fall to the silhouette getting out of the pool.
His lips part the moment he sees your face.
You let two hands run over your head, brushing back the wet hair while stepping up on the steal ladder. The fabric of your bikini clings to your wet, glistening skin, and the line between your legs has itched its way dangerously deep inside your cheeks.
Jungkook gulps. For some reason. His eyes widen. For some reason.
He has met numerous of Sara’s friends. A bunch of times, actually. But he can’t seem to recognize you. Maybe that’s because his eyes are now fixated on your breasts, how full they look in that tight bikini — but he’s still sure that he has never seen you before.
When was the last time he saw a girl in such little clothing? Except for in porn, or Sara just now. He can’t seem to remember it. And if he can’t remember it, it might’ve just not made such an impression on him.
But you did. For some reason.
Sara calls out your name as you step onto the stone and walk towards the three others. You have such a pretty name, it’s so fitting. Jungkook’s ears go red. Why do they do that? Has that ever happened before?
His tattooed hand, the one free of his bag, goes to the piercings in his ear. He fiddles with them as he watches you walk across the floor, not really sure where to look. He options for your feet, something that might not make him feel all that weird inside.
Your toenails are neatly polished, trimmed. And they look so tiny against the stone. Compared to your body, they look proportional — of course — but they look so tiny now. And cold… why do you have so many goosebumps spread across your skin? Are you cold?
“Come meet my boyfriend and his boyfriend!”
Jungkook snaps his head back to glower at Sara. She giggles in return, slapping a lazy palm over his chest. As the hand meets his t-shirt, his skin, he suddenly realizes how sensitive he has grown. Sensitive to touch. He clears his throat, looking down at his own feet as he listens to the wet sound of your feet padding across the floor.
You stretch out a hand, confidently, making Jungkook’s eyes dart up again.
“Nice to meet you.”
Is that a real voice? It sounds like an audio recording, one of those that supposedly put you to sleep. He looks at your hand with big eyes, almost like he’s from a different planet and has never encountered this kind of greeting before. So you giggle.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” You retract it, tilting your head to the side. “You don’t wanna touch me now that I’m all wet, do you?”
Jesus fucking christ.
Apparently, as told by Sara, you were her new roommate in college. The two of you had gotten close before even starting the new semester, meeting up during summer break to start your new friendship. Which is when Sara had the brilliant idea of bringing you along to Taehyung’s summer house.
She knew all about Jungkook and her boyfriend’s plan — that they would stay until Sunday — which just seemed even more perfect. The perfect opportunity to wiggle you into her life, her social circle. If Taehyung loved you, Sara would love you even more.
Jungkook wasn’t taken into consideration here. He is quite introverted, has a hard time making new friends, but Taehyung is so comfortable around him. And if Taehyung is comfortable, if he is already in a good mood around his best friend — he will for sure take a liking to you.
What she didn’t expect was for Jungkook to like you the most. This came as a shook for him too.
He packs out his bag, settling in his room, dragging stressed hands through his hair, pulling the fingers down to his mullet. His tongue finds his lip ring, playing with it as he debates ripping the strands straight out of his scalp.
He’s already so nervous around girls. Sara is different, but you are not. You just might be the prime example. Confident. Beautiful.
Why does his mind keep replaying your wet figure? Your gentle voice? How the bikini hugged you, how your waist curved inwards so beautifully, then outwards where your soft hips started.
The sight wrecked the poor boy.
It doesn’t help that you’re the one cooking dinner tonight.
He tried to avoid you when him and Taehyung got settled, and he managed. But it’s hard when he runs into you again, in the kitchen. When you stand there, cutting up pieces of pork ribs, wearing a see through, white gown. A new bikini underneath.
“I just—I’m just gonna grab a bottle.”
Jungkook reaches for the fridge, pulling the handle towards him while ignoring your eyes. It’s an easy task, as you actually don’t look at him and continue on with your cooking.
“Would you grab me one too?” you ask casually, still not looking at him.
He nods in response, realizing you can’t actually see it, but being too flustered to say yes out loud.
There’s only one bottle of water in the fridge. Except for the big Fiji one which has to be Sara’s. Jungkook gulps.
Without saying anything, he grabs the bottle and hands it to you. You’re occupied, he sees that, so he just places it on the counter, right by the cutting board.
As he’s about to leave, maybe go drink water from the pool, you speak again.
“Not thirsty after all?”
Jungkook closes a fist, opens it again, flexes his fingers. His mouth dries up, suddenly extremely parched.
“That’s alright,” he says simply, almost no volume to his voice. He gulps… again.
“I’m guessing there’s only one bottle—and you’re just being nice.”
Trying to stay cool, Jungkook starts walking away from you. “I’m not thirsty.”
“I only need a sip,” you call out before he’s able to exit the kitchen, still focusing on cutting the pork neatly. “You take the bottle—you’ve had a long drive. But I just need you to open the bottle for me.”
Jungkook thinks he’s about to burst into flames. It might be the heat, but the air-con is working perfectly fine. So he’s afraid it might be you. His back is facing you, and yours his. You’re not even looking at each other, but Jungkook can’t bring himself to answer. And he doesn’t want to force the bottle on you. And he is thirsty.
So he turns, walks back over to the counter where you stand so prettily, eyes immediately falling to your back. To your ass. The polkadot print of your bikini, which shines through your gown. How your cheeks look so plump, how they look so round, like a good handful each.
It feels invasive. He looks away, eyes going to the plastic water bottle.
“Could you open it?” you ask again, showing him a flat palm. “I have pork on my hands.”
Jungkook prays to god that you won’t ask him to feed you the water as well. But he does as you ask, without saying a word. He screws the lid off, handing you the uncapped bottle.
You take it with your free hand, the plastic looking so much smaller in your grip than in his. Your fingers wrap around it, and you bring the opening to your mouth. Surely you’ll waterfall it.
But you don’t. Your lips wrap around the bottle, touching it directly.
And Jungkook fucking dies. Inside, that is. His inner organs seem to be rearranging, his stomach turning. And a new, strange sensation appears. Similar to the one he gets while watching… porn.
Your throat bobs, your lips are closed perfectly around the opened cap, and you only take a few quick sips. No water drips down your chin, not like in cheap pornos. But as you let the bottle slip from you, you let out a sigh. A sigh that is music in Jungkook’s ears. Better than any home-made movie he has watched.
When finished, you put the pad of your middle finger to your lips, dabbing away what might be excess water. There is none, so Jungkook feels you’re doing this just to mess with him. You’re probably not, but it feels like it.
“Thanks,” you say as you hand him the bottle, and you look up at him. When your eyes meet his, Jungkook drowns. He tries looking away, but for some reason he can’t. Your eyes are shimmering, big and soft. Jungkook flicks his gaze back and forth from them, not knowing where exactly he’s supposed to be looking. He hasn’t even grabbed the bottle yet.
“Your turn,” you continue, waving the bottle in front of him. “Drink up.”
For you, he would do anything.
Jungkook takes the plastic from your hands, wrapping his larger fingers around the bottle. He didn’t brush against your skin, which is a plus, but he kind of wishes he did.
You continue looking at him as he takes the bottle in his hand. Expecting him to drink up.
Are your lips usually this plump, this soft? Do you always speak in this tone? How are you so comfortable wearing such a revealing gown? Is it because you know you look good?
A bit nervously, he puts the bottle to his own lips. He debates waterfalling the water himself, but is afraid you might think he doesn’t want your germs in his system. That’s not at all what this is, and he doesn’t want to come off as rude. So he copies you by wrapping his mouth around the plastic opening, tilting the bottle until water falls down his throat.
Jungkook, for that matter, is sloppy, and manages to spill. Two measly droplets fall from his mouth and land on his chin, dripping down until they reach his jaw. This is simply because you won’t look away.
It feels inherently sexual, whatever this is, something Jungkook can’t quite grasp. He has never been interested in such activities before, so why does he flush so easily just by knowing he’s under your eyes? He can feel his neck burning up with heat, his ears grow red. So he calls it quits, deciding to swallow one last time.
“Sara told me you’re single.”
Jungkook chokes on the water.
Jesus christ, why are you asking him this question? Why is that important? Why right now, as he coughs up the lost water particles in his throat, eyes widening with shock. He looks like a lost sheep.
Your lips curls into a small, almost unnoticeable smile. But Jungkook sees it, he notices everything you do, every small detail. This detail has him blushing. He removes the bottle from his mouth, coughs one last time and wipes away the droplets from his jaw. His tattooed hand moves from his chin, down his neck, trying to feel how warm it his. The pulse underneath his skin is spiking.
With a deep inhale he answers, still a bit sore. “Uh—yeah, uh I am.”
You huff out a breath. “I’d never guess.”
Returning to your cooking, you look away from him. You continue cutting the pork, tilting your head to the side. Like this would be a normal ending to your conversation.
Jungkook has no idea what he’s supposed to say. Does he look like the type of guy to be in a relationship? No one has ever told him that, they usually tell him the opposite. That he looks like the type of guy to never settle. That’s before getting to know him, of course. But upon first glance, yes — Jungkook does look like a hit and run type of guy. So what do you mean?
He asks you just that. “Huhwhatwhy?”
The words tumble out of him, desperate to receive an explanation.
“I don’t know—you seem sweet,” you answer, finishing the last piece of pork. You reach for the cabinet above your head, stretching tall on your tippy toes. As you do, the fabric of your gown clings to your skin, making it easier for Jungkook to see the soft shape of your ass through the see-through dress. He looks away immediately, trying to focus on your words instead. You continue while opening the cabinet, grabbing for a bottle of olive oil. “Like the kind of guy who has a girlfriend that’s a lot to handle.”
This analogy is completely foreign to Jungkook — he has no idea what it’s supposed to mean. Also, you just met him today, exchanged only a few words with him. How do you know he’s sweet? Are you just a good judge of character?
Jungkook rolls his shoulders once before answering, stretching his neck. “Oh, okay.”
There’s nothing more to add to that. He has no idea what you’re talking about. He has no idea what you mean. And he doesn’t want to tangle himself into an unknown world right now, he’s too hot, too sweaty, a bit too worked up. Because upon seeing the outline — the beautiful outline of your ass — there has grown a problem in Jungkook’s black, cargo shorts. The fabric is pliant enough to give it away. He has experienced boners in public before, but only the ones explained by hormones and puberty. The ones who arrive unannounced, without any encouragement. Boners are now usually something he only gets while watching porn, something he does maybe twice a week. Maybe once. So sporting a hard-on while standing next to a girl in little to no clothing seems like a violation, and he wants to bolt away as fast as possible.
He turns, ready to walk off.
“Does the description fit?”
Your words still him in an instant. His back is facing you again, but he hears a shift in your stance, knows you’ve turned around from the counter. He hears your gown move. Fuck. If he turns around, you’ll see the obvious tent in his shorts. The large bulge. Jesus christ.
He places his hands in his pockets, stretches the fabric out, looks down to check if it’s still visible. It is, but not as prominent as before. So he decides to turn one last time.
When he’s facing you, he gulps. The gown has slipped just slightly off one of your shoulders, revealing your collarbones and sun-warmed skin. You’re leaning against the counter now, crossing one ankle over the other while tilting your head to the side. Jungkook’s growing problem seems to be screaming in his shorts.
Trying not to seem like a total idiot, he answers before the silence stretches further. “I don’t know.”
“Mhm.” You nod, tilting your head to the other side. A single piece of hair falls from behind your ear and gets in your face, tickling your cheek. You don’t bother brushing it away, instead you take in Jungkook’s state of flush. His wide eyes, his tense posture.
“I think a girl like that would suit you, Jungkook.”
Jungkook went to bed before the others. They got a bit too drunk, and Jungkook kept looking at your tits in that gown, in that bikini. He was maybe too a bit drunk.
But when you suggested they would all go for a swim in the pool, get a feel of the summer night breeze, Jungkook was quick to depart. He told Taehyung he was a bit tired from all the food — food coma — and that he wanted a good night’s sleep after a long day of travel. No one really questioned this, and Jungkook was free to leave the table.
The walls are thin. The window is too, apparently. He can hear the others splashing around in the pool, shrieking, playing, laughing.
Most of all — he can hear your laughter. He hears it so well. Your giggle, the one that sounds like tinkling glass. He tries tuning out every sound, trying to wiggle himself to sleep, tossing and turning. But that only highlights your laugher, your voice. Jungkook swears he can hear your exact footsteps on the cobblestone. Because your feet are so small. They make the cutest sound.
While listening to you guys, he imagines what it looks like outside. When you’re playing, swimming.
The image of you getting out of the pool, greeting him, pops back into Jungkook’s mind. The bikini clinging to your skin, disappearing between the slit of your ass, your perfect round cheeks. The slightest bounce of your breasts when you walked over to him.
You don’t wanna touch me now that I’m all wet, do you?
Fuck. The problem is back.
He has no idea what you do to him, but it hurts. It feels like he’s about to explode… down there. The skin feels too tight over him, the muscle is pulsating. He tries to ignore it, turn to his side, block out your voice, your laughter from outside. But as he turns, it hurts again. So he tries thinking of anything else.
His own apartment. He’s in his own apartment. His mind drifts to the kitchen, for some reason.
Okay. Food is good. If he’s hungry, that’s usually all he can think of. Whenever he plans to jerk off, he sometimes has to stop mid act because he feels a rumbling in his stomach. Food comes first.
So he thinks of cooking. At home, in his kitchen. Standing there, boiling water on the stove. Waiting until the bubbles appear. He turns to the side, looking for the packet of ramyeon. But as his hand reaches out, it doesn’t go to the packet of noodles — it goes to the curve of your ass.
Why are you there?
In that see-through gown. In that same bikini underneath. You’re just standing there, watching him cook. And you let him feel you, let his large palm meet your ass, not even flinching or making a sound, like it’s completely normal. Actually, you push your ass back further, leaning down on the counter now, just watching the water boil.
His hand moves around, just feeling you. And it’s marvelous. Your skin is so plump, so soft, even through the gown.
Fuck — he’s back to square one. Why are you there, in his mind, while he’s actively trying to keep you out? Maybe it’s because your laughter is so much more prominent than the two others. Or maybe you’ve just managed to completely occupy him, never letting him think of anything else.
There’s only one thing that will make this problem disappear, and Jungkook grits his teeth while thinking about it. He has only ever jerked off to porn, never to anyone he knows in real life. Again, it feels too invasive.
But he knows porn won’t work this time. No, it’s you he thinks of, you who’s making him feel like this.
Jungkook’s arm drapes over his eyes as he slips the other hand in his boxers, almost as if that would block out the embarrassment of doing something like this. He lets his fingers trace the length of him, feeling how sensitive he has grown. He teases his own cock while listening to your laughter, eyes still buried where his forearm meets his bicep. Finally, he wraps his full hand around himself.
Pressing his lips together, he tries to imagine what you look like right now.
You’re still in that bikini. Maybe you’re sitting on the edge of the pool with your legs in the water. Maybe your hair is wet again, slicked back like earlier. Maybe you’re leaning forward while talking, elbows on your knees, looking up at the others with those soft eyes. Or maybe you’re leaning back, with straight arms, your stomach moving in and out as you breathe.
The vision causes Jungkook to squeeze his cock lightly, letting a breathy moan escape his lips. Your hips, your ass, spread out so nicely when you sit by the pool. The bikini only covers your most treasured parts. But he can imagine them anyways.
What you would look like with him. You are already so small compared to him. Wouldn’t it look bizarre if you were with him? Your small hands on him, his big hands on you. His long fingers removing your thong, kissing your skin while on his knees. He would kiss you everywhere. Leave you red with bitemarks.
Jungkook’s stomach tightens. Pleasure flows through him, and sweat starts to appear in his hairline. He bites down on the piercing in his lip, thumbing the slit of his cock to spread the beading precum over his head. The tip has grown so sensitive that he can’t help but gasp once touching it. He twists himself at the base, squeezing tightly as he pumps himself to the image of you.
Your perky breasts. How your nipples might look. How he would love to make them go hard, to see goosebumps appear on your skin. How he would love to kiss down on them, bite them, lick them, suck until you pulled on his hair. How your fingers would feel in his hair.
When thinking of pleasuring you, Jungkook has no idea how to do so, but imagines himself more experienced. Just in this dream scenario.
He knows porn is nothing to compare the real deal with, he has been told so numerous of times. But for now, it will do.
Jungkook sets a steady pace, whining as he feels his balls start to tighten.
If he had his hands on you, he would never let go. He wishes he knew how to make you beg. That he could kiss you, spread you open, give your most precious spot a harsh suck until stars appeared in your eyelids. That he could lap at you like a parched animal, even sink his tongue deep inside you, swirl it around.
You don’t wanna touch me now that I’m all wet, do you?
Oh, how he would love to touch you. How he would love to feel your wetness. Have his fingers in it, his tongue in it, bury his cock so deep in your wetness that you’d beg him to stop. You would look so beautiful with your eyes rolled back into your skull.
Imagining the noises you would make has him sweating more than ever before. He gasps when he imagines you gasping, he whines when he imagines you would do so. It’s a synchronized performance he’s playing out, and when he imagines your climax — he breaks in half.
Thick ropes of cum, more than he has ever produced before, spurt heavy out of his cock, leaving his boxers a white, sticky mess. He throws his head back against the headboard, shutting his eyes completely as he strokes himself through the orgasm. Jungkook feels he has just entered the gates of heaven. Never before in his life has he climaxed this hard before. An otherworldly experience — that’s what this was.
When Jungkook comes down from his high, he looks down at himself, at his ruined boxers, grimacing at the amount of cum.
That will have to do, he thinks. Tomorrow is Friday, meaning there is only really two days left. He can survive two days with you, but only at a distance. He’ll have to make sure you won’t rile him up again. He’ll have to avoid you.
Jungkook hates couples.
He hates Taehyng and he hates Sara. Why do couples need so much alone time? This was supposed to be Taehyung and Jungkook’s trip. So why is he being pushed away?
Better question — why is he being pushed into interactions with you?
“I’m just gonna fuck her in the pool—so can’t you guys go grocery shopping or something?” Taehyung begs, mirroring his friend’s pout.
Jungkook scoffs, crosses his arms over his chest while avoiding Taehyung’s eyes, acting like a sulky little kid. “No, I want to stay here.”
“But that’s not your decision, Kook.” Taehyung curls his lips together, speaking in a whisper. “This is my house—and I want to fuck my girlfriend in the pool.”
Fuck off.
Jungkook fastens his seatbelt, trying to ignore the scent of your perfume. It’s hard. Lilac, lilies, something like that.
You’re trying to pick out a song on your phone after connecting it to Bluetooth, mumbling under your breath. You can’t seem to land on anything, but you’ve forbidden Jungkook from pulling out of the driveway before you’ve found the perfect song. “What songs do you like, then?”
Everything about you makes Jungkook embarrassed after last night. He can’t even dare to look you in the eyes, let alone hear your voice. This shopping trip will be awful.
“Everything,” Jungkook answers simply, tapping the steering wheel with his index finger.
“Come on—just name a song!”
“Uh…” He has apparently forgotten every song ever. “Bennie And The Jets.”
The sound of tinkling glass reappears. The sweet sound of you giggling. “Alright—Bennie And The Jets it is.”
As you type the embarrassing song request into your phone, Jungkook starts driving. The car rolls down the long gravel path towards the main road, and he desperately tries ignoring your scent.
You smell like flowers, warm skin, summer. Every time the wind shifts through the cracked window, it carries your scent straight to him. It’s almost enough to make him puke. Or maybe cry. He dares to look at you for just a second. Look at the way your hair blows in the wind, how you play with a few strands between your fingertips. The fabric of your sundress moving in waves with the wind, just like your hair. Your gentle, slender neck, the soft flesh there. How he would love to feel you.
Jungkook hates grocery shopping now too, apparently. Walmart is too big, there are too many options. Sara has sent over a list for you guys to check off, but it’s so long that Jungkook is suspecting they’re just stalling you while the two of them have sloppy intercourse in the outdoors pool.
And your dress is too pretty. You’re too pretty. What the hell is Jungkook supposed to do?
He pushes the cart while walking behind you, trying not to stare too much. But the dress sways across your thighs, makes him think. His ears go red again.
“—And I want chocolate covered raspberries. And those cola lollipops. And some popcorn. And Ben&Jerry’s—” you continue. Your list is quite long, and it seems you’ve steered away from what Sara wants you guys to buy.
As Jungkook pushes along, he only thinks to himself: Anything for you.
“—Also I forgot my wallet.”
Again, he thinks: Anything for you.
You make him carry all the bags. It’s heavy, but Jungkook is strong. You bought an insane amount of groceries for such a small person (with Jungkook’s money, that is). He wonders how you’re planning to get it all down. If you’re evil enough, you bought all this just to watch Jungkook’s neck pop with veins as he carried it over the parking lot.
As you get to the car, you don’t even bother opening the trunk for him. You simply wait for him to unlock the door before you slip inside, hissing as the black seat has heated up.
You seem sweet. Like the kind of guy who has a girlfriend that’s a lot to handle.
Sure enough, you are a lot to handle.
The two of you haven’t been away for that long, probably about thirty minutes, but Jungkook hopes Taehuyng and Sara might be done with their session by the time you arrive. But as Jungkook gets in the car, you stop him before he turns the engine on.
“We have to go see the view point by the beach.”
Get away — Jungkook thinks — I don’t have to do anything. He brushes off the hand that you’ve placed on his, starting the engine anyways. Jungkook wants to go home. He wants to listen to music in his room, try to do anything besides thinking of you. You make his whole body warm, and he’s not sure if he likes it.
You gasp, making a grimace laced with disappointment. “You’re so mean!”
“I just wanna go home—I’m not mean.”
“Can’t we just—”
Jungkook cuts you off mid-sentence. “Your ice cream’s gonna melt.”
With a huff of air, you sink further and further into your seat. You don’t even bother putting on the seatbelt. Your eyes fall to the window beside you, ignoring Jungkook. But as Jungkook gives a quick side-eye, he notices how your lips have formed into a pout. How you look just like he did when he sat in that exact spot yesterday, realizing the trip with Taehyung wasn’t a solo one.
He starts driving, trying to not look at you too much. But you seem like you want him to talk, want him to say something, as you keep huffing and puffing out irritated small breaths.
“You’re pouting.”
You don’t answer. So Jungkook tries again, something a bit bolder that makes his heart race.
“You’re a lot to handle.”
A tiny smile appears on your face, but you try masking it by pursing your lips. It doesn’t work all that well, so you cover your mouth with tiny fingers, letting them play with your lips. It’s almost like you want Jungkook to crash the car, because as you fiddle with the plump flesh, Jungkook can’t help but look at it. How plush they look, how glossy. He bets they would feel good on him. Good wrapped around him. Or just against his own lips.
Jungkook’s mouth waters while his thoughts run wild. But as he continues driving, he notices that you still haven’t fastened your seatbelt. You might be sulking, but he can’t have you flying out the window in protest.
Without looking over, keeping his eyes on the road, he reaches over you, grabbing for the buckle. Quickly, he traps you in, securing the belt until he hears a ‘click’.
“How nice of you,” you mock, pitching your voice higher.
He keeps quiet for the rest of the ride. You don’t bother putting on music this time, and just stare at your phone. For some reason, Jungkook worries. He hopes you won’t get sick. That your stomach can handle the car ride as your eyes are glued to the screen. If you feel sick, you should just tell him. He’d pull over. In a heartbeat, actually. But you don’t say a word, so Jungkook doesn’t either.
When you pull into the driveway, Jungkook senses a smile on your face, just a tiny one. It seems like an evil one. So his neck goes red, his ears too.
As the engine shuts down, as Jungkook removes the keys and his belt, you stay still. He looks over at you, wondering, furrowing his brows as you keep looking straight ahead.
“Unbuckle.”
That’s all you say.
Jungkook gathers that you want him to unbuckle your seatbelt. Just like when he trapped you in, but in reverse this time.
He does as you tell him, pressing down until the belt flings open. As you’re freed, you turn in your seat, looking at him with narrow eyes. You skim over his face a couple of times, almost like you’re debating something. Jungkook can’t for the life of him understand what’s going on. His eyes are big and glossy compared to your glowering ones.
“Put your seatbelt on,” you demand, speaking in a low voice.
What are you doing?
There’s something about you that makes it hard for Jungkook to question your words, what you ask of him. So without second thoughts, he simply pulls his own seatbelt back on, staring at you with big wondering eyes the entire time.
You press your lips together, fighting laughter. But your eyes are still fierce, narrow in a way that makes Jungkook’s pulse spike.
“Unbuckle.”
Again.
Jungkook does as you say. With a click the belt pops open again, and Jungkook is still confused. But it’s like clockwork — whatever you say, Jungkook does. Except take you to the view point, apparently. He still doesn’t understand why he drew the line there.
As the belt flings open again, you let out a breath of air, bordering on a demeaning laughter.
“Why are you like that?”
“Like what?” Jungkook asks mindlessly, his voice gentle but breaking at the edges. You rile him up, but not so much now that he can’t take it. There’s more of a thrill to it. Something he can’t quite understand. But again… for some reason — he feels himself growing in his jeans. Horrible timing.
“You do everything I tell you to.” With your next smile, you bear a bit of teeth. You use them to bite down on your bottom lip, just the slightest, letting them bounce back as you release them. They look so soft, so plush.
Jungkook can’t be thinking about that right now. Not with what’s going on in his jeans. He actually can’t be here right now. Thank god the two of you have reached the house. Maybe he can just sit in the car and wait for it to pass, ask you to leave him alone for a minute. But then he would have to watch you walk away, ogle at the way your dress moves softly across your thighs.
That doesn’t seem like a good option either.
“I don’t do that,” he responds, shifting in his seat as he feels his whole body tighten. Maybe it’s the way you speak to him. Or maybe he likes being told what to do? Is that it? He hopes not, as that would be quite embarrassing.
As he shifts, your eyes unfortunately go to his pants. To the bulge that’s growing there. And Jungkook has watched enough porn to know that he’s big. It’s not easy for him to hide an erection, so as your eyes meet his crotch, he gathers you know what’s going on.
You give the bulge a devilish smile. “What’s going on down there?”
The fact that you’re so forward isn’t helping. Goosebumps cover Jungkook’s neck, and he jerks his head to the side giving you a small hiss in response. “Come on…”
“I knew I was right about you!” Your smile grows, and you lean forward a bit, resting a palm on your thigh. Jungkook can’t help but let his eyes follow your hand, where it meets the fabric of your dress. The outline of your thigh.
You giggle again, patting down on yourself almost like you’re clapping. “Jungkook—you’d love a fiery woman!”
This conversation is not happening.
Jungkook goes white, completely white. His face loses all color, and he looks at you with a pair of mortified, black orbs. Why are you so unfazed while talking about this — while Jungkook has an obvious boner in your presence? Because of your presence?
He lets one hand go to the fabric that has tightened around his crotch, trying to cover himself up. Your eyes follow immediately.
“Jungkook, I’m serious—it’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” you sigh, itching even closer. One of your legs crosses over the other, causing your dress to itch higher up on your thighs. The edge of the skirt is dangerously close to a part Jungkook definitely shouldn’t be watching in this state. Your hands fall into your lap. “If anything—it’s just flattering.”
With a shaky inhale, Jungkook closes his eyes, preparing to tell you off. He lets out your name with the next exhale, even more unsteady than last time. “Can’t we just please go inside?”
“You have to be more open minded.” You don’t pay attention to his erection anymore, instead you lock eyes with him, something that makes Jungkook even more nervous. He blinks over and over again, waiting for the moment to pass. Jungkook doesn’t know what’s more embarrassing — the fact that you’re so forward, or that the bulge in his jeans won’t seem to go down. His entire body tightens, his stomach turning. This is by far the strangest, most uncomfortable feeling he has ever felt.
You tilt your head to the side, lick your lips. “Do you need help, Jungkook?”
What?
I’m sorry — what?
Jungkook freezes. The corners of his eyes start watering, strangely enough. He blinks again, a few times more, trying to piece together the puzzle that is this conversation.
You can’t possibly mean what Jungkook thinks you do. That can’t be right. That would at least mean you’re teasing him, for whatever reason. He hopes you don’t know about what happened last night. That would be all too much. Maybe you can read his mind. That would be a more logical explanation. Anyways — why on earth are you asking him this?
He swallows hard, eyebrows lifting high on his forehead. “H-help?”
The sound of tinkling glass. You smile, and don’t cover it up this time. The one leg crossed over the other nudges Jungkook’s ankle, playfully kicking him. He breathes in a shaky inhale, having grown so sensitive to any kind of touch. Especially yours.
“Your little problem won’t go away on its own.”
Jungkook has tried convincing himself it was all a dream. That what happened in the car didn’t really happen. That he had just imagined it, that his horned-up brain continued to make up unlawful scenarios about you. He tried his hardest. He tried so hard.
But you wouldn’t leave his mind. The image of you looking him up and down, eyes so dark it almost frightened him. He thought he was about to be eaten alive.
Somehow, he wasn’t.
Because after teasing him about his erection for about five minutes, nudging him with your feet, your fingers — you seemingly had enough. Your face went back to normal, you let out a huff of air, and you reached for the door on your side. When you hopped out of the car, you didn’t even look back. You walked away, left Jungkook hard and dumbfounded behind — with a trunk loaded with groceries.
Did you really ask him that? Better yet… were you serious?
You couldn’t possibly be. This is real life, not a porno. It’s not like women throw themselves at boners in real life. They are usually rather put off by them. So why is it that you teased him so much about it, without seeming disgusted?
Had Sara told you something? Or had maybe Taehyung? Jungkook knows Taehyung has a habit of telling girls Jungkook is a virgin. He knows some girls find it cute (it doesn’t happen often, but sometimes). But that’s only when they’re out drinking, usually at a club where Taehyung knows they won’t ever have to see these girls again. So why would he ever tell you such a thing?
After getting back inside, Jungkook practically ran upstairs and into the shower. He couldn’t take a minute more of his suffering, and knew he needed release. So he stripped himself of his sweat drenched clothes, turned the water on until the room filled with steam, and hopped right in.
He came harder than the night before, if that was even possible. His vision wiped out, and he had to whine a loud ‘fuck’ in order to not call out your name. It was maybe the hardest task he had ever carried out in his life. The stream of the water was harsh enough to block out the sounds he was producing, or so he hoped, and he was far away from the others. He saw you run towards the pool area instead of going back inside, and he was certain that both Taehyung and Sara would be sound asleep after their many rounds in the pool.
Jungkook hides in his room after jerking off. He feels absolutely mortified. There was absolutely no reason for him to get a hard-on in the car, you didn’t do anything sexual. Except maybe for that last part. But the thing is — he was hard even before that. So what’s the deal?
When Taehyung comes knocking, asking if he’s up for dinner soon, Jungkook tells him he has caught some kind of cold. Which is a statement Taehyung easily believes as Jungkook quite literally looks like shit.
His bangs stick to his forehead, his mullet sticks to his neck, his eyes are red and his skin is white. It looks like he has got it bad, when in all fairness — he’s just extraordinarily horny… and also very embarrassed.
He tries falling asleep, even though the time only reads seven o’clock. Maybe if he listens to some music, it might help. Grabbing for his phone, he turns to his side and feels a loud rumble in his stomach.
No, god no.
As stated earlier, if Jungkook is hungry — nothing else matters. If his stomach is rumbling, he needs to do something about it. But right now… he can’t. He can still hear the voices coming from downstairs, the three of you laughing and chatting. Exactly what it is that you’re talking about, Jungkook can’t hear, but he knows you’re laughing. He knows you’re having a good time.
He wishes he was able to make you laugh like that. You only do so when he’s sporting a full one, apparently.
Why won’t you guys just please go to bed? Jungkook has to get down there. Make himself some food. He has to.
Tossing and turning in bed, his mind runs wild. Which is when he remembers something horrible, something so extremely unfortunate.
He forgot the groceries in the car.
Jungkook bolts upright in bed, almost gasping out loud at the realization. He forgot the fucking groceries. They are still in the car, all of them. Your snacks, your drinks, your ice cream. God — your ice cream. It’s all probably melted by now.
He throws the blanket off himself and scrambles out of bed. Rushing around his room, he yanks open multiple drawers, grabbing the first pieces of clothing he can find. A blue t-shirt with a yellow crab on it, and a pair of grey cargo shorts. He pulls them on hastily, nearly getting his foot stuck in the fabric.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
If you see the melted ice cream, you’ll be crushed. You’ll be so disappointed. All he had to do was carry the bags inside. He couldn’t even do that. You would be so sad if you found out your ice cream had been standing outside, the milk getting spoiled. You wouldn’t be able to eat it anymore. How sad you would be.
When fully dressed, he stumbles into a pair of Puma slippers and tip toes toward his door, opening it just enough to peek out into the hallway. The house is dim, looks almost asleep, but he can still hear your laughter from downstairs.
Is he supposed to climb out the window? Or how will he go about this?
Without really thinking more of it, he makes sure to tread as lightly as possible, not making any sound as he escapes his room. He makes his way down the stairs, trying to ignore the small creaks the wood makes. If he’s lucky, you’re all drunk by now, and woozy enough to look past the man lurking around ‘undetected’ behind them.
Finally making it to the last step, he crouches down. The main entrance is so close, but it’s too risky — the dining area is right by. So he options for the terrace door, the one that leads to the pool.
Carefully, he shifts his weight and begins creeping across the living room floor. Jungkook is as careful as a soldier crossing a field full of land mines, knowing that an awkward bump-in would be too much for him now. He moves slowly enough to keep most of the creaking quiet, but the boards under his slippers give in a few times. Not loud enough for you guys to take notice of it though, thankfully.
He doesn’t dare look toward the sound of your laughter. He doesn’t know where you’re seated. You could be facing him, or maybe not. Either way, if you turn your head at any given moment, you’ll spot him immediately — half crouched, sneaking across the living room like a criminal. Jungkook gathers none of you have spotted him yet, as you would point it out. So he carries on until he reaches the door, opening it just a tad, making just enough room for his large frame to slip through the crack.
Finally being out in the open, away from the ongoing dinner inside, Jungkook hurries down the path that leads from the terrace to the driveway. His eyes find Taehyung’s car — it sits exactly where he left it, untouched and unmoved, still in the driveway. Seeing it almost gives him war flashbacks from earlier, and he tries his best blocking out the memory of your foot against his leg. How it brushed against him only for a second, then once again. The peak of his demise.
When he reaches the car, he pops the trunk open immediately, grimacing the second it lifts.
The bags have spilled, groceries lie scattered around. A mess, really, one he can thank none other than himself for.
He clicks his tongue. “Shit.”
His eyes go to the spilling reminders of your ice cream, the milky fluid having leaked out of its container. Poking at it once, he feels how soft it is, how the carton has fogged up and gone all wet. Fuck, it has been sitting out in the heat for too long.
Jungkook sighs miserably and starts pulling the groceries into a pile, shoving them back into the grocery bags one by one. He grabs the plastic once fully packed and starts carefully stacking the sachets on the pavement beside him so he’s able to carry it all in one trip.
And in the midst of all this, Jungkook is so focused on salvaging the groceries that he doesn’t even hear the footsteps approaching behind him. But he can’t help but flinch when a sudden voice cuts through his concentration.
“Boo!”
Taken by surprise, Jungkook lets out a strangled yelp while his body jerks forward, nearly headbutting the open trunk as he whips around. He recognizes your voice before even laying eyes on you.
You stand cross armed before him, still in the same sundress from before, looking at him with an unimpressed mine. The startled sound he just produced wasn’t a exclaim for the history books, something he can read from just the look on your face. After examining the flush on his face, your eyes drop to the grocery bags at his feet.
Jungkook scratches the back of his head nervously. “Jesus, you scared me.”
“Ah, I gathered that,” you respond, nodding in a belittling way with your eyebrows high on your forehead. A short laughter breaks from you as you probably play back the previous look on his face. “What the hell are you doing anyways?”
“Uh the—” Jungkook stops himself. He’ll probably have to answer why he’s not at dinner, either. Why he told Taehyung he was sick, while still prancing around outside in only a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. Nothing anyone with a real cold would do. “I forgot the bags—in the car—earlier today.”
You purse your lips while nodding. Jungkook can’t help but notice the goosebumps on your skin. The straps on your dress are tiny, you’ve got no real fabric protecting you from the cold. He wishes he never set foot outside, so that you wouldn’t have to stand outside shivering because of him. On that note — why exactly are you here…?
“So you’re lurking around late at night in order to save my candies?”
Great point you’re making, because it does sound stupid. But Jungkook would go to even further lengths to salvage what you hold dear to your heart — and since you seemed to care so much about your lollipops, your ice cream, your chips, he felt lurking around was needed. Although this might sound strange to you, since Jungkook has only known you for less than two days. So maybe he should keep quiet.
“I didn’t want to disturb you guys,” he ultimately answers, rocking back and forth trying to keep himself from bursting into flames in your presence.
A giggle escapes you. “You know—you could always join us…? Eat dinner with us? Maybe not hide out in your room?”
Fuck, how did you know he was hiding?
“It’s—I’ve caught a cold.” His voice is fragile, words bordering on a whisper. “I’m not hiding.”
“Pfft, come on,” you scoff, letting your head loll back — baring your neck to Jungkook. He can feel his mouth start watering, salivating at the view in front of him. Your soft skin, where your neck meets your chest, your collarbones, your gentle cleavage in that dress as you’ve crossed your arms tightly across your breasts. He snaps out of it the moment you straighten your neck, looking back at him with serious eyes. “Jungkook, I told you—you don’t have to be embarrassed. Not around me, anyways.”
Now, this is exactly why Jungkook has been hiding. Why are you always so forward, why can’t you just let him suffer in peace?
His ears go red immediately, and before he manages to answer, he swallows hard, trying to make himself look at serious and tough as possible. It’s hard for Jungkook, as he suffers from a condition called big, black puppy eyes.
“I’m not embarrassed,” he lies, stuffing his hands in his pockets. The bags around him stand still, the trunk stays open, and there’s nowhere for him to go. He’s trapped.
“Mhm, okay.” Your eyes skim over his body, locking with the yellow crab on his t-shirt. How embarrassing. The shirt is tighter than what he would usually wear, so he suddenly feels like he’s on display. He flexes his stomach (force of habit), hoping he might look good under your eyes. You smile in response. “Okay—so you say you’re not embarrassed. But you’re nervous.”
Jungkook can’t even manage to get a single word or sound out before you let your arms fall from their crossed position. As they slip, you take a step forward, breathing in a deep breath. Your chest rises, the outline of your soft cleavage making a strong appearance, before it falls again.
With you walking towards him, with you in that dress, Jungkook’s eyes go wild. His eyes flick over your face, your chest, your stomach, before falling to your feet.
Mother of god.
You’re barefoot.
“Could you…?” you ask, eyes going to the bags by Jungkook’s feet.
He doesn’t even think twice. With nervous kicks, he shoves the bags out of the way, the contents spilling out and landing scattered around in the driveway. At least — it clears your path. Which is all Jungkook cares for.
“And the—”
Jungkook won’t let you finish your sentence. Before you reach him, he hurriedly stretches his arm out, aiming for the trunk and shutting it close. It almost hits his head, but he’s quick enough to move away, holding your eyes the entire time.
You stop maybe two feet before him, looking over at Jungkook as he nervously leans his back against the trunk. A smile spread across your face.
“What do you study?”
Huh?
Jungkook parts his lips, but no sound comes out. He doesn’t know exactly what he was expecting, but it most certainly wasn’t small-talk. Not when it looks like you’re about to eat him alive.
“Uh… I—cybersecurity,” he finally manages. His eyes can’t help but flick over every single part of you, trying to ignore your bare feet. He has never before found feet attractive — he doesn’t find feet attractive. So what on earth is it that you do to him?
“Do you like it?”
“Well—yeah, it’s alright.”
You step forward, watching his every reaction. His eyes dart down to yours as you close in on him. Still, you continue talking — like nothing’s going on. “Are you good with computers?”
Jungkook’s breath hitches at he feels your breath against his skin. None of your body parts are touching yet, your knees haven’t even met his. Yet, he feels like he might fold in half where he stands. His arms shoot out behind him, bracing himself on the polished trunk, veins popping underneath his skin as he tries to restrain himself.
“Yea-uh,” his voice cracks halfway through the word. Trying to redeem himself, he coughs once, looking up into the air above him. He breathes out, trying to steady himself. “I’d say so.”
Your eyes are glued to him, and he even feels you huffing out a laugh against him. And suddenly, he feels skin brush against his knee. Your thigh. Your thigh still hidden behind your soft dress. Without meaning to, he gasps.
“You play video games?”
He can only nod, still looking up, trying to keep his cool. He might just come off even more nervous. But he can’t help it. The fabric of his shorts, his boxers, start tightening around his crotch as he feels himself growing. By how close you are, he gathers you’ll soon be able to feel it too.
Tilting your head, you lean into him, rising on your tippy toes in order to reach the skin by his ear. “Think you could teach me once?”
“Uh—of course. Yeah—I could do th—”
Jungkook feels a pair of soft lips against his neck before he can finish speaking.
His entire body shudders, and the bulge in his pants continues to rise. Your lips part once, taking his skin in deeper, letting the wet part of your mouth reach him. It’s so incredibly soft, so tender, that Jungkook almost feels his stomach grow sick. Involuntarily, he lets out a whine, and your name follows.
“W-what are you doing?”
You shush him softly, tracing his neck with your kisses, your plush lips welcoming his salty skin. Jungkook thinks his knees might buckle when he hears you give a small moan, bracing his arms behind him, trying to dig his fingernails into the car’s polish. There’s no use.
Letting a breathy laugh leave you, you answer his question with a low voice. “I’m just paying in advance.”
“H-huh?”
The kisses start moving upwards, and you let one of your hands find his lap. Jungkook flinches, his thighs twitching, alongside the growing cock hidden away in his pants. You purr against his skin, soft lips meeting his jaw as you stretch taller.
“You’re gonna teach me how to play—aren’t you?”
Jungkook wasn’t really paying attention to your meaningless small-talk — but he’ll never deny you anything. However, he knows you’re not being serious. He feels you’re egging him on, teasing him, riling him up.
None of that matters now that your lips are on him. They are even softer than he had imagined, and now that it’s finally happening, it feels like his cock is about to explode in his boxers. He’s so hard it’s starting to hurt, the length of him twitching every time your small hand squeezes his thigh through the shorts’ fabric.
Fuck this — he has you now.
In no less than a second, his hands are on you. He gives up on his quest for the stars, where he stands looking up at the sky trying to avoid you. It has been twenty fucking years, and Jungkook is yet to have had a good kiss. A great fucking kiss.
His hands find your waist, knead the supple flesh there before he pulls you in. Your lips crash together, and he shivers at the sound of your surprised gasp. Whining into your mouth, Jungkook lets one hand find the small of your back while the other still holds onto your waist.
You feel so unbelievably soft in his grip, so small and tender. The force of Jungkook’s kiss, the un-expectancy of it has you tumbling forwards, falling into Jungkook’s arms. But you still manage to assert some dominance, pushing on his knees in order to part them before you slip between his legs with ease.
Holy fuck — he can feel you between his legs. You’re in between his legs. Pressing against him, pushing yourself further into him.
“Ohh—fuck,” Jungkook whines as you roll your hips softly, simply letting him know you’re there. And he knows alright, the bulge in his pants twitches and pulsates at the feel of you. Impatient and so extremely touch-deprived, Jungkook pushes his tongue against your lips in order to part them. You let him slip in easily, the muscle rolling into your mouth messily.
The two of you gasp, moan, whine into the wet kisses, going at each other like starved animals. Although the only starved one here is him.
“Jungkook?” you ask in the midst of a kiss, such a soft voice that has Jungkook’s breath hitching in response.
“Mm-hm?” He whines as you press against him once again, the bulge in his pants brushing against your crotch. It feels so fucking good — nothing he has ever felt before. It’s even better than jerking off, even though all his clothes are still on. Why is that? Are you a witch?
One of your hands find Jungkook’s cheek, brushing a gentle thumb against his skin. You give him a tiny peck before retracting, staring up at his big, glistening, wondering eyes.
“I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
Jesus christ.
This either means: 1) you’re nasty as shit or: 2) you know he’s a virgin.
He prays to god it’s not the ladder. Or maybe… he does. Then it would explain why he might not be so good to you, if he might do something horrible or something you don’t like. He has no idea.
His eyes grow wider, if possible, and he wets his lips twice, wishing for more kisses. “It’s okay—I’m okay—I promise.”
The words roll off his tongue, or rather tumble out his mouth, and he eagerly leans in to kiss you again. He has felt nothing like it, how soft your lips are, how sweet you taste. He could kiss you forever, every day, all the time.
Your tinkling laughter reappears, and you back away from his kiss. Jungkook is stronger, and still keeps you close to him, but he can’t seem to reach your mouth. So he whines yet again.
“Shh—Jungkook, slow down—I’m not going anywhere,” you say in between your giggles, pressing both palms flat against his chest. Your cheeks flush the moment you feel his plump skin under your hands, something Jungkook can’t help but love.
“Then kiss me—come on!”
You reach out for his erection, cupping a palm over the bulge in his pants and squeezing tight. All the air in Jungkook’s lungs is punched out, and he lets go of your waist. His hand shoots up, and he bites down on the back of his hand, trying to suppress an embarrassing moan. The others are still inside, after all. Only a few walls away. They could slip out and see the two of you, just as easily as you did just a few minutes ago.
The palm rubs over his length as you lock eyes with him, even though Jungkook keeps trying to shut them. You lean further into him, purr when Jungkook digs his soft fingernails into the small of your back. He’s unbelievably hard.
“We have to take it slow, Jungkook—if it’s your first.”
There it is. Jungkook clenches his eyes shut, a harsh rumble escaping from his throat as his cock twitches in your grip. He can feel himself spilling in his boxers, leaking from the tip. He knows he’ll come harder than ever before if you continue, but he can’t wiggle out of your grip. It feels to good. Instead, he embarrassingly enough starts slowly rutting into your palm.
You click your tongue and lean into Jungkook, your breath fanning his neck. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”
“S-so good,” Jungkook breathes, throwing his head back and leaning heavier against the trunk. His hips thrust into your hand, and you haven’t even wrapped yourself around him. It’s just a tease, but a tease that feels so good Jungkook is about to start levitating.
“You know what would feel better, Kookie?”
Oh my fucking god. Jungkook sees white, the sound of the sugary nickname on your lips causing him to tremble in your grip. He pulls you tighter against him with the hand on your back, searching for your lips. When they meet, he shamelessly moans into your mouth, rolling his tongue against yours, biting and sucking down on your bottom lip.
You gasp and purr against him, cupping his erection even harder as you start applying slow strokes to him. He feels heavy in your palm, thick and long.
Breathing hot against his lips, you kitten-lick his mouth, pulling away to tell him sweet nothings, words that leave Jungkook white. “Wouldn’t it feel better to have my mouth on you, Kookie?”
Absolutely not. No way in hell. Nuh-uh.
Jungkook shudders only hearing you suggest it. Of course it would feel better — he’d fuck your throat so hard you wouldn’t be able to speak for days. But he can’t, he knows he can’t. He’d come so embarrassingly fast that he’d ruin everything. On top of that, he wouldn’t be able to fuck you. To finally get laid.
He shakes his head against your kiss, whining when you tease the tip of his cock through the shorts. You let your thumb find the slit of him, rubbing around it before pressing your palm hot over the bulge again.
“No?” you ask, biting down on his bottom lip. “You wouldn’t want that? You wouldn’t want my lips around your cock? Wouldn’t want me to choke on you? You’re big, Kookie. You wouldn’t want your big cock in my pretty little mouth? Would it be too much?”
Mother of god. Jungkook feels like a dog hearing all his favorite buzzwords. You’re just throwing them out there, hoping for a reaction.
Trying not to lose his composure, or the tiny bit of it he had left, he lets go of your back. Both hands come behind him to rest on the truck, breathing out deeply as you continue lathering him with kisses. Just like him, you switch positions. Your hand lets go of his erection, but you replace the stimulation by grinding against his crotch. Jungkook’s breath hitches, and he shuts his eyes hard, actively trying not to come in his shorts. It seems fucking impossible, the combination of your kisses and the way you press against his cock has stars dancing in his eyelids.
“You don’t want that, Kookie?” you breathe out seductively, both hands coming to play with his mullet. “You don’t want your cock in my mouth?”
“N-yes! But—” he stutters, trembling while you rub yourself on him. Both his boxers and shorts are about to turn very wet, the precum leaking out of him ruining both fabrics. “Can’t. I can’t.”
You pout, but kiss him nonetheless. Your tongues move in perfect synchronization, and Jungkook thinks this might be all he needs. Until something gives him away. Because as your moans die down, another sound breaks through — the sound of Jungkook’s stomach rumbling.
Fuck that’s embarrassing.
He wines, leaning further back, but that only invites you to press yourself harder against his cock. And as you notice his talkative stomach, you giggle.
“Hungry, Kookie?”
God yes. God, he’s hungry. He’s so hungry he could die. But he’s determined to do nothing about it. He wants to stay here, with you, kiss you forever. Feel you rub yourself on him, feel your fingers in his hair. Have your soft lips on his, have your sweet, sweet tongue deep in his mouth.
But he is hungry, there’s no denying that. His stomach continues growling, causing you to scoff out teasing laughs every single time. But that’s only until Jungkook feel you smile devilishly against his kisses. And Jungkook — a fond watcher of porn — thinks he might know what you’re up to.
You slide one hand from the back of his neck, finger finding his jugular, and you slowly wrap them around his throat — very lightly. Tickling his skin. And as you retreat from the kiss, you lock eyes with Jungkook.
“How hungry are you—exactly?”
Jungkook waists no fucking time now. He has seen this in porn too many times to want to wait. He’s fucking starving, and by what he has seen on the numerous raunchy sites, there’s only one thing that can ease his cravings.
Suddenly, his hands find the back of your thighs, and with ease — he lifts you from the ground.
You give a quiet squeal, pressing your lips harder against his, letting your body melt with his. He drinks is the feeling of your spread legs wrapped around him, how the dress has risen up your thighs, almost exposing your panties to him. There’s almost nothing concealing you from him, and as he has you in his arms, Jungkook feels his cock grow even more.
He turns with you wrapped around him, backing off from the trunk in order to switch places with you. As your ass meets the cool car polish, you sigh against his kiss, and the sound makes it hard for Jungkook to let go of you. He wishes he could carry you around everywhere, all the time. That you would maybe give up on walking, let him keep you in his arms for him to work as a personal carrier.
But he lets you go nonetheless, pushing himself in between your legs while his hands move up your back, one finding rest on the back of your neck while the other caresses the space between your shoulder blades.
“Wow,” you tease, giving him one last peck before baring your neck for Jungkook to access the sweet skin there. He latches onto it immediately, kissing and sucking on your jugular. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Jungkook.”
“Mhm,” he hums while lathering you in wet kisses, lips pressing down on a particular spot that has you squirming. The hand between your shoulder blades roams further, slips down your back and makes its way to your thighs. He feels your bare skin for the first time, instinctively rutting forward, his erection pressing hot and heavy against your panties. “Oh fuck.”
Jungkook grows impatient, and in a hurry, he takes ahold of the hem of your dress, dragging it upwards until your ass is bare. You help with a compliant lift of your hips. Your bare cheeks are revealed, and Jungkook immediately lets a big palm find the firm flesh there, kneading it while still rolling his hips into your crotch.
Both his boxers and shorts are almost ruined with his precum, the constant leak. He knows he can’t keep going like this — that he will break if this goes on for any longer. And since his stomach has been growling, since he is so hungry, he lets go of your neck and starts kissing lower.
“Fuck—Kookie—are you sure?” you breathe as Jungkook starts applying kisses to your breasts. He’s easily distracted, and once his lips meet the soft flesh of your cleavage, he almost forgets the path he has taken on. Jungkook bites down on one of your breasts, licking and kissing the mark in order to ease the small amount of pain. “Ah—oh my god.”
It seems like you can’t take it anymore, and you help Jungkook without him even asking. You let your head loll back as your hands go to the waistband of your panties. Hooking your fingers into the fabric, you start wiggling out of the fabric. Jungkook groans against your neck as you start undressing yourself, taking a small step back in order for you to rid yourself of your underwear.
The fabric bunches around your ankles, and Jungkook hastily takes ahold of the hem — ripping it off you in an instant.
“Oh my god I need you so bad,” he whines as he lets go of your neck with a slick pop, looking proudly at the red mark he has left behind. That will stay. Jungkook just marked you — for everyone to see. Holy fuck.
You only sigh in respond, but you do it so prettily. Jungkook’s brain tangles, and he no longer sees straight. He forgets all about rutting into you like an animal in heat, and suddenly drops to his knees without warning. Jungkook shoves you further onto the trunk, the sound of it squeaky and humorous, but not enough for him to snap out of his trance.
When met with the new view before him, he whimpers. There’s no other way to explain it — Jungkook whimpers at the sight of your bare cunt.
Porn can’t compare, Jungkook knows this now. God why has he held himself back for so long, why hasn’t he been met with the real deal before now? Or is it just you? Is it just you and your perfect, soft, wet, glittering pussy? Jungkook has nothing to compare this to (other than the on-screen vaginas he has seen before), but he can confidently say this is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.
He releases a moan that carries your name, eyebrows lifting high on his forehead. And what really seals the deal is when he feels your fingers in his hair. He looks up at you with big eyes, almost breaking in half when he sees the flush on your cheeks, how you press your lips together in order not to let out any sound.
Jungkook realizes, while sitting down on his knees in front of your parted legs and dripping cunt, that he has no idea how to do this. He’s a fast learner, and he usually excels at everything he tries — but this is human anatomy. What if he’s awful? What if you don’t like it? He would never want to disappoint you, and he would most of all want you to feel good — to make you cry, scream, beg for him to keep going, beg for him to stop.
His eyes give away all his questions before he even has to ask. You lick down on your lips, caressing his scalp as your fingers play with his soft hair.
“Kookie, just—” you say in between a breath, almost like you know exactly what’s going on inside his head. “Just start out with a kiss—okay?”
Okay, he can do that. He gives you one single nod, his eyes tripling in size before he looks back down on the meal before him. Before actually kissing it, he moves his hand, letting his knuckles drag experimentally through your wetness.
To his surprise, you twitch before him, letting out a whimper. And even more surprising is what Jungkook sees before him — the white slick that leaks from you. His lips part instinctively, and his mouth waters. Is this all for him? Is he doing this to you?
Jungkook leans in, feeling your fingers tighten in his hair as he closes in on your wetness. And slowly, he closes his eyes, parts his lips even further, and kisses the soft, beautiful nub that crowns your mound.
Holy fuck.
Your hips jerk upwards, but there’s no use. Jungkook has just gotten the taste of something life altering. His eyes open, still kissing down on your clit, and like clockwork — he plants another kiss there.
“Oh my—fuck,” you moan as you breathe out, fist closing around a big chunk of Jungkook’s silky hair.
Is this what he has been missing out on this entire time? Is he a fucking idiot? Is this what he has been giving up — and for what? To play video games, get drunk and sing karaoke with his friends, refusing to get laid? What a fucking dumb idiot he is.
Now that he’s here, he gets drunk off you. Absolutely hammered.
His hands push both your knees to the side, spreading you further apart, and he dives in yet again. This time, he does exactly like when kissing you — rolling his tongue out, this time letting it catch in your clit. He realizes this might not be such a poor method, as your writhe before him whenever he nudges the wet nub.
“Jesus—Jungkook, right there.”
Dingdingding — jackpot.
He flattens his tongue, delving down and lapping at you like a parched animal. His hands spread apart your legs, fingertips digging into the supple flesh of your thighs as he goes — to — town.
Nothing has ever tasted this good before. Your juices have Jungkook’s mind going hazy, his thoughts wiping out. His eyebrows curl together low on his forehead, concentrating to the fullest as he eats you out with the sole purpose of his own pleasure. Because it tastes so fucking good. Where have you been all this time?
Your clit twitches on his tongue, and you try scooting away from his mouth, but Jungkook’s strong hands pin you down against the car.
A moan gets caught in your throat. “Mrph—Jungkook, oh my god—you’re doing s-so good.”
The praise flies right above Jungkook’s head. He can’t hear or see shit. He wishes he could do what all the guys do in porn — lock eyes with you and map out every single one of your reactions, your pretty facial expressions. But he’s too far gone to be doing all that. You taste too fucking good.
More and more juices keep leaking from you, covering his tongue as he messily eats away at you. He drags his tongue lower, gathering your slick purely because of its sweet taste, but suddenly gets a feel of a pulsating, sopping hole.
He moans against your pussy at the new discovery, mapping out the hole with the tip of his tongue. It keeps spasming, keeps pulsating, and Jungkook’s expression only grows more concentrated when experimentally dipping the tip of his tongue into your wet center.
Your head lolls back in pleasure, and you tug on Jungkook’s hair. You’re so incredibly taken aback by Jungkook’s skillful use of tongue, eyes rolling to the back of your head as he slowly lets the thick muscle sink into your core. “Yes—yes, Jungkook—oh my god.”
Oh my god is right — because with where Jungkook’s tongue is buried now, he can taste all of you. His brows furrow even further, similar to the expression he makes when eating great food, and he slowly lets his tongue curl inside you, mapping out every single inch of your insides. It’s all so wet, so warm, and your sweet slick covers his entire face. His chin is dripping with your juices, and he’s nearly suffocating on your cunt. But it’s all good — Jungkook would happily choke and die here.
As Jungkook retracts his tongue, you jump at the sensation. But he needs more, he needs to savor the taste of you. His arms move, curling around your thighs, and he shoves you against his face — his tongue entering you once again as his nose presses against your clit.
“Kookie—please—” you cry out, causing Jungkook’s eyes to search for yours, afraid he might’ve done something wrong. And as your eyes meet, Jungkook’s cock jumps in his shorts.
The corner of your eyes, the top of your sweet cheeks, are covered in tears. Wet, glittering, beautiful tears that Jungkook wishes he could lick away. But his tongue might be a bit busy at the moment. Jungkook waits for you to catch your breath, continue speaking, and he watches the way your belly moves up and down, how you’re panting.
You caress his scalp again, his hair, twirling it around in your grip. The look on your face is nothing short of pleading, and Jungkook believes he can come right here and now.
“Please—” you continue. “Fuck me with your tongue. Fuck me s-so good.”
Point taken.
Jungkook waits no more time, always following orders, and starts doing as told — fucking you dumb with his tongue.
It retracts, pushes back in, repeat — repeat. When diving back in, he buries his big nose right onto your pretty clit, shaking his head a bit just to make your thighs shake. He loves when your thighs shake. He wants more of it. And they shake so beautifully, spasm so perfectly, whenever he rubs against your highpoint. So thinking no more of it, he presses a thumb against it, flicking over the sensitive area until you can do no more but cry out his name into the summer night.
He wants you to break. Wants you to feel as helpless as he has been feeling for the past days. He wants you trembling on his tongue. And if the sounds you are producing are anything to go by — he’s almost there.
Once feeling your thighs clamping around his head, his hands go back to pulling you further apart for him, and Jungkook’s tongue again finds your clit. The muscle has gone all slick and wet, more than before, and he uses it to repeatedly flick over the nub until you writhe against his face.
“Fuck I’m gonna—” you start, breathing heavily as Jungkook won’t give up on stimulating your clit. He uses only the tip of his tongue, flicking fast over it, causing you to tug on his hair. “Oh my god please don’t stop!”
He won’t stop — he’s not fucking brain dead. He’s hungry, starving, loving the sweet, perfect taste of you. And trying to down it even further, he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking on it in order to drink you up completely. His tongue rolls with the suction, working over the nub until you can’t take it anymore. He lets go only once, in order to come up for air and gasp, but he quickly delves in again.
You break in half.
Your whole body locks, and even as Jungkook keeps you spread open for him, your thighs try clamping around him. You clench your fist in his hair, the other hand slamming down on the trunk, and you call out his name in a row of beautiful moans.
As you come, Jungkook loses it completely. It’s the most wonderful thing he has ever experienced, and as you spasm in his grip, on his tongue, he just continues sucking. He won’t give this up — he wouldn’t give this taste up for anything in the world. So Jungkook sucks, moans, pants, acting out on pure instinct as you fall apart for him.
But you try getting him to ease up, try pushing him away — something Jungkook won’t have.
“Jungkook—fuck, stop—oh my god,” you say between moans, head lolling back in pleasure filled pain. One of your feet come up to Jungkook’s shoulder, desperately trying to kick him off. Your back arches, and you try and try and try, but Jungkook won’t let up.
He knows you like this — knows you love it. Because why else would your core keep pulsating, clenching around nothing, producing more sweet juice for Jungkook to lap at?
“Please, Kookie—for fucks sake, s-stop.”
You yank his head back with the fist curled up in his hair, causing Jungkook to finally give your clit a rest, hissing as you’ve hurt his scalp.
As he looks up at you, finds your eyes, he gasps. The tears have now fallen completely, covered your entire face, some small droplets still creasing in the corners of your eyes. You look so pretty when you’re fucked out. How is that even possible?
His chest moves up and down as he finally comes up for air, arms still wrapped around your thighs. When drinking in the state of you, he starts worrying the tears might be a bad thing, that he hurt you. That you kicked him off because he hurt you — and he never meant to do that. He would never, ever hurt you.
The words tumble out of his mouth. “Wha—what—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry did I hurt you?”
Still trying to catch your breath, you thankfully give him a smile. You ease the hand tangled in his hair and let it move to his mullet. “Awh—aw no, you’re so sweet,” you say, caressing him as he looks up at you like a lost puppy. “It’s just—it’s sensitive. That’s just how it is for girls. For everyone, Kookie. You did nothing wrong. You did so—so good.”
Jungkook lets out a big sigh, suddenly feeling that his chin is starting to grow cold. He let’s the back of his hand meet the skin there, noticing how slick it is, and wipes it off at once.
“Okay, that’s good. I’m happy I did good,” he answers awkwardly, now unsure of where to put his hands. He lets them find rest on his knees, rubbing down on them while his eyes drown in yours.
You tilt your head to the side, give him a comforting smile and reach for him with grabby hands. “Look—come here.”
He does as told, rising to his feet and lets your hands find his soft cheeks. You pull him in for a kiss, quick and playful pecks that move from his lips, to his chin, to his jaw.
“You’re a mess now, Jungkook.”
“It’s okay—I kinda like it,” he says in a whisper, closing his eyes in pure bliss as your kisses move further down, finding his neck.
You’re sensitive. You just told him you’re sensitive. That all girls are — even boys. So his hopes drop just a tiny bit.
Maybe he won’t get laid tonight, maybe that will have to wait. It might be sad, but Jungkook at least got a taste of something borderline perfect. He got to drink you in, make you cry. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it. Maybe he can ask to do this every day. Wouldn’t you like that? It’s at least his new favorite thing ever, or at least top three.
As his thoughts run wild, his breath suddenly leaves him.
Because you push yourself further into him, all the while you’re kissing and licking down on his neck, tongue swirling over his Adam’s apple, feeling the way it bobs when Jungkook swallows hard at the new sensation. The feel of your bare, sopping pussy pressing ever so gently over his still hard and clothed cock.
Jungkook has never been this hard in his life. He bets his balls have turned blue, maybe even purple.
He gives your name in a low breath, “We don’t—ah—we don’t have to…” You grind into him once more, a moan getting caught in his throat.
“Jungkook, take off those shorts now.”
Holy fuck this is happening. Holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck.
Wait — aren’t you sensitive? Whatever that means.
Jungkook doesn’t care right now, he wants to feel you. Correction — he wants to fuck you. Deep. Fuck you until Taehyung and Sara can hear, until they rush out to see why you’re screaming, see if you’re being attacked or killed, only to find out you have Jungkook’s cock shoved so deep inside you that your stomach shows the outline of him. Until you can’t fucking think, speak or walk.
Something like that, at least.
Anyways, Jungkook spends no more than two seconds in his ruined shorts. He pulls them off so hurriedly that you can’t help but laugh. There’s really no time to take notice of the wet patch in his Calvin Klein’s as he pulls them down just as past as the pants. Both stay bunched on his thighs, just enough for his cock to spring free.
When it does, when he’s bared to you, a sound nothing short of a gasp leaves you.
He’s thick, long, big — and most of all leaking. The tip of him has gone dark red, flushed and angry, precum seeping from his slit every so often. And upon seeing him, your mouth waters — and you’re quite literally gagged.
“Okay… alright—wow.” You tuck loose strands of hair behind your ears, your cheeks growing warmer by the second.
Jungkook takes this the wrong way, suddenly a bit embarrassed by how hard he is. “Uh, yeah—well, sorry it’s just—I’ve never—”
“Fuck Kookie—you’re so big.”
Oh. Oh, that’s why your jaw is slacking. Jungkook can’t help but smile, his embarrassment turning into pride. He feels snug as a bug, actually. He can live with this. A pretty girl just gasped at the size of him.
“You’re gonna have to take it slow, okay Kookie? You think you can do that for me?” you ask with a gentle voice, bracing your arms behind you on the trunk as you spread your legs again, now even further to accommodate the size of him.
Jungkook nods fast and a lot. Okay, he’ll be careful. He’ll take it slow. No problem.
You’re still so wet, you still look so sweet, and Jungkook could possibly come just by looking at your sopping cunt. But that’s what porn is for. He has the real deal now, and he has to bury himself inside you by yesterday.
Taking a single step forward, Jungkook reaches for his cock, but is pleasantly surprised that your smaller hand takes his place.
He uncontrollably whines at the feel, your grip gentle but commanding, wrapping around the girth of him in order to angle his hard on directly to your entrance. You tease for a bit, letting the leaking head of him just get a feel of you first.
“Oh my fuck holy fuck,” Jungkook gasps, even more precum slipping out of him as you drag the tip through your puffy folds, letting it catch in your clit. That last part has even you moaning, eyebrows creasing as your jaw goes slack.
“Fuck—feels so good, Kookie.”
“Yeah?” he asks in an embarrassingly high pitch, eyes locking with how his cock slips through your wetness. He leans further forward, both hands going to your waist, caressing you before finding shelter on your ass. Jungkook grabs two handfuls of your flesh and starts kneading, his cock almost exploding when you slowly drag it through your pussy once again. “Ah—yeah? Feels good?”
“Feels so good Jungkook, just—just take it slow, okay?”
Fuck okay, okay he has to take it slow — he needs to take it slow. He can’t come right away, he just can’t. That’ll be too embarrassing.
“Okay I’ll take it slow—I’ll be good, I’ll be—I’ll be so good,” Jungkook whines, eyes darting up to search for yours. He drowns in them immediately, how pleading they look, and immediately forgets all about his promise.
He leans in for a deep kiss, and uncontrollably ruts forward, his cock once again sliding through your pussy, this time a bit more awkwardly, a bit messily. You gasp against his lips, but immediately reroute his shaft, pressing the head of him directly against your entrance. And with a deep breath, a wet kiss, Jungkook pushes forward.
Jungkook whines out a deep moan of your name traced upon his lips, a moan that comes from low within his chest, maybe even all the way down from his stomach. He feels every single wet wall of yours pulsating and clenching around his skin — the feeling something he has no way to put into words.
Do people really do this? Do people have access to this daily? Is this what Taehyung and Sara keep doing every single day?
Suddenly, Jungkook wants a girlfriend. Or maybe just to fuck everything. Everyone. Or maybe it’s just you. Maybe it’s just your pussy that has him acting this way. Because there is no fucking way, absolutely no fucking way.
“Jesus—oh my fucking god—feels so fucking good,” Jungkook moans hoarsely, pushing even further in, slowly (as you’ve told him), until he is completely bottomed out. “Ah—holy fuck.”
He buries himself balls deep inside you, his head falling to your shoulder the moment he’s all the way in. You comfort him despite the harsh fit of him inside you, hugging him tightly against your chest while drawing circles with your nails on his muscly back.
Jungkook’s entire body shudders against you, and he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to move even if he tries. But he feels you pulsate around him, and you feel so warm, so plush. He has to move.
You’re so wet he almost slips out of you when retracting, holding onto your ass cheeks for his dear life in order not to come right away. And as he pushes further in, you moan so prettily that he has to shut his eyes. He wishes he could watch what’s happening, look at how your juices covers his abdomen, but he can’t. He just has to pray to every god out there that he won’t come.
“You’re so big baby—mrph—take it slow,” you whimper, placing a kiss on the soft skin behind his ear.
Baby. You called him baby.
Alright that’s it — pound time.
Jungkook moans at the pet-name, retracting from your heat then surging forward, not caring even a bit about taking it slow. Fuck taking it slow — he needs you screaming. Crying again.
And you do, loudly. When Jungkook sets a mean pace, you scream out over his shoulder, burying wet eyes in the crook of his neck. Your whole body jumps with every thrust of Jungkook’s hips, and he lets out animalistic noises every time he feels you clench around him. He might be a bit too big for you — he feels that — as the fit is so unbelievably snug that Jungkook’s vision almost wipes clean out.
Fuck, he has to swallow his moans. He needs to silence himself — focus.
One of the hands squeezing your ass tumbles upwards, searching for your chest. He reaches for the fabric of your dress, happy to find you’re not wearing a bra, and simply just rips. The dress tears, the seams hanging loose across his tattooed fingers — but at least your tit pops out.
Jungkook’s eyes widen. He has never seen such a pretty breast. So perky, round, such a cute nipple. Bite-sized.
He wraps his lips around it without thinking twice and sucks for dear life.
You cry out, biting down on Jungkook’s ear in hopes of something. What it is, neither you or Jungkook knows. But you bite and suck when Jungkook bites and sucks, your moans breaking with every pound that Jungkook’s heavy cock bestows upon you.
“Fu—uu—uuck Jungkook!” you whine, resting your head above Jungkook’s, letting one hand find his hair again. You seem to have a habit of tugging and pulling on his hair — something Jungkook loves. And he loves your pretty tits. He loves the taste of your nipple. He loves the taste of your pussy. He loves your pussy. Maybe he should tell you this?
“Love this fucking pussy,” he mindlessly rambles while biting down on the peak of your tit, sweat dripping from his forehead. Jungkook slams his hips into you, his cock buried to the hilt inside you, but only for a mere second before sliding out — then right back in. If one can get drunk of pussy, Jungkook is exactly that. Pussy-drunk, and heavily that is. His breathing goes ragged, and he thrusts into you like a madman, not even letting you get a single word out. So he fills the silence himself.
“Love this pussy—how tight it is. How tight you feel around my cock. How it fits my cock perfectly, taking me like the slut you are.”
You clench the moment the word slut leaves his mouth.
Jungkook looks up at you, still near your tit, having left your nipple wet with spit. “You like that, huh? Me calling you slut?”
Apparently two can play this game. Jungkook isn’t even allowed to play big-shot for even a minute, as you suddenly pull on his hair, make him meet your eyes and bare his neck for you.
“Awh, that’s cute,” you purr, trying to keep yourself from moaning his name. Jungkook tries stealing glances, searching for a way to ogle at your tits bouncing with the force of his thrusts, but you make him look up at you. “Try not to cum right away, Kookie—can you do that? Even with how wet I am for you? H-how my pussy sucks you in so greedily?”
Your words might be a bit broken, a bit breathy with the way you’re taking his cock — but they send shivers down Jungkook’s spine.
His pace wavers for a second, but he snaps right back into it as he feels his balls tightening. Fuck — what a bad timing to come. He can’t come. Fuck, he can’t look at you, watch you like this. You look so flushed, so unbelievably fucked out. And it’s all because of him — this is his doing.
Jungkook closes his eyes and lets his head loll back, trying to uphold the thrusts but also not spurt into you after only a couple of minutes. But as his neck stretches before you, you lean into him, flinging your arms over his shoulder while whispering sweet nothings in his ear.
“I know you w-wanna cum, Kookie,” you whisper in a seductive tone, moaning so prettily when Jungkook slams into you repeatedly. “Know you wanna cum so bad—fill me up so nice. Have me dripping all over Tae’s car. Wouldn’t you like that? Have your cum so deep inside me, make me cry all over again? Huh, Kookie?”
A load and deep moan rips from Jungkook’s throat, spilling out into the free air above him. He wants to come so bad. He wants to fill you up so nicely. And right now, he can’t exactly think straight. He bets that he’ll be crossed if he looks back at you. So he keeps his head up, jaw slacking as he slams into you again and again and again.
Apparently, that last slam hits a spot you like. A spot you really like. You gasp, choking on a moan, before searching for Jungkook’s lips. Dear mother of god — Jungkook likes that. He likes that very much, he has to hit that spot again.
And he does, again, and again until you cry out into his mouth. All you can produce are long, incoherent rows of his name as Jungkook hits your sweet-spot repeatedly. Fuck, the noises are too good. Your pussy is too tight. Your lips are too soft. And it’s all too much when you suddenly start clenching, gasping for air as your body spasms in Jungkook’s grip. Fuck — your pussy is milking him dry.
With two final, deep thrusts, Jungkook buries his cock to the hilt, a long and rough moan tearing from his throat and spilling into your parted lips. The two of you gasp for air as thick ropes of Jungkook’s cum spills inside of your warm pussy. Now this is the hardest Jungkook has ever climaxed. The spillage just won’t stop, and he continues leaking, white and milky contents seeping out of your spent cunt, covering Jungkook’s abdomen.
He lets his head find your chest, forehead resting against your skin as he catches his breath. As his eyes open, he’s met with the view of his own cum dripping out of your pussy, spilling onto his own cock. Fuck, he fills you up so perfectly. Looks like he’s made to be there.
As the two of you come down from your high, you start caressing Jungkook’s scalp, the back of his neck. It has him shivering, your fingernails long enough to cause a slight tickle.
“Holy shit—th-that was the best thing ever,” he embarrassingly admits, breathing hot against your chest. He suddenly remembers ruining your dress, whining at the sight. “Ah—shit—I’m sorry about your dress—fuck.”
You giggle, finally, after so long he finally hears that beautiful giggle. “That’s all good.” With trembling fingers, you play with his hair, still shuddering after your orgasm. You let out a content hum, breathing through your nose. “You’re so cute.”
“I’m not cute—don’t say that.”
As your fingers move, both your hands come to cup his cheeks. You pull his head off your chest and force him to look you straight in the eyes before planting a soft kiss on his lips. “Unfortunately you are, Jungkook. You are really cute.”
The next kiss is just as soft, and neither of you feel the need to use tongue, to act lustful. It’s just a simple kiss. Just a soft, simple kiss. But Jungkook’s cheeks turn pink, and he shuts his eyes while breathing through his nose, kissing you still.
And there you stay for a while, still messy and locked, with Jungkook’s cock buried inside your warm heat, letting it soften as his cum seeps from your entrance. You’ve been loud enough for Taehyung and Sara to take notice of it — but Jungkook is guessing that they’re good enough friends to not break anything off. Even though you just fucked a girl on the trunk of Taehyung’s car.
That’s a worry for another time.
The worry comes earlier than excepted.
Jungkook slept in his own bed last night — but so did you.
After tearing each other apart on Taehyung’s car, Jungkook offered to carry you inside as your legs had stopped working and your dress was completely ruined. You of course let him do so, stealing tiny kisses from him as he carried you bridal-style all the way to the second floor. But you whined the moment he started walking towards your room, and demanded to sleep in his bed. When Jungkook tried knocking some sense into your head — telling you it would be best if the two of you kept a low profile — you simply laughed in his face.
You slept in his arms the entire night. It was a bit warm (or extremely sweaty, actually) and you tried to push Jungkook away numerous of times, but the attempts were all unsuccessful. Jungkook’s big arms caged you in, and when you tried wiggling away he locked you against his warm body by curling a thick thigh around you.
The sounds he made when sleeping bordered on soft purrs, and he believed he had never been a happier man. He just had sex. He just had sex with a beautiful girl and now she’s sleeping in his bed. He could dance, probably, but he was a bit too tired. So he optioned for the next best thing — falling asleep to your breathing.
But the happy, giddy illusion was all shattered when the door busted open in the morning.
Taehyung stands with fiery eyes in the doorframe, hair wild and everywhere.
He and Sara had apparently went to bed the second you slipped away from the dinner, and fell fast asleep with no worries in mind. They hadn’t even heard the fact that you guys had been fucking like animals outside.
But the problem has creeped up on Taehyung now, as he just went outside into the driveway, ready to take his car for a spin before going to the gym — when he was met with a big, melting stain of old cum on the back of the trunk. As well as a big mess of spilled groceries, wet ice cream seeping into the black and hot tires of his car.
“I hope the two of you had a great time last night, and I’m happy the plan worked, blah blah blah—whatever,” Taehyung hisses, curling his lips inward and jerking his neck. “If that car isn’t cleaned within ten minutes, I’ll castrate Jungkook and send you off to boarding school, miss.”
You apologize immediately, covering yourself with Jungkook’s blanket, looking over at him for any signs of embarrassment, remorse, confusion. But you find none, since Jungkook simply nods, bearing a big, teethy smile.
As Taehyung leaves the room, you turn to Jungkook yet again. He doesn’t seem to have noticed anything weird in Taehyung’s words.
Until he does.
His eyebrows crease low on his forehead, and he turns his head to you slowly. “Uh—plan?”
You let out an awkward giggle, scratching the back of your head. “Okay—don’t be angry with me,” you start, tumbling over your words. “But we kinda planned everything. For me… to you know… sleep with you.”
Mhm. Okay.
Jungkook doesn’t give a fuck at all. Not a single fuck. He just had sex last night. He just had great, fucking, mind-blowing sex. Who cares about Taehyung’s car? Who cares if it was all a plot?
Without even answering, Jungkook leans in with slender eyes, smiling as he kisses you. You on the other hand look confused, not really understanding why he’s not more riled up. You don’t really kiss him back, you just sit still. However, your heart does a weird little flip. Your head tells it to stop, but somehow… it just doesn’t.
And Jungkook keeps his blissful energy, humming contentedly against your lips. The world is all butterflies and rainbows. The world is beautiful, and so are you.
jungkook is a virgin, a big one, and believes he might not be all that interested in the act. but as he finds himself stuck with you at taehyung’s summerhouse — his body seems to be reacting strangely to yours.
⭒ pairings. jeon jungkook x female reader
⭒ word count. ish 18k
⭒ tags & warnings. summerlovin, smut, virgin!koo, sub!koo, switch!koo, i’m afraid of flagging so the smut will be sort of like unwrapping a gift on christmas day lmao (but just know there’s a creampie on the way)
notes. this is just a written fantasy i came up with as i rewatched ays season one. notice the shirt jungkook is wearing during the smut… does it sound like a familiar look? mehehe. also, i love me a subby koo. if he ain’t pussydrunk i don’t want him. wrote this in two days so eat up this slop girlies <3 also banner by @voyter who is my wife.
It has been twenty years. Jungkook has been alive for twenty years. And during these twenty years, he has never once had sex. Not even once. This cannot be stressed enough. Twenty years. Two whole decades.
But, oh well — there’s a tiny, insignificant detail that might be the reason behind this. Jungkook believes he might not be interested in sex, like at all.
In his defense, it has been twenty years. Twenty years of Jungkook not being all too excited about the thought of touching someone of the opposite sex. He once asked his close friend Jimin (who had dabbled a bit), if this might mean that he’s gay. Jimin responded with a snicker that left Jungkook at unease, but followed it up by telling him it might just be the strange way Jungkook’s brain moves.
Because his brain is strange. He’s a restless boy, an overachiever, excelling at everything he does. And Jungkook does do everything. He plays the piano, he cooks, he dances, he paints, he writes, he plays video games, and he can’t keep still for more than a minute. And for some reason, he seems to be interested in every single hobby except for the one that involves sweaty bodies merging together after a night out.
He got a handjob once. That’s something, at least.
It was while he was still in high school, this very lovely girl named Hana, who he had been partnered up with for a science project. She invited him over to her house, while her parents were still home, and jumped his bones the second the door to her bedroom was shut.
But Jungkook couldn’t get a hard on. Because he was actually thinking of the science project the entire time. Who in their right mind, as a seventeen year old boy, would be worrying about school while getting their belt unbuckled by a beautiful girl?
She told her girlfriends about his softie, something that lead them to believe he was gay too.
And after that mishap, he has not only been extremely nervous about putting himself in a similar position again — but he has simply stopped seeking out girls. He goes to clubs with his friends, joins whatever party he’s invited to, but he never really takes notice of the girls that are around.
Even though he can appreciate their beauty, he just doesn’t feel like he has it in him to do anything about it. It’s too nerve wracking. Also, he looks very intimidating.
Tall, dark, handsome, tattooed — everything the girls on Love Island and Single’s Inferno believe they’re looking for. But when it comes to it, they sheep out. He just kind of looks like a guy who could break their hearts with a snap of his fingers. So everything seems to be working against him.
But that’s alright. He doesn’t care about that. He has better things to tend to. Like the trip he’s going on with Taehyung. To his parents’ beach house, which strangely enough also has a pool.
It’s just for them to blow off some steam, to cool off before the semester starts up again. They haven’t invited anyone else, and they’re just staying there for a long weekend — Thursday through Sunday. A very relaxed vacation. A place for them to swim, cook food, drink some beers, play video games.
But as Jungkook and Taehyung pull up into the driveway, the idyllic, solo-weekend is shattered instantly. For Jungkook, at least.
“What the fuck—that’s Sara’s car.” Taehyung tries to mask the grin on his face as he notices Jungkook’s obvious disappointment. His poker-face isn’t all that great, and he actually manages to roll his eyes upon seeing Taehyung’s girlfriend’s shiny Mercedes.
Taehyung bumps his shoulder, parking the car next to his girlfriend’s. “Hey, don’t sulk. She’s probably just here to steal some of my mom’s wine again.”
“You let her do that?” Jungkook huffs, sinking further into his seat, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. He just can’t help it but pout.
With a jerk of his neck, Taehyung tongues the corner of his mouth. “With tits like that I let her do anything.”
They throw their bags over their shoulders before heading for the entrance door, stopping in their tracks as they hear muffled laughter coming from the other side of the house. The side where the outdoor pool is located.
Jungkook throws his head back, obviously frustrated that there’s even more people here.
Instead of taking the front door, they snake around the house, walk across the grass until they reach the pale cobblestone that surrounds the pool, the dining table, the sun-beds.
There stands Sara, drenched in water from head to toe, only wearing a tiny bikini. Her feet are just about to lift from the ground and head for the pool, but as she sees Taehyung, they take on a new journey. She shrieks, running over to her boyfriend, throwing herself over his shoulders without caring if his shirt gets drenched. Jungkook catches some of the droplets too, landing in his eyes. He pouts yet again.
“Finally—oh my god we’ve been waiting forever!” she cries out, lathering him in kisses. Jungkook thinks he might vomit. Also, who’s ‘we’?
Taehyung places both hands on her waist, letting his bag slip from his shoulder. He laughs for a minute, kissing her back, before he looks at her with a mildly confused expression. “That’s so… Sara sorry, wha—what are you doing here?”
As Sara answers, Jungkook hears something moving in the water. He turns his head away from the disgusting couple, and lets his eyes fall to the silhouette getting out of the pool.
His lips part the moment he sees your face.
You let two hands run over your head, brushing back the wet hair while stepping up on the steal ladder. The fabric of your bikini clings to your wet, glistening skin, and the line between your legs has itched its way dangerously deep inside your cheeks.
Jungkook gulps. For some reason. His eyes widen. For some reason.
He has met numerous of Sara’s friends. A bunch of times, actually. But he can’t seem to recognize you. Maybe that’s because his eyes are now fixated on your breasts, how full they look in that tight bikini — but he’s still sure that he has never seen you before.
When was the last time he saw a girl in such little clothing? Except for in porn, or Sara just now. He can’t seem to remember it. And if he can’t remember it, it might’ve just not made such an impression on him.
But you did. For some reason.
Sara calls out your name as you step onto the stone and walk towards the three others. You have such a pretty name, it’s so fitting. Jungkook’s ears go red. Why do they do that? Has that ever happened before?
His tattooed hand, the one free of his bag, goes to the piercings in his ear. He fiddles with them as he watches you walk across the floor, not really sure where to look. He options for your feet, something that might not make him feel all that weird inside.
Your toenails are neatly polished, trimmed. And they look so tiny against the stone. Compared to your body, they look proportional — of course — but they look so tiny now. And cold… why do you have so many goosebumps spread across your skin? Are you cold?
“Come meet my boyfriend and his boyfriend!”
Jungkook snaps his head back to glower at Sara. She giggles in return, slapping a lazy palm over his chest. As the hand meets his t-shirt, his skin, he suddenly realizes how sensitive he has grown. Sensitive to touch. He clears his throat, looking down at his own feet as he listens to the wet sound of your feet padding across the floor.
You stretch out a hand, confidently, making Jungkook’s eyes dart up again.
“Nice to meet you.”
Is that a real voice? It sounds like an audio recording, one of those that supposedly put you to sleep. He looks at your hand with big eyes, almost like he’s from a different planet and has never encountered this kind of greeting before. So you giggle.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” You retract it, tilting your head to the side. “You don’t wanna touch me now that I’m all wet, do you?”
Jesus fucking christ.
Apparently, as told by Sara, you were her new roommate in college. The two of you had gotten close before even starting the new semester, meeting up during summer break to start your new friendship. Which is when Sara had the brilliant idea of bringing you along to Taehyung’s summer house.
She knew all about Jungkook and her boyfriend’s plan — that they would stay until Sunday — which just seemed even more perfect. The perfect opportunity to wiggle you into her life, her social circle. If Taehyung loved you, Sara would love you even more.
Jungkook wasn’t taken into consideration here. He is quite introverted, has a hard time making new friends, but Taehyung is so comfortable around him. And if Taehyung is comfortable, if he is already in a good mood around his best friend — he will for sure take a liking to you.
What she didn’t expect was for Jungkook to like you the most. This came as a shook for him too.
He packs out his bag, settling in his room, dragging stressed hands through his hair, pulling the fingers down to his mullet. His tongue finds his lip ring, playing with it as he debates ripping the strands straight out of his scalp.
He’s already so nervous around girls. Sara is different, but you are not. You just might be the prime example. Confident. Beautiful.
Why does his mind keep replaying your wet figure? Your gentle voice? How the bikini hugged you, how your waist curved inwards so beautifully, then outwards where your soft hips started.
The sight wrecked the poor boy.
It doesn’t help that you’re the one cooking dinner tonight.
He tried to avoid you when him and Taehyung got settled, and he managed. But it’s hard when he runs into you again, in the kitchen. When you stand there, cutting up pieces of pork ribs, wearing a see through, white gown. A new bikini underneath.
“I just—I’m just gonna grab a bottle.”
Jungkook reaches for the fridge, pulling the handle towards him while ignoring your eyes. It’s an easy task, as you actually don’t look at him and continue on with your cooking.
“Would you grab me one too?” you ask casually, still not looking at him.
He nods in response, realizing you can’t actually see it, but being too flustered to say yes out loud.
There’s only one bottle of water in the fridge. Except for the big Fiji one which has to be Sara’s. Jungkook gulps.
Without saying anything, he grabs the bottle and hands it to you. You’re occupied, he sees that, so he just places it on the counter, right by the cutting board.
As he’s about to leave, maybe go drink water from the pool, you speak again.
“Not thirsty after all?”
Jungkook closes a fist, opens it again, flexes his fingers. His mouth dries up, suddenly extremely parched.
“That’s alright,” he says simply, almost no volume to his voice. He gulps… again.
“I’m guessing there’s only one bottle—and you’re just being nice.”
Trying to stay cool, Jungkook starts walking away from you. “I’m not thirsty.”
“I only need a sip,” you call out before he’s able to exit the kitchen, still focusing on cutting the pork neatly. “You take the bottle—you’ve had a long drive. But I just need you to open the bottle for me.”
Jungkook thinks he’s about to burst into flames. It might be the heat, but the air-con is working perfectly fine. So he’s afraid it might be you. His back is facing you, and yours his. You’re not even looking at each other, but Jungkook can’t bring himself to answer. And he doesn’t want to force the bottle on you. And he is thirsty.
So he turns, walks back over to the counter where you stand so prettily, eyes immediately falling to your back. To your ass. The polkadot print of your bikini, which shines through your gown. How your cheeks look so plump, how they look so round, like a good handful each.
It feels invasive. He looks away, eyes going to the plastic water bottle.
“Could you open it?” you ask again, showing him a flat palm. “I have pork on my hands.”
Jungkook prays to god that you won’t ask him to feed you the water as well. But he does as you ask, without saying a word. He screws the lid off, handing you the uncapped bottle.
You take it with your free hand, the plastic looking so much smaller in your grip than in his. Your fingers wrap around it, and you bring the opening to your mouth. Surely you’ll waterfall it.
But you don’t. Your lips wrap around the bottle, touching it directly.
And Jungkook fucking dies. Inside, that is. His inner organs seem to be rearranging, his stomach turning. And a new, strange sensation appears. Similar to the one he gets while watching… porn.
Your throat bobs, your lips are closed perfectly around the opened cap, and you only take a few quick sips. No water drips down your chin, not like in cheap pornos. But as you let the bottle slip from you, you let out a sigh. A sigh that is music in Jungkook’s ears. Better than any home-made movie he has watched.
When finished, you put the pad of your middle finger to your lips, dabbing away what might be excess water. There is none, so Jungkook feels you’re doing this just to mess with him. You’re probably not, but it feels like it.
“Thanks,” you say as you hand him the bottle, and you look up at him. When your eyes meet his, Jungkook drowns. He tries looking away, but for some reason he can’t. Your eyes are shimmering, big and soft. Jungkook flicks his gaze back and forth from them, not knowing where exactly he’s supposed to be looking. He hasn’t even grabbed the bottle yet.
“Your turn,” you continue, waving the bottle in front of him. “Drink up.”
For you, he would do anything.
Jungkook takes the plastic from your hands, wrapping his larger fingers around the bottle. He didn’t brush against your skin, which is a plus, but he kind of wishes he did.
You continue looking at him as he takes the bottle in his hand. Expecting him to drink up.
Are your lips usually this plump, this soft? Do you always speak in this tone? How are you so comfortable wearing such a revealing gown? Is it because you know you look good?
A bit nervously, he puts the bottle to his own lips. He debates waterfalling the water himself, but is afraid you might think he doesn’t want your germs in his system. That’s not at all what this is, and he doesn’t want to come off as rude. So he copies you by wrapping his mouth around the plastic opening, tilting the bottle until water falls down his throat.
Jungkook, for that matter, is sloppy, and manages to spill. Two measly droplets fall from his mouth and land on his chin, dripping down until they reach his jaw. This is simply because you won’t look away.
It feels inherently sexual, whatever this is, something Jungkook can’t quite grasp. He has never been interested in such activities before, so why does he flush so easily just by knowing he’s under your eyes? He can feel his neck burning up with heat, his ears grow red. So he calls it quits, deciding to swallow one last time.
“Sara told me you’re single.”
Jungkook chokes on the water.
Jesus christ, why are you asking him this question? Why is that important? Why right now, as he coughs up the lost water particles in his throat, eyes widening with shock. He looks like a lost sheep.
Your lips curls into a small, almost unnoticeable smile. But Jungkook sees it, he notices everything you do, every small detail. This detail has him blushing. He removes the bottle from his mouth, coughs one last time and wipes away the droplets from his jaw. His tattooed hand moves from his chin, down his neck, trying to feel how warm it his. The pulse underneath his skin is spiking.
With a deep inhale he answers, still a bit sore. “Uh—yeah, uh I am.”
You huff out a breath. “I’d never guess.”
Returning to your cooking, you look away from him. You continue cutting the pork, tilting your head to the side. Like this would be a normal ending to your conversation.
Jungkook has no idea what he’s supposed to say. Does he look like the type of guy to be in a relationship? No one has ever told him that, they usually tell him the opposite. That he looks like the type of guy to never settle. That’s before getting to know him, of course. But upon first glance, yes — Jungkook does look like a hit and run type of guy. So what do you mean?
He asks you just that. “Huhwhatwhy?”
The words tumble out of him, desperate to receive an explanation.
“I don’t know—you seem sweet,” you answer, finishing the last piece of pork. You reach for the cabinet above your head, stretching tall on your tippy toes. As you do, the fabric of your gown clings to your skin, making it easier for Jungkook to see the soft shape of your ass through the see-through dress. He looks away immediately, trying to focus on your words instead. You continue while opening the cabinet, grabbing for a bottle of olive oil. “Like the kind of guy who has a girlfriend that’s a lot to handle.”
This analogy is completely foreign to Jungkook — he has no idea what it’s supposed to mean. Also, you just met him today, exchanged only a few words with him. How do you know he’s sweet? Are you just a good judge of character?
Jungkook rolls his shoulders once before answering, stretching his neck. “Oh, okay.”
There’s nothing more to add to that. He has no idea what you’re talking about. He has no idea what you mean. And he doesn’t want to tangle himself into an unknown world right now, he’s too hot, too sweaty, a bit too worked up. Because upon seeing the outline — the beautiful outline of your ass — there has grown a problem in Jungkook’s black, cargo shorts. The fabric is pliant enough to give it away. He has experienced boners in public before, but only the ones explained by hormones and puberty. The ones who arrive unannounced, without any encouragement. Boners are now usually something he only gets while watching porn, something he does maybe twice a week. Maybe once. So sporting a hard-on while standing next to a girl in little to no clothing seems like a violation, and he wants to bolt away as fast as possible.
He turns, ready to walk off.
“Does the description fit?”
Your words still him in an instant. His back is facing you again, but he hears a shift in your stance, knows you’ve turned around from the counter. He hears your gown move. Fuck. If he turns around, you’ll see the obvious tent in his shorts. The large bulge. Jesus christ.
He places his hands in his pockets, stretches the fabric out, looks down to check if it’s still visible. It is, but not as prominent as before. So he decides to turn one last time.
When he’s facing you, he gulps. The gown has slipped just slightly off one of your shoulders, revealing your collarbones and sun-warmed skin. You’re leaning against the counter now, crossing one ankle over the other while tilting your head to the side. Jungkook’s growing problem seems to be screaming in his shorts.
Trying not to seem like a total idiot, he answers before the silence stretches further. “I don’t know.”
“Mhm.” You nod, tilting your head to the other side. A single piece of hair falls from behind your ear and gets in your face, tickling your cheek. You don’t bother brushing it away, instead you take in Jungkook’s state of flush. His wide eyes, his tense posture.
“I think a girl like that would suit you, Jungkook.”
Jungkook went to bed before the others. They got a bit too drunk, and Jungkook kept looking at your tits in that gown, in that bikini. He was maybe too a bit drunk.
But when you suggested they would all go for a swim in the pool, get a feel of the summer night breeze, Jungkook was quick to depart. He told Taehyung he was a bit tired from all the food — food coma — and that he wanted a good night’s sleep after a long day of travel. No one really questioned this, and Jungkook was free to leave the table.
The walls are thin. The window is too, apparently. He can hear the others splashing around in the pool, shrieking, playing, laughing.
Most of all — he can hear your laughter. He hears it so well. Your giggle, the one that sounds like tinkling glass. He tries tuning out every sound, trying to wiggle himself to sleep, tossing and turning. But that only highlights your laugher, your voice. Jungkook swears he can hear your exact footsteps on the cobblestone. Because your feet are so small. They make the cutest sound.
While listening to you guys, he imagines what it looks like outside. When you’re playing, swimming.
The image of you getting out of the pool, greeting him, pops back into Jungkook’s mind. The bikini clinging to your skin, disappearing between the slit of your ass, your perfect round cheeks. The slightest bounce of your breasts when you walked over to him.
You don’t wanna touch me now that I’m all wet, do you?
Fuck. The problem is back.
He has no idea what you do to him, but it hurts. It feels like he’s about to explode… down there. The skin feels too tight over him, the muscle is pulsating. He tries to ignore it, turn to his side, block out your voice, your laughter from outside. But as he turns, it hurts again. So he tries thinking of anything else.
His own apartment. He’s in his own apartment. His mind drifts to the kitchen, for some reason.
Okay. Food is good. If he’s hungry, that’s usually all he can think of. Whenever he plans to jerk off, he sometimes has to stop mid act because he feels a rumbling in his stomach. Food comes first.
So he thinks of cooking. At home, in his kitchen. Standing there, boiling water on the stove. Waiting until the bubbles appear. He turns to the side, looking for the packet of ramyeon. But as his hand reaches out, it doesn’t go to the packet of noodles — it goes to the curve of your ass.
Why are you there?
In that see-through gown. In that same bikini underneath. You’re just standing there, watching him cook. And you let him feel you, let his large palm meet your ass, not even flinching or making a sound, like it’s completely normal. Actually, you push your ass back further, leaning down on the counter now, just watching the water boil.
His hand moves around, just feeling you. And it’s marvelous. Your skin is so plump, so soft, even through the gown.
Fuck — he’s back to square one. Why are you there, in his mind, while he’s actively trying to keep you out? Maybe it’s because your laughter is so much more prominent than the two others. Or maybe you’ve just managed to completely occupy him, never letting him think of anything else.
There’s only one thing that will make this problem disappear, and Jungkook grits his teeth while thinking about it. He has only ever jerked off to porn, never to anyone he knows in real life. Again, it feels too invasive.
But he knows porn won’t work this time. No, it’s you he thinks of, you who’s making him feel like this.
Jungkook’s arm drapes over his eyes as he slips the other hand in his boxers, almost as if that would block out the embarrassment of doing something like this. He lets his fingers trace the length of him, feeling how sensitive he has grown. He teases his own cock while listening to your laughter, eyes still buried where his forearm meets his bicep. Finally, he wraps his full hand around himself.
Pressing his lips together, he tries to imagine what you look like right now.
You’re still in that bikini. Maybe you’re sitting on the edge of the pool with your legs in the water. Maybe your hair is wet again, slicked back like earlier. Maybe you’re leaning forward while talking, elbows on your knees, looking up at the others with those soft eyes. Or maybe you’re leaning back, with straight arms, your stomach moving in and out as you breathe.
The vision causes Jungkook to squeeze his cock lightly, letting a breathy moan escape his lips. Your hips, your ass, spread out so nicely when you sit by the pool. The bikini only covers your most treasured parts. But he can imagine them anyways.
What you would look like with him. You are already so small compared to him. Wouldn’t it look bizarre if you were with him? Your small hands on him, his big hands on you. His long fingers removing your thong, kissing your skin while on his knees. He would kiss you everywhere. Leave you red with bitemarks.
Jungkook’s stomach tightens. Pleasure flows through him, and sweat starts to appear in his hairline. He bites down on the piercing in his lip, thumbing the slit of his cock to spread the beading precum over his head. The tip has grown so sensitive that he can’t help but gasp once touching it. He twists himself at the base, squeezing tightly as he pumps himself to the image of you.
Your perky breasts. How your nipples might look. How he would love to make them go hard, to see goosebumps appear on your skin. How he would love to kiss down on them, bite them, lick them, suck until you pulled on his hair. How your fingers would feel in his hair.
When thinking of pleasuring you, Jungkook has no idea how to do so, but imagines himself more experienced. Just in this dream scenario.
He knows porn is nothing to compare the real deal with, he has been told so numerous of times. But for now, it will do.
Jungkook sets a steady pace, whining as he feels his balls start to tighten.
If he had his hands on you, he would never let go. He wishes he knew how to make you beg. That he could kiss you, spread you open, give your most precious spot a harsh suck until stars appeared in your eyelids. That he could lap at you like a parched animal, even sink his tongue deep inside you, swirl it around.
You don’t wanna touch me now that I’m all wet, do you?
Oh, how he would love to touch you. How he would love to feel your wetness. Have his fingers in it, his tongue in it, bury his cock so deep in your wetness that you’d beg him to stop. You would look so beautiful with your eyes rolled back into your skull.
Imagining the noises you would make has him sweating more than ever before. He gasps when he imagines you gasping, he whines when he imagines you would do so. It’s a synchronized performance he’s playing out, and when he imagines your climax — he breaks in half.
Thick ropes of cum, more than he has ever produced before, spurt heavy out of his cock, leaving his boxers a white, sticky mess. He throws his head back against the headboard, shutting his eyes completely as he strokes himself through the orgasm. Jungkook feels he has just entered the gates of heaven. Never before in his life has he climaxed this hard before. An otherworldly experience — that’s what this was.
When Jungkook comes down from his high, he looks down at himself, at his ruined boxers, grimacing at the amount of cum.
That will have to do, he thinks. Tomorrow is Friday, meaning there is only really two days left. He can survive two days with you, but only at a distance. He’ll have to make sure you won’t rile him up again. He’ll have to avoid you.
Jungkook hates couples.
He hates Taehyng and he hates Sara. Why do couples need so much alone time? This was supposed to be Taehyung and Jungkook’s trip. So why is he being pushed away?
Better question — why is he being pushed into interactions with you?
“I’m just gonna fuck her in the pool—so can’t you guys go grocery shopping or something?” Taehyung begs, mirroring his friend’s pout.
Jungkook scoffs, crosses his arms over his chest while avoiding Taehyung’s eyes, acting like a sulky little kid. “No, I want to stay here.”
“But that’s not your decision, Kook.” Taehyung curls his lips together, speaking in a whisper. “This is my house—and I want to fuck my girlfriend in the pool.”
Fuck off.
Jungkook fastens his seatbelt, trying to ignore the scent of your perfume. It’s hard. Lilac, lilies, something like that.
You’re trying to pick out a song on your phone after connecting it to Bluetooth, mumbling under your breath. You can’t seem to land on anything, but you’ve forbidden Jungkook from pulling out of the driveway before you’ve found the perfect song. “What songs do you like, then?”
Everything about you makes Jungkook embarrassed after last night. He can’t even dare to look you in the eyes, let alone hear your voice. This shopping trip will be awful.
“Everything,” Jungkook answers simply, tapping the steering wheel with his index finger.
“Come on—just name a song!”
“Uh…” He has apparently forgotten every song ever. “Bennie And The Jets.”
The sound of tinkling glass reappears. The sweet sound of you giggling. “Alright—Bennie And The Jets it is.”
As you type the embarrassing song request into your phone, Jungkook starts driving. The car rolls down the long gravel path towards the main road, and he desperately tries ignoring your scent.
You smell like flowers, warm skin, summer. Every time the wind shifts through the cracked window, it carries your scent straight to him. It’s almost enough to make him puke. Or maybe cry. He dares to look at you for just a second. Look at the way your hair blows in the wind, how you play with a few strands between your fingertips. The fabric of your sundress moving in waves with the wind, just like your hair. Your gentle, slender neck, the soft flesh there. How he would love to feel you.
Jungkook hates grocery shopping now too, apparently. Walmart is too big, there are too many options. Sara has sent over a list for you guys to check off, but it’s so long that Jungkook is suspecting they’re just stalling you while the two of them have sloppy intercourse in the outdoors pool.
And your dress is too pretty. You’re too pretty. What the hell is Jungkook supposed to do?
He pushes the cart while walking behind you, trying not to stare too much. But the dress sways across your thighs, makes him think. His ears go red again.
“—And I want chocolate covered raspberries. And those cola lollipops. And some popcorn. And Ben&Jerry’s—” you continue. Your list is quite long, and it seems you’ve steered away from what Sara wants you guys to buy.
As Jungkook pushes along, he only thinks to himself: Anything for you.
“—Also I forgot my wallet.”
Again, he thinks: Anything for you.
You make him carry all the bags. It’s heavy, but Jungkook is strong. You bought an insane amount of groceries for such a small person (with Jungkook’s money, that is). He wonders how you’re planning to get it all down. If you’re evil enough, you bought all this just to watch Jungkook’s neck pop with veins as he carried it over the parking lot.
As you get to the car, you don’t even bother opening the trunk for him. You simply wait for him to unlock the door before you slip inside, hissing as the black seat has heated up.
You seem sweet. Like the kind of guy who has a girlfriend that’s a lot to handle.
Sure enough, you are a lot to handle.
The two of you haven’t been away for that long, probably about thirty minutes, but Jungkook hopes Taehuyng and Sara might be done with their session by the time you arrive. But as Jungkook gets in the car, you stop him before he turns the engine on.
“We have to go see the view point by the beach.”
Get away — Jungkook thinks — I don’t have to do anything. He brushes off the hand that you’ve placed on his, starting the engine anyways. Jungkook wants to go home. He wants to listen to music in his room, try to do anything besides thinking of you. You make his whole body warm, and he’s not sure if he likes it.
You gasp, making a grimace laced with disappointment. “You’re so mean!”
“I just wanna go home—I’m not mean.”
“Can’t we just—”
Jungkook cuts you off mid-sentence. “Your ice cream’s gonna melt.”
With a huff of air, you sink further and further into your seat. You don’t even bother putting on the seatbelt. Your eyes fall to the window beside you, ignoring Jungkook. But as Jungkook gives a quick side-eye, he notices how your lips have formed into a pout. How you look just like he did when he sat in that exact spot yesterday, realizing the trip with Taehyung wasn’t a solo one.
He starts driving, trying to not look at you too much. But you seem like you want him to talk, want him to say something, as you keep huffing and puffing out irritated small breaths.
“You’re pouting.”
You don’t answer. So Jungkook tries again, something a bit bolder that makes his heart race.
“You’re a lot to handle.”
A tiny smile appears on your face, but you try masking it by pursing your lips. It doesn’t work all that well, so you cover your mouth with tiny fingers, letting them play with your lips. It’s almost like you want Jungkook to crash the car, because as you fiddle with the plump flesh, Jungkook can’t help but look at it. How plush they look, how glossy. He bets they would feel good on him. Good wrapped around him. Or just against his own lips.
Jungkook’s mouth waters while his thoughts run wild. But as he continues driving, he notices that you still haven’t fastened your seatbelt. You might be sulking, but he can’t have you flying out the window in protest.
Without looking over, keeping his eyes on the road, he reaches over you, grabbing for the buckle. Quickly, he traps you in, securing the belt until he hears a ‘click’.
“How nice of you,” you mock, pitching your voice higher.
He keeps quiet for the rest of the ride. You don’t bother putting on music this time, and just stare at your phone. For some reason, Jungkook worries. He hopes you won’t get sick. That your stomach can handle the car ride as your eyes are glued to the screen. If you feel sick, you should just tell him. He’d pull over. In a heartbeat, actually. But you don’t say a word, so Jungkook doesn’t either.
When you pull into the driveway, Jungkook senses a smile on your face, just a tiny one. It seems like an evil one. So his neck goes red, his ears too.
As the engine shuts down, as Jungkook removes the keys and his belt, you stay still. He looks over at you, wondering, furrowing his brows as you keep looking straight ahead.
“Unbuckle.”
That’s all you say.
Jungkook gathers that you want him to unbuckle your seatbelt. Just like when he trapped you in, but in reverse this time.
He does as you tell him, pressing down until the belt flings open. As you’re freed, you turn in your seat, looking at him with narrow eyes. You skim over his face a couple of times, almost like you’re debating something. Jungkook can’t for the life of him understand what’s going on. His eyes are big and glossy compared to your glowering ones.
“Put your seatbelt on,” you demand, speaking in a low voice.
What are you doing?
There’s something about you that makes it hard for Jungkook to question your words, what you ask of him. So without second thoughts, he simply pulls his own seatbelt back on, staring at you with big wondering eyes the entire time.
You press your lips together, fighting laughter. But your eyes are still fierce, narrow in a way that makes Jungkook’s pulse spike.
“Unbuckle.”
Again.
Jungkook does as you say. With a click the belt pops open again, and Jungkook is still confused. But it’s like clockwork — whatever you say, Jungkook does. Except take you to the view point, apparently. He still doesn’t understand why he drew the line there.
As the belt flings open again, you let out a breath of air, bordering on a demeaning laughter.
“Why are you like that?”
“Like what?” Jungkook asks mindlessly, his voice gentle but breaking at the edges. You rile him up, but not so much now that he can’t take it. There’s more of a thrill to it. Something he can’t quite understand. But again… for some reason — he feels himself growing in his jeans. Horrible timing.
“You do everything I tell you to.” With your next smile, you bear a bit of teeth. You use them to bite down on your bottom lip, just the slightest, letting them bounce back as you release them. They look so soft, so plush.
Jungkook can’t be thinking about that right now. Not with what’s going on in his jeans. He actually can’t be here right now. Thank god the two of you have reached the house. Maybe he can just sit in the car and wait for it to pass, ask you to leave him alone for a minute. But then he would have to watch you walk away, ogle at the way your dress moves softly across your thighs.
That doesn’t seem like a good option either.
“I don’t do that,” he responds, shifting in his seat as he feels his whole body tighten. Maybe it’s the way you speak to him. Or maybe he likes being told what to do? Is that it? He hopes not, as that would be quite embarrassing.
As he shifts, your eyes unfortunately go to his pants. To the bulge that’s growing there. And Jungkook has watched enough porn to know that he’s big. It’s not easy for him to hide an erection, so as your eyes meet his crotch, he gathers you know what’s going on.
You give the bulge a devilish smile. “What’s going on down there?”
The fact that you’re so forward isn’t helping. Goosebumps cover Jungkook’s neck, and he jerks his head to the side giving you a small hiss in response. “Come on…”
“I knew I was right about you!” Your smile grows, and you lean forward a bit, resting a palm on your thigh. Jungkook can’t help but let his eyes follow your hand, where it meets the fabric of your dress. The outline of your thigh.
You giggle again, patting down on yourself almost like you’re clapping. “Jungkook—you’d love a fiery woman!”
This conversation is not happening.
Jungkook goes white, completely white. His face loses all color, and he looks at you with a pair of mortified, black orbs. Why are you so unfazed while talking about this — while Jungkook has an obvious boner in your presence? Because of your presence?
He lets one hand go to the fabric that has tightened around his crotch, trying to cover himself up. Your eyes follow immediately.
“Jungkook, I’m serious—it’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” you sigh, itching even closer. One of your legs crosses over the other, causing your dress to itch higher up on your thighs. The edge of the skirt is dangerously close to a part Jungkook definitely shouldn’t be watching in this state. Your hands fall into your lap. “If anything—it’s just flattering.”
With a shaky inhale, Jungkook closes his eyes, preparing to tell you off. He lets out your name with the next exhale, even more unsteady than last time. “Can’t we just please go inside?”
“You have to be more open minded.” You don’t pay attention to his erection anymore, instead you lock eyes with him, something that makes Jungkook even more nervous. He blinks over and over again, waiting for the moment to pass. Jungkook doesn’t know what’s more embarrassing — the fact that you’re so forward, or that the bulge in his jeans won’t seem to go down. His entire body tightens, his stomach turning. This is by far the strangest, most uncomfortable feeling he has ever felt.
You tilt your head to the side, lick your lips. “Do you need help, Jungkook?”
What?
I’m sorry — what?
Jungkook freezes. The corners of his eyes start watering, strangely enough. He blinks again, a few times more, trying to piece together the puzzle that is this conversation.
You can’t possibly mean what Jungkook thinks you do. That can’t be right. That would at least mean you’re teasing him, for whatever reason. He hopes you don’t know about what happened last night. That would be all too much. Maybe you can read his mind. That would be a more logical explanation. Anyways — why on earth are you asking him this?
He swallows hard, eyebrows lifting high on his forehead. “H-help?”
The sound of tinkling glass. You smile, and don’t cover it up this time. The one leg crossed over the other nudges Jungkook’s ankle, playfully kicking him. He breathes in a shaky inhale, having grown so sensitive to any kind of touch. Especially yours.
“Your little problem won’t go away on its own.”
Jungkook has tried convincing himself it was all a dream. That what happened in the car didn’t really happen. That he had just imagined it, that his horned-up brain continued to make up unlawful scenarios about you. He tried his hardest. He tried so hard.
But you wouldn’t leave his mind. The image of you looking him up and down, eyes so dark it almost frightened him. He thought he was about to be eaten alive.
Somehow, he wasn’t.
Because after teasing him about his erection for about five minutes, nudging him with your feet, your fingers — you seemingly had enough. Your face went back to normal, you let out a huff of air, and you reached for the door on your side. When you hopped out of the car, you didn’t even look back. You walked away, left Jungkook hard and dumbfounded behind — with a trunk loaded with groceries.
Did you really ask him that? Better yet… were you serious?
You couldn’t possibly be. This is real life, not a porno. It’s not like women throw themselves at boners in real life. They are usually rather put off by them. So why is it that you teased him so much about it, without seeming disgusted?
Had Sara told you something? Or had maybe Taehyung? Jungkook knows Taehyung has a habit of telling girls Jungkook is a virgin. He knows some girls find it cute (it doesn’t happen often, but sometimes). But that’s only when they’re out drinking, usually at a club where Taehyung knows they won’t ever have to see these girls again. So why would he ever tell you such a thing?
After getting back inside, Jungkook practically ran upstairs and into the shower. He couldn’t take a minute more of his suffering, and knew he needed release. So he stripped himself of his sweat drenched clothes, turned the water on until the room filled with steam, and hopped right in.
He came harder than the night before, if that was even possible. His vision wiped out, and he had to whine a loud ‘fuck’ in order to not call out your name. It was maybe the hardest task he had ever carried out in his life. The stream of the water was harsh enough to block out the sounds he was producing, or so he hoped, and he was far away from the others. He saw you run towards the pool area instead of going back inside, and he was certain that both Taehyung and Sara would be sound asleep after their many rounds in the pool.
Jungkook hides in his room after jerking off. He feels absolutely mortified. There was absolutely no reason for him to get a hard-on in the car, you didn’t do anything sexual. Except maybe for that last part. But the thing is — he was hard even before that. So what’s the deal?
When Taehyung comes knocking, asking if he’s up for dinner soon, Jungkook tells him he has caught some kind of cold. Which is a statement Taehyung easily believes as Jungkook quite literally looks like shit.
His bangs stick to his forehead, his mullet sticks to his neck, his eyes are red and his skin is white. It looks like he has got it bad, when in all fairness — he’s just extraordinarily horny… and also very embarrassed.
He tries falling asleep, even though the time only reads seven o’clock. Maybe if he listens to some music, it might help. Grabbing for his phone, he turns to his side and feels a loud rumble in his stomach.
No, god no.
As stated earlier, if Jungkook is hungry — nothing else matters. If his stomach is rumbling, he needs to do something about it. But right now… he can’t. He can still hear the voices coming from downstairs, the three of you laughing and chatting. Exactly what it is that you’re talking about, Jungkook can’t hear, but he knows you’re laughing. He knows you’re having a good time.
He wishes he was able to make you laugh like that. You only do so when he’s sporting a full one, apparently.
Why won’t you guys just please go to bed? Jungkook has to get down there. Make himself some food. He has to.
Tossing and turning in bed, his mind runs wild. Which is when he remembers something horrible, something so extremely unfortunate.
He forgot the groceries in the car.
Jungkook bolts upright in bed, almost gasping out loud at the realization. He forgot the fucking groceries. They are still in the car, all of them. Your snacks, your drinks, your ice cream. God — your ice cream. It’s all probably melted by now.
He throws the blanket off himself and scrambles out of bed. Rushing around his room, he yanks open multiple drawers, grabbing the first pieces of clothing he can find. A blue t-shirt with a yellow crab on it, and a pair of grey cargo shorts. He pulls them on hastily, nearly getting his foot stuck in the fabric.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
If you see the melted ice cream, you’ll be crushed. You’ll be so disappointed. All he had to do was carry the bags inside. He couldn’t even do that. You would be so sad if you found out your ice cream had been standing outside, the milk getting spoiled. You wouldn’t be able to eat it anymore. How sad you would be.
When fully dressed, he stumbles into a pair of Puma slippers and tip toes toward his door, opening it just enough to peek out into the hallway. The house is dim, looks almost asleep, but he can still hear your laughter from downstairs.
Is he supposed to climb out the window? Or how will he go about this?
Without really thinking more of it, he makes sure to tread as lightly as possible, not making any sound as he escapes his room. He makes his way down the stairs, trying to ignore the small creaks the wood makes. If he’s lucky, you’re all drunk by now, and woozy enough to look past the man lurking around ‘undetected’ behind them.
Finally making it to the last step, he crouches down. The main entrance is so close, but it’s too risky — the dining area is right by. So he options for the terrace door, the one that leads to the pool.
Carefully, he shifts his weight and begins creeping across the living room floor. Jungkook is as careful as a soldier crossing a field full of land mines, knowing that an awkward bump-in would be too much for him now. He moves slowly enough to keep most of the creaking quiet, but the boards under his slippers give in a few times. Not loud enough for you guys to take notice of it though, thankfully.
He doesn’t dare look toward the sound of your laughter. He doesn’t know where you’re seated. You could be facing him, or maybe not. Either way, if you turn your head at any given moment, you’ll spot him immediately — half crouched, sneaking across the living room like a criminal. Jungkook gathers none of you have spotted him yet, as you would point it out. So he carries on until he reaches the door, opening it just a tad, making just enough room for his large frame to slip through the crack.
Finally being out in the open, away from the ongoing dinner inside, Jungkook hurries down the path that leads from the terrace to the driveway. His eyes find Taehyung’s car — it sits exactly where he left it, untouched and unmoved, still in the driveway. Seeing it almost gives him war flashbacks from earlier, and he tries his best blocking out the memory of your foot against his leg. How it brushed against him only for a second, then once again. The peak of his demise.
When he reaches the car, he pops the trunk open immediately, grimacing the second it lifts.
The bags have spilled, groceries lie scattered around. A mess, really, one he can thank none other than himself for.
He clicks his tongue. “Shit.”
His eyes go to the spilling reminders of your ice cream, the milky fluid having leaked out of its container. Poking at it once, he feels how soft it is, how the carton has fogged up and gone all wet. Fuck, it has been sitting out in the heat for too long.
Jungkook sighs miserably and starts pulling the groceries into a pile, shoving them back into the grocery bags one by one. He grabs the plastic once fully packed and starts carefully stacking the sachets on the pavement beside him so he’s able to carry it all in one trip.
And in the midst of all this, Jungkook is so focused on salvaging the groceries that he doesn’t even hear the footsteps approaching behind him. But he can’t help but flinch when a sudden voice cuts through his concentration.
“Boo!”
Taken by surprise, Jungkook lets out a strangled yelp while his body jerks forward, nearly headbutting the open trunk as he whips around. He recognizes your voice before even laying eyes on you.
You stand cross armed before him, still in the same sundress from before, looking at him with an unimpressed mine. The startled sound he just produced wasn’t a exclaim for the history books, something he can read from just the look on your face. After examining the flush on his face, your eyes drop to the grocery bags at his feet.
Jungkook scratches the back of his head nervously. “Jesus, you scared me.”
“Ah, I gathered that,” you respond, nodding in a belittling way with your eyebrows high on your forehead. A short laughter breaks from you as you probably play back the previous look on his face. “What the hell are you doing anyways?”
“Uh the—” Jungkook stops himself. He’ll probably have to answer why he’s not at dinner, either. Why he told Taehyung he was sick, while still prancing around outside in only a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. Nothing anyone with a real cold would do. “I forgot the bags—in the car—earlier today.”
You purse your lips while nodding. Jungkook can’t help but notice the goosebumps on your skin. The straps on your dress are tiny, you’ve got no real fabric protecting you from the cold. He wishes he never set foot outside, so that you wouldn’t have to stand outside shivering because of him. On that note — why exactly are you here…?
“So you’re lurking around late at night in order to save my candies?”
Great point you’re making, because it does sound stupid. But Jungkook would go to even further lengths to salvage what you hold dear to your heart — and since you seemed to care so much about your lollipops, your ice cream, your chips, he felt lurking around was needed. Although this might sound strange to you, since Jungkook has only known you for less than two days. So maybe he should keep quiet.
“I didn’t want to disturb you guys,” he ultimately answers, rocking back and forth trying to keep himself from bursting into flames in your presence.
A giggle escapes you. “You know—you could always join us…? Eat dinner with us? Maybe not hide out in your room?”
Fuck, how did you know he was hiding?
“It’s—I’ve caught a cold.” His voice is fragile, words bordering on a whisper. “I’m not hiding.”
“Pfft, come on,” you scoff, letting your head loll back — baring your neck to Jungkook. He can feel his mouth start watering, salivating at the view in front of him. Your soft skin, where your neck meets your chest, your collarbones, your gentle cleavage in that dress as you’ve crossed your arms tightly across your breasts. He snaps out of it the moment you straighten your neck, looking back at him with serious eyes. “Jungkook, I told you—you don’t have to be embarrassed. Not around me, anyways.”
Now, this is exactly why Jungkook has been hiding. Why are you always so forward, why can’t you just let him suffer in peace?
His ears go red immediately, and before he manages to answer, he swallows hard, trying to make himself look at serious and tough as possible. It’s hard for Jungkook, as he suffers from a condition called big, black puppy eyes.
“I’m not embarrassed,” he lies, stuffing his hands in his pockets. The bags around him stand still, the trunk stays open, and there’s nowhere for him to go. He’s trapped.
“Mhm, okay.” Your eyes skim over his body, locking with the yellow crab on his t-shirt. How embarrassing. The shirt is tighter than what he would usually wear, so he suddenly feels like he’s on display. He flexes his stomach (force of habit), hoping he might look good under your eyes. You smile in response. “Okay—so you say you’re not embarrassed. But you’re nervous.”
Jungkook can’t even manage to get a single word or sound out before you let your arms fall from their crossed position. As they slip, you take a step forward, breathing in a deep breath. Your chest rises, the outline of your soft cleavage making a strong appearance, before it falls again.
With you walking towards him, with you in that dress, Jungkook’s eyes go wild. His eyes flick over your face, your chest, your stomach, before falling to your feet.
Mother of god.
You’re barefoot.
“Could you…?” you ask, eyes going to the bags by Jungkook’s feet.
He doesn’t even think twice. With nervous kicks, he shoves the bags out of the way, the contents spilling out and landing scattered around in the driveway. At least — it clears your path. Which is all Jungkook cares for.
“And the—”
Jungkook won’t let you finish your sentence. Before you reach him, he hurriedly stretches his arm out, aiming for the trunk and shutting it close. It almost hits his head, but he’s quick enough to move away, holding your eyes the entire time.
You stop maybe two feet before him, looking over at Jungkook as he nervously leans his back against the trunk. A smile spread across your face.
“What do you study?”
Huh?
Jungkook parts his lips, but no sound comes out. He doesn’t know exactly what he was expecting, but it most certainly wasn’t small-talk. Not when it looks like you’re about to eat him alive.
“Uh… I—cybersecurity,” he finally manages. His eyes can’t help but flick over every single part of you, trying to ignore your bare feet. He has never before found feet attractive — he doesn’t find feet attractive. So what on earth is it that you do to him?
“Do you like it?”
“Well—yeah, it’s alright.”
You step forward, watching his every reaction. His eyes dart down to yours as you close in on him. Still, you continue talking — like nothing’s going on. “Are you good with computers?”
Jungkook’s breath hitches at he feels your breath against his skin. None of your body parts are touching yet, your knees haven’t even met his. Yet, he feels like he might fold in half where he stands. His arms shoot out behind him, bracing himself on the polished trunk, veins popping underneath his skin as he tries to restrain himself.
“Yea-uh,” his voice cracks halfway through the word. Trying to redeem himself, he coughs once, looking up into the air above him. He breathes out, trying to steady himself. “I’d say so.”
Your eyes are glued to him, and he even feels you huffing out a laugh against him. And suddenly, he feels skin brush against his knee. Your thigh. Your thigh still hidden behind your soft dress. Without meaning to, he gasps.
“You play video games?”
He can only nod, still looking up, trying to keep his cool. He might just come off even more nervous. But he can’t help it. The fabric of his shorts, his boxers, start tightening around his crotch as he feels himself growing. By how close you are, he gathers you’ll soon be able to feel it too.
Tilting your head, you lean into him, rising on your tippy toes in order to reach the skin by his ear. “Think you could teach me once?”
“Uh—of course. Yeah—I could do th—”
Jungkook feels a pair of soft lips against his neck before he can finish speaking.
His entire body shudders, and the bulge in his pants continues to rise. Your lips part once, taking his skin in deeper, letting the wet part of your mouth reach him. It’s so incredibly soft, so tender, that Jungkook almost feels his stomach grow sick. Involuntarily, he lets out a whine, and your name follows.
“W-what are you doing?”
You shush him softly, tracing his neck with your kisses, your plush lips welcoming his salty skin. Jungkook thinks his knees might buckle when he hears you give a small moan, bracing his arms behind him, trying to dig his fingernails into the car’s polish. There’s no use.
Letting a breathy laugh leave you, you answer his question with a low voice. “I’m just paying in advance.”
“H-huh?”
The kisses start moving upwards, and you let one of your hands find his lap. Jungkook flinches, his thighs twitching, alongside the growing cock hidden away in his pants. You purr against his skin, soft lips meeting his jaw as you stretch taller.
“You’re gonna teach me how to play—aren’t you?”
Jungkook wasn’t really paying attention to your meaningless small-talk — but he’ll never deny you anything. However, he knows you’re not being serious. He feels you’re egging him on, teasing him, riling him up.
None of that matters now that your lips are on him. They are even softer than he had imagined, and now that it’s finally happening, it feels like his cock is about to explode in his boxers. He’s so hard it’s starting to hurt, the length of him twitching every time your small hand squeezes his thigh through the shorts’ fabric.
Fuck this — he has you now.
In no less than a second, his hands are on you. He gives up on his quest for the stars, where he stands looking up at the sky trying to avoid you. It has been twenty fucking years, and Jungkook is yet to have had a good kiss. A great fucking kiss.
His hands find your waist, knead the supple flesh there before he pulls you in. Your lips crash together, and he shivers at the sound of your surprised gasp. Whining into your mouth, Jungkook lets one hand find the small of your back while the other still holds onto your waist.
You feel so unbelievably soft in his grip, so small and tender. The force of Jungkook’s kiss, the un-expectancy of it has you tumbling forwards, falling into Jungkook’s arms. But you still manage to assert some dominance, pushing on his knees in order to part them before you slip between his legs with ease.
Holy fuck — he can feel you between his legs. You’re in between his legs. Pressing against him, pushing yourself further into him.
“Ohh—fuck,” Jungkook whines as you roll your hips softly, simply letting him know you’re there. And he knows alright, the bulge in his pants twitches and pulsates at the feel of you. Impatient and so extremely touch-deprived, Jungkook pushes his tongue against your lips in order to part them. You let him slip in easily, the muscle rolling into your mouth messily.
The two of you gasp, moan, whine into the wet kisses, going at each other like starved animals. Although the only starved one here is him.
“Jungkook?” you ask in the midst of a kiss, such a soft voice that has Jungkook’s breath hitching in response.
“Mm-hm?” He whines as you press against him once again, the bulge in his pants brushing against your crotch. It feels so fucking good — nothing he has ever felt before. It’s even better than jerking off, even though all his clothes are still on. Why is that? Are you a witch?
One of your hands find Jungkook’s cheek, brushing a gentle thumb against his skin. You give him a tiny peck before retracting, staring up at his big, glistening, wondering eyes.
“I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
Jesus christ.
This either means: 1) you’re nasty as shit or: 2) you know he’s a virgin.
He prays to god it’s not the ladder. Or maybe… he does. Then it would explain why he might not be so good to you, if he might do something horrible or something you don’t like. He has no idea.
His eyes grow wider, if possible, and he wets his lips twice, wishing for more kisses. “It’s okay—I’m okay—I promise.”
The words roll off his tongue, or rather tumble out his mouth, and he eagerly leans in to kiss you again. He has felt nothing like it, how soft your lips are, how sweet you taste. He could kiss you forever, every day, all the time.
Your tinkling laughter reappears, and you back away from his kiss. Jungkook is stronger, and still keeps you close to him, but he can’t seem to reach your mouth. So he whines yet again.
“Shh—Jungkook, slow down—I’m not going anywhere,” you say in between your giggles, pressing both palms flat against his chest. Your cheeks flush the moment you feel his plump skin under your hands, something Jungkook can’t help but love.
“Then kiss me—come on!”
You reach out for his erection, cupping a palm over the bulge in his pants and squeezing tight. All the air in Jungkook’s lungs is punched out, and he lets go of your waist. His hand shoots up, and he bites down on the back of his hand, trying to suppress an embarrassing moan. The others are still inside, after all. Only a few walls away. They could slip out and see the two of you, just as easily as you did just a few minutes ago.
The palm rubs over his length as you lock eyes with him, even though Jungkook keeps trying to shut them. You lean further into him, purr when Jungkook digs his soft fingernails into the small of your back. He’s unbelievably hard.
“We have to take it slow, Jungkook—if it’s your first.”
There it is. Jungkook clenches his eyes shut, a harsh rumble escaping from his throat as his cock twitches in your grip. He can feel himself spilling in his boxers, leaking from the tip. He knows he’ll come harder than ever before if you continue, but he can’t wiggle out of your grip. It feels to good. Instead, he embarrassingly enough starts slowly rutting into your palm.
You click your tongue and lean into Jungkook, your breath fanning his neck. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”
“S-so good,” Jungkook breathes, throwing his head back and leaning heavier against the trunk. His hips thrust into your hand, and you haven’t even wrapped yourself around him. It’s just a tease, but a tease that feels so good Jungkook is about to start levitating.
“You know what would feel better, Kookie?”
Oh my fucking god. Jungkook sees white, the sound of the sugary nickname on your lips causing him to tremble in your grip. He pulls you tighter against him with the hand on your back, searching for your lips. When they meet, he shamelessly moans into your mouth, rolling his tongue against yours, biting and sucking down on your bottom lip.
You gasp and purr against him, cupping his erection even harder as you start applying slow strokes to him. He feels heavy in your palm, thick and long.
Breathing hot against his lips, you kitten-lick his mouth, pulling away to tell him sweet nothings, words that leave Jungkook white. “Wouldn’t it feel better to have my mouth on you, Kookie?”
Absolutely not. No way in hell. Nuh-uh.
Jungkook shudders only hearing you suggest it. Of course it would feel better — he’d fuck your throat so hard you wouldn’t be able to speak for days. But he can’t, he knows he can’t. He’d come so embarrassingly fast that he’d ruin everything. On top of that, he wouldn’t be able to fuck you. To finally get laid.
He shakes his head against your kiss, whining when you tease the tip of his cock through the shorts. You let your thumb find the slit of him, rubbing around it before pressing your palm hot over the bulge again.
“No?” you ask, biting down on his bottom lip. “You wouldn’t want that? You wouldn’t want my lips around your cock? Wouldn’t want me to choke on you? You’re big, Kookie. You wouldn’t want your big cock in my pretty little mouth? Would it be too much?”
Mother of god. Jungkook feels like a dog hearing all his favorite buzzwords. You’re just throwing them out there, hoping for a reaction.
Trying not to lose his composure, or the tiny bit of it he had left, he lets go of your back. Both hands come behind him to rest on the truck, breathing out deeply as you continue lathering him with kisses. Just like him, you switch positions. Your hand lets go of his erection, but you replace the stimulation by grinding against his crotch. Jungkook’s breath hitches, and he shuts his eyes hard, actively trying not to come in his shorts. It seems fucking impossible, the combination of your kisses and the way you press against his cock has stars dancing in his eyelids.
“You don’t want that, Kookie?” you breathe out seductively, both hands coming to play with his mullet. “You don’t want your cock in my mouth?”
“N-yes! But—” he stutters, trembling while you rub yourself on him. Both his boxers and shorts are about to turn very wet, the precum leaking out of him ruining both fabrics. “Can’t. I can’t.”
You pout, but kiss him nonetheless. Your tongues move in perfect synchronization, and Jungkook thinks this might be all he needs. Until something gives him away. Because as your moans die down, another sound breaks through — the sound of Jungkook’s stomach rumbling.
Fuck that’s embarrassing.
He wines, leaning further back, but that only invites you to press yourself harder against his cock. And as you notice his talkative stomach, you giggle.
“Hungry, Kookie?”
God yes. God, he’s hungry. He’s so hungry he could die. But he’s determined to do nothing about it. He wants to stay here, with you, kiss you forever. Feel you rub yourself on him, feel your fingers in his hair. Have your soft lips on his, have your sweet, sweet tongue deep in his mouth.
But he is hungry, there’s no denying that. His stomach continues growling, causing you to scoff out teasing laughs every single time. But that’s only until Jungkook feel you smile devilishly against his kisses. And Jungkook — a fond watcher of porn — thinks he might know what you’re up to.
You slide one hand from the back of his neck, finger finding his jugular, and you slowly wrap them around his throat — very lightly. Tickling his skin. And as you retreat from the kiss, you lock eyes with Jungkook.
“How hungry are you—exactly?”
Jungkook waists no fucking time now. He has seen this in porn too many times to want to wait. He’s fucking starving, and by what he has seen on the numerous raunchy sites, there’s only one thing that can ease his cravings.
Suddenly, his hands find the back of your thighs, and with ease — he lifts you from the ground.
You give a quiet squeal, pressing your lips harder against his, letting your body melt with his. He drinks is the feeling of your spread legs wrapped around him, how the dress has risen up your thighs, almost exposing your panties to him. There’s almost nothing concealing you from him, and as he has you in his arms, Jungkook feels his cock grow even more.
He turns with you wrapped around him, backing off from the trunk in order to switch places with you. As your ass meets the cool car polish, you sigh against his kiss, and the sound makes it hard for Jungkook to let go of you. He wishes he could carry you around everywhere, all the time. That you would maybe give up on walking, let him keep you in his arms for him to work as a personal carrier.
But he lets you go nonetheless, pushing himself in between your legs while his hands move up your back, one finding rest on the back of your neck while the other caresses the space between your shoulder blades.
“Wow,” you tease, giving him one last peck before baring your neck for Jungkook to access the sweet skin there. He latches onto it immediately, kissing and sucking on your jugular. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Jungkook.”
“Mhm,” he hums while lathering you in wet kisses, lips pressing down on a particular spot that has you squirming. The hand between your shoulder blades roams further, slips down your back and makes its way to your thighs. He feels your bare skin for the first time, instinctively rutting forward, his erection pressing hot and heavy against your panties. “Oh fuck.”
Jungkook grows impatient, and in a hurry, he takes ahold of the hem of your dress, dragging it upwards until your ass is bare. You help with a compliant lift of your hips. Your bare cheeks are revealed, and Jungkook immediately lets a big palm find the firm flesh there, kneading it while still rolling his hips into your crotch.
Both his boxers and shorts are almost ruined with his precum, the constant leak. He knows he can’t keep going like this — that he will break if this goes on for any longer. And since his stomach has been growling, since he is so hungry, he lets go of your neck and starts kissing lower.
“Fuck—Kookie—are you sure?” you breathe as Jungkook starts applying kisses to your breasts. He’s easily distracted, and once his lips meet the soft flesh of your cleavage, he almost forgets the path he has taken on. Jungkook bites down on one of your breasts, licking and kissing the mark in order to ease the small amount of pain. “Ah—oh my god.”
It seems like you can’t take it anymore, and you help Jungkook without him even asking. You let your head loll back as your hands go to the waistband of your panties. Hooking your fingers into the fabric, you start wiggling out of the fabric. Jungkook groans against your neck as you start undressing yourself, taking a small step back in order for you to rid yourself of your underwear.
The fabric bunches around your ankles, and Jungkook hastily takes ahold of the hem — ripping it off you in an instant.
“Oh my god I need you so bad,” he whines as he lets go of your neck with a slick pop, looking proudly at the red mark he has left behind. That will stay. Jungkook just marked you — for everyone to see. Holy fuck.
You only sigh in respond, but you do it so prettily. Jungkook’s brain tangles, and he no longer sees straight. He forgets all about rutting into you like an animal in heat, and suddenly drops to his knees without warning. Jungkook shoves you further onto the trunk, the sound of it squeaky and humorous, but not enough for him to snap out of his trance.
When met with the new view before him, he whimpers. There’s no other way to explain it — Jungkook whimpers at the sight of your bare cunt.
Porn can’t compare, Jungkook knows this now. God why has he held himself back for so long, why hasn’t he been met with the real deal before now? Or is it just you? Is it just you and your perfect, soft, wet, glittering pussy? Jungkook has nothing to compare this to (other than the on-screen vaginas he has seen before), but he can confidently say this is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.
He releases a moan that carries your name, eyebrows lifting high on his forehead. And what really seals the deal is when he feels your fingers in his hair. He looks up at you with big eyes, almost breaking in half when he sees the flush on your cheeks, how you press your lips together in order not to let out any sound.
Jungkook realizes, while sitting down on his knees in front of your parted legs and dripping cunt, that he has no idea how to do this. He’s a fast learner, and he usually excels at everything he tries — but this is human anatomy. What if he’s awful? What if you don’t like it? He would never want to disappoint you, and he would most of all want you to feel good — to make you cry, scream, beg for him to keep going, beg for him to stop.
His eyes give away all his questions before he even has to ask. You lick down on your lips, caressing his scalp as your fingers play with his soft hair.
“Kookie, just—” you say in between a breath, almost like you know exactly what’s going on inside his head. “Just start out with a kiss—okay?”
Okay, he can do that. He gives you one single nod, his eyes tripling in size before he looks back down on the meal before him. Before actually kissing it, he moves his hand, letting his knuckles drag experimentally through your wetness.
To his surprise, you twitch before him, letting out a whimper. And even more surprising is what Jungkook sees before him — the white slick that leaks from you. His lips part instinctively, and his mouth waters. Is this all for him? Is he doing this to you?
Jungkook leans in, feeling your fingers tighten in his hair as he closes in on your wetness. And slowly, he closes his eyes, parts his lips even further, and kisses the soft, beautiful nub that crowns your mound.
Holy fuck.
Your hips jerk upwards, but there’s no use. Jungkook has just gotten the taste of something life altering. His eyes open, still kissing down on your clit, and like clockwork — he plants another kiss there.
“Oh my—fuck,” you moan as you breathe out, fist closing around a big chunk of Jungkook’s silky hair.
Is this what he has been missing out on this entire time? Is he a fucking idiot? Is this what he has been giving up — and for what? To play video games, get drunk and sing karaoke with his friends, refusing to get laid? What a fucking dumb idiot he is.
Now that he’s here, he gets drunk off you. Absolutely hammered.
His hands push both your knees to the side, spreading you further apart, and he dives in yet again. This time, he does exactly like when kissing you — rolling his tongue out, this time letting it catch in your clit. He realizes this might not be such a poor method, as your writhe before him whenever he nudges the wet nub.
“Jesus—Jungkook, right there.”
Dingdingding — jackpot.
He flattens his tongue, delving down and lapping at you like a parched animal. His hands spread apart your legs, fingertips digging into the supple flesh of your thighs as he goes — to — town.
Nothing has ever tasted this good before. Your juices have Jungkook’s mind going hazy, his thoughts wiping out. His eyebrows curl together low on his forehead, concentrating to the fullest as he eats you out with the sole purpose of his own pleasure. Because it tastes so fucking good. Where have you been all this time?
Your clit twitches on his tongue, and you try scooting away from his mouth, but Jungkook’s strong hands pin you down against the car.
A moan gets caught in your throat. “Mrph—Jungkook, oh my god—you’re doing s-so good.”
The praise flies right above Jungkook’s head. He can’t hear or see shit. He wishes he could do what all the guys do in porn — lock eyes with you and map out every single one of your reactions, your pretty facial expressions. But he’s too far gone to be doing all that. You taste too fucking good.
More and more juices keep leaking from you, covering his tongue as he messily eats away at you. He drags his tongue lower, gathering your slick purely because of its sweet taste, but suddenly gets a feel of a pulsating, sopping hole.
He moans against your pussy at the new discovery, mapping out the hole with the tip of his tongue. It keeps spasming, keeps pulsating, and Jungkook’s expression only grows more concentrated when experimentally dipping the tip of his tongue into your wet center.
Your head lolls back in pleasure, and you tug on Jungkook’s hair. You’re so incredibly taken aback by Jungkook’s skillful use of tongue, eyes rolling to the back of your head as he slowly lets the thick muscle sink into your core. “Yes—yes, Jungkook—oh my god.”
Oh my god is right — because with where Jungkook’s tongue is buried now, he can taste all of you. His brows furrow even further, similar to the expression he makes when eating great food, and he slowly lets his tongue curl inside you, mapping out every single inch of your insides. It’s all so wet, so warm, and your sweet slick covers his entire face. His chin is dripping with your juices, and he’s nearly suffocating on your cunt. But it’s all good — Jungkook would happily choke and die here.
As Jungkook retracts his tongue, you jump at the sensation. But he needs more, he needs to savor the taste of you. His arms move, curling around your thighs, and he shoves you against his face — his tongue entering you once again as his nose presses against your clit.
“Kookie—please—” you cry out, causing Jungkook’s eyes to search for yours, afraid he might’ve done something wrong. And as your eyes meet, Jungkook’s cock jumps in his shorts.
The corner of your eyes, the top of your sweet cheeks, are covered in tears. Wet, glittering, beautiful tears that Jungkook wishes he could lick away. But his tongue might be a bit busy at the moment. Jungkook waits for you to catch your breath, continue speaking, and he watches the way your belly moves up and down, how you’re panting.
You caress his scalp again, his hair, twirling it around in your grip. The look on your face is nothing short of pleading, and Jungkook believes he can come right here and now.
“Please—” you continue. “Fuck me with your tongue. Fuck me s-so good.”
Point taken.
Jungkook waits no more time, always following orders, and starts doing as told — fucking you dumb with his tongue.
It retracts, pushes back in, repeat — repeat. When diving back in, he buries his big nose right onto your pretty clit, shaking his head a bit just to make your thighs shake. He loves when your thighs shake. He wants more of it. And they shake so beautifully, spasm so perfectly, whenever he rubs against your highpoint. So thinking no more of it, he presses a thumb against it, flicking over the sensitive area until you can do no more but cry out his name into the summer night.
He wants you to break. Wants you to feel as helpless as he has been feeling for the past days. He wants you trembling on his tongue. And if the sounds you are producing are anything to go by — he’s almost there.
Once feeling your thighs clamping around his head, his hands go back to pulling you further apart for him, and Jungkook’s tongue again finds your clit. The muscle has gone all slick and wet, more than before, and he uses it to repeatedly flick over the nub until you writhe against his face.
“Fuck I’m gonna—” you start, breathing heavily as Jungkook won’t give up on stimulating your clit. He uses only the tip of his tongue, flicking fast over it, causing you to tug on his hair. “Oh my god please don’t stop!”
He won’t stop — he’s not fucking brain dead. He’s hungry, starving, loving the sweet, perfect taste of you. And trying to down it even further, he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking on it in order to drink you up completely. His tongue rolls with the suction, working over the nub until you can’t take it anymore. He lets go only once, in order to come up for air and gasp, but he quickly delves in again.
You break in half.
Your whole body locks, and even as Jungkook keeps you spread open for him, your thighs try clamping around him. You clench your fist in his hair, the other hand slamming down on the trunk, and you call out his name in a row of beautiful moans.
As you come, Jungkook loses it completely. It’s the most wonderful thing he has ever experienced, and as you spasm in his grip, on his tongue, he just continues sucking. He won’t give this up — he wouldn’t give this taste up for anything in the world. So Jungkook sucks, moans, pants, acting out on pure instinct as you fall apart for him.
But you try getting him to ease up, try pushing him away — something Jungkook won’t have.
“Jungkook—fuck, stop—oh my god,” you say between moans, head lolling back in pleasure filled pain. One of your feet come up to Jungkook’s shoulder, desperately trying to kick him off. Your back arches, and you try and try and try, but Jungkook won’t let up.
He knows you like this — knows you love it. Because why else would your core keep pulsating, clenching around nothing, producing more sweet juice for Jungkook to lap at?
“Please, Kookie—for fucks sake, s-stop.”
You yank his head back with the fist curled up in his hair, causing Jungkook to finally give your clit a rest, hissing as you’ve hurt his scalp.
As he looks up at you, finds your eyes, he gasps. The tears have now fallen completely, covered your entire face, some small droplets still creasing in the corners of your eyes. You look so pretty when you’re fucked out. How is that even possible?
His chest moves up and down as he finally comes up for air, arms still wrapped around your thighs. When drinking in the state of you, he starts worrying the tears might be a bad thing, that he hurt you. That you kicked him off because he hurt you — and he never meant to do that. He would never, ever hurt you.
The words tumble out of his mouth. “Wha—what—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry did I hurt you?”
Still trying to catch your breath, you thankfully give him a smile. You ease the hand tangled in his hair and let it move to his mullet. “Awh—aw no, you’re so sweet,” you say, caressing him as he looks up at you like a lost puppy. “It’s just—it’s sensitive. That’s just how it is for girls. For everyone, Kookie. You did nothing wrong. You did so—so good.”
Jungkook lets out a big sigh, suddenly feeling that his chin is starting to grow cold. He let’s the back of his hand meet the skin there, noticing how slick it is, and wipes it off at once.
“Okay, that’s good. I’m happy I did good,” he answers awkwardly, now unsure of where to put his hands. He lets them find rest on his knees, rubbing down on them while his eyes drown in yours.
You tilt your head to the side, give him a comforting smile and reach for him with grabby hands. “Look—come here.”
He does as told, rising to his feet and lets your hands find his soft cheeks. You pull him in for a kiss, quick and playful pecks that move from his lips, to his chin, to his jaw.
“You’re a mess now, Jungkook.”
“It’s okay—I kinda like it,” he says in a whisper, closing his eyes in pure bliss as your kisses move further down, finding his neck.
You’re sensitive. You just told him you’re sensitive. That all girls are — even boys. So his hopes drop just a tiny bit.
Maybe he won’t get laid tonight, maybe that will have to wait. It might be sad, but Jungkook at least got a taste of something borderline perfect. He got to drink you in, make you cry. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it. Maybe he can ask to do this every day. Wouldn’t you like that? It’s at least his new favorite thing ever, or at least top three.
As his thoughts run wild, his breath suddenly leaves him.
Because you push yourself further into him, all the while you’re kissing and licking down on his neck, tongue swirling over his Adam’s apple, feeling the way it bobs when Jungkook swallows hard at the new sensation. The feel of your bare, sopping pussy pressing ever so gently over his still hard and clothed cock.
Jungkook has never been this hard in his life. He bets his balls have turned blue, maybe even purple.
He gives your name in a low breath, “We don’t—ah—we don’t have to…” You grind into him once more, a moan getting caught in his throat.
“Jungkook, take off those shorts now.”
Holy fuck this is happening. Holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck.
Wait — aren’t you sensitive? Whatever that means.
Jungkook doesn’t care right now, he wants to feel you. Correction — he wants to fuck you. Deep. Fuck you until Taehyung and Sara can hear, until they rush out to see why you’re screaming, see if you’re being attacked or killed, only to find out you have Jungkook’s cock shoved so deep inside you that your stomach shows the outline of him. Until you can’t fucking think, speak or walk.
Something like that, at least.
Anyways, Jungkook spends no more than two seconds in his ruined shorts. He pulls them off so hurriedly that you can’t help but laugh. There’s really no time to take notice of the wet patch in his Calvin Klein’s as he pulls them down just as past as the pants. Both stay bunched on his thighs, just enough for his cock to spring free.
When it does, when he’s bared to you, a sound nothing short of a gasp leaves you.
He’s thick, long, big — and most of all leaking. The tip of him has gone dark red, flushed and angry, precum seeping from his slit every so often. And upon seeing him, your mouth waters — and you’re quite literally gagged.
“Okay… alright—wow.” You tuck loose strands of hair behind your ears, your cheeks growing warmer by the second.
Jungkook takes this the wrong way, suddenly a bit embarrassed by how hard he is. “Uh, yeah—well, sorry it’s just—I’ve never—”
“Fuck Kookie—you’re so big.”
Oh. Oh, that’s why your jaw is slacking. Jungkook can’t help but smile, his embarrassment turning into pride. He feels snug as a bug, actually. He can live with this. A pretty girl just gasped at the size of him.
“You’re gonna have to take it slow, okay Kookie? You think you can do that for me?” you ask with a gentle voice, bracing your arms behind you on the trunk as you spread your legs again, now even further to accommodate the size of him.
Jungkook nods fast and a lot. Okay, he’ll be careful. He’ll take it slow. No problem.
You’re still so wet, you still look so sweet, and Jungkook could possibly come just by looking at your sopping cunt. But that’s what porn is for. He has the real deal now, and he has to bury himself inside you by yesterday.
Taking a single step forward, Jungkook reaches for his cock, but is pleasantly surprised that your smaller hand takes his place.
He uncontrollably whines at the feel, your grip gentle but commanding, wrapping around the girth of him in order to angle his hard on directly to your entrance. You tease for a bit, letting the leaking head of him just get a feel of you first.
“Oh my fuck holy fuck,” Jungkook gasps, even more precum slipping out of him as you drag the tip through your puffy folds, letting it catch in your clit. That last part has even you moaning, eyebrows creasing as your jaw goes slack.
“Fuck—feels so good, Kookie.”
“Yeah?” he asks in an embarrassingly high pitch, eyes locking with how his cock slips through your wetness. He leans further forward, both hands going to your waist, caressing you before finding shelter on your ass. Jungkook grabs two handfuls of your flesh and starts kneading, his cock almost exploding when you slowly drag it through your pussy once again. “Ah—yeah? Feels good?”
“Feels so good Jungkook, just—just take it slow, okay?”
Fuck okay, okay he has to take it slow — he needs to take it slow. He can’t come right away, he just can’t. That’ll be too embarrassing.
“Okay I’ll take it slow—I’ll be good, I’ll be—I’ll be so good,” Jungkook whines, eyes darting up to search for yours. He drowns in them immediately, how pleading they look, and immediately forgets all about his promise.
He leans in for a deep kiss, and uncontrollably ruts forward, his cock once again sliding through your pussy, this time a bit more awkwardly, a bit messily. You gasp against his lips, but immediately reroute his shaft, pressing the head of him directly against your entrance. And with a deep breath, a wet kiss, Jungkook pushes forward.
Jungkook whines out a deep moan of your name traced upon his lips, a moan that comes from low within his chest, maybe even all the way down from his stomach. He feels every single wet wall of yours pulsating and clenching around his skin — the feeling something he has no way to put into words.
Do people really do this? Do people have access to this daily? Is this what Taehyung and Sara keep doing every single day?
Suddenly, Jungkook wants a girlfriend. Or maybe just to fuck everything. Everyone. Or maybe it’s just you. Maybe it’s just your pussy that has him acting this way. Because there is no fucking way, absolutely no fucking way.
“Jesus—oh my fucking god—feels so fucking good,” Jungkook moans hoarsely, pushing even further in, slowly (as you’ve told him), until he is completely bottomed out. “Ah—holy fuck.”
He buries himself balls deep inside you, his head falling to your shoulder the moment he’s all the way in. You comfort him despite the harsh fit of him inside you, hugging him tightly against your chest while drawing circles with your nails on his muscly back.
Jungkook’s entire body shudders against you, and he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to move even if he tries. But he feels you pulsate around him, and you feel so warm, so plush. He has to move.
You’re so wet he almost slips out of you when retracting, holding onto your ass cheeks for his dear life in order not to come right away. And as he pushes further in, you moan so prettily that he has to shut his eyes. He wishes he could watch what’s happening, look at how your juices covers his abdomen, but he can’t. He just has to pray to every god out there that he won’t come.
“You’re so big baby—mrph—take it slow,” you whimper, placing a kiss on the soft skin behind his ear.
Baby. You called him baby.
Alright that’s it — pound time.
Jungkook moans at the pet-name, retracting from your heat then surging forward, not caring even a bit about taking it slow. Fuck taking it slow — he needs you screaming. Crying again.
And you do, loudly. When Jungkook sets a mean pace, you scream out over his shoulder, burying wet eyes in the crook of his neck. Your whole body jumps with every thrust of Jungkook’s hips, and he lets out animalistic noises every time he feels you clench around him. He might be a bit too big for you — he feels that — as the fit is so unbelievably snug that Jungkook’s vision almost wipes clean out.
Fuck, he has to swallow his moans. He needs to silence himself — focus.
One of the hands squeezing your ass tumbles upwards, searching for your chest. He reaches for the fabric of your dress, happy to find you’re not wearing a bra, and simply just rips. The dress tears, the seams hanging loose across his tattooed fingers — but at least your tit pops out.
Jungkook’s eyes widen. He has never seen such a pretty breast. So perky, round, such a cute nipple. Bite-sized.
He wraps his lips around it without thinking twice and sucks for dear life.
You cry out, biting down on Jungkook’s ear in hopes of something. What it is, neither you or Jungkook knows. But you bite and suck when Jungkook bites and sucks, your moans breaking with every pound that Jungkook’s heavy cock bestows upon you.
“Fu—uu—uuck Jungkook!” you whine, resting your head above Jungkook’s, letting one hand find his hair again. You seem to have a habit of tugging and pulling on his hair — something Jungkook loves. And he loves your pretty tits. He loves the taste of your nipple. He loves the taste of your pussy. He loves your pussy. Maybe he should tell you this?
“Love this fucking pussy,” he mindlessly rambles while biting down on the peak of your tit, sweat dripping from his forehead. Jungkook slams his hips into you, his cock buried to the hilt inside you, but only for a mere second before sliding out — then right back in. If one can get drunk of pussy, Jungkook is exactly that. Pussy-drunk, and heavily that is. His breathing goes ragged, and he thrusts into you like a madman, not even letting you get a single word out. So he fills the silence himself.
“Love this pussy—how tight it is. How tight you feel around my cock. How it fits my cock perfectly, taking me like the slut you are.”
You clench the moment the word slut leaves his mouth.
Jungkook looks up at you, still near your tit, having left your nipple wet with spit. “You like that, huh? Me calling you slut?”
Apparently two can play this game. Jungkook isn’t even allowed to play big-shot for even a minute, as you suddenly pull on his hair, make him meet your eyes and bare his neck for you.
“Awh, that’s cute,” you purr, trying to keep yourself from moaning his name. Jungkook tries stealing glances, searching for a way to ogle at your tits bouncing with the force of his thrusts, but you make him look up at you. “Try not to cum right away, Kookie—can you do that? Even with how wet I am for you? H-how my pussy sucks you in so greedily?”
Your words might be a bit broken, a bit breathy with the way you’re taking his cock — but they send shivers down Jungkook’s spine.
His pace wavers for a second, but he snaps right back into it as he feels his balls tightening. Fuck — what a bad timing to come. He can’t come. Fuck, he can’t look at you, watch you like this. You look so flushed, so unbelievably fucked out. And it’s all because of him — this is his doing.
Jungkook closes his eyes and lets his head loll back, trying to uphold the thrusts but also not spurt into you after only a couple of minutes. But as his neck stretches before you, you lean into him, flinging your arms over his shoulder while whispering sweet nothings in his ear.
“I know you w-wanna cum, Kookie,” you whisper in a seductive tone, moaning so prettily when Jungkook slams into you repeatedly. “Know you wanna cum so bad—fill me up so nice. Have me dripping all over Tae’s car. Wouldn’t you like that? Have your cum so deep inside me, make me cry all over again? Huh, Kookie?”
A load and deep moan rips from Jungkook’s throat, spilling out into the free air above him. He wants to come so bad. He wants to fill you up so nicely. And right now, he can’t exactly think straight. He bets that he’ll be crossed if he looks back at you. So he keeps his head up, jaw slacking as he slams into you again and again and again.
Apparently, that last slam hits a spot you like. A spot you really like. You gasp, choking on a moan, before searching for Jungkook’s lips. Dear mother of god — Jungkook likes that. He likes that very much, he has to hit that spot again.
And he does, again, and again until you cry out into his mouth. All you can produce are long, incoherent rows of his name as Jungkook hits your sweet-spot repeatedly. Fuck, the noises are too good. Your pussy is too tight. Your lips are too soft. And it’s all too much when you suddenly start clenching, gasping for air as your body spasms in Jungkook’s grip. Fuck — your pussy is milking him dry.
With two final, deep thrusts, Jungkook buries his cock to the hilt, a long and rough moan tearing from his throat and spilling into your parted lips. The two of you gasp for air as thick ropes of Jungkook’s cum spills inside of your warm pussy. Now this is the hardest Jungkook has ever climaxed. The spillage just won’t stop, and he continues leaking, white and milky contents seeping out of your spent cunt, covering Jungkook’s abdomen.
He lets his head find your chest, forehead resting against your skin as he catches his breath. As his eyes open, he’s met with the view of his own cum dripping out of your pussy, spilling onto his own cock. Fuck, he fills you up so perfectly. Looks like he’s made to be there.
As the two of you come down from your high, you start caressing Jungkook’s scalp, the back of his neck. It has him shivering, your fingernails long enough to cause a slight tickle.
“Holy shit—th-that was the best thing ever,” he embarrassingly admits, breathing hot against your chest. He suddenly remembers ruining your dress, whining at the sight. “Ah—shit—I’m sorry about your dress—fuck.”
You giggle, finally, after so long he finally hears that beautiful giggle. “That’s all good.” With trembling fingers, you play with his hair, still shuddering after your orgasm. You let out a content hum, breathing through your nose. “You’re so cute.”
“I’m not cute—don’t say that.”
As your fingers move, both your hands come to cup his cheeks. You pull his head off your chest and force him to look you straight in the eyes before planting a soft kiss on his lips. “Unfortunately you are, Jungkook. You are really cute.”
The next kiss is just as soft, and neither of you feel the need to use tongue, to act lustful. It’s just a simple kiss. Just a soft, simple kiss. But Jungkook’s cheeks turn pink, and he shuts his eyes while breathing through his nose, kissing you still.
And there you stay for a while, still messy and locked, with Jungkook’s cock buried inside your warm heat, letting it soften as his cum seeps from your entrance. You’ve been loud enough for Taehyung and Sara to take notice of it — but Jungkook is guessing that they’re good enough friends to not break anything off. Even though you just fucked a girl on the trunk of Taehyung’s car.
That’s a worry for another time.
The worry comes earlier than excepted.
Jungkook slept in his own bed last night — but so did you.
After tearing each other apart on Taehyung’s car, Jungkook offered to carry you inside as your legs had stopped working and your dress was completely ruined. You of course let him do so, stealing tiny kisses from him as he carried you bridal-style all the way to the second floor. But you whined the moment he started walking towards your room, and demanded to sleep in his bed. When Jungkook tried knocking some sense into your head — telling you it would be best if the two of you kept a low profile — you simply laughed in his face.
You slept in his arms the entire night. It was a bit warm (or extremely sweaty, actually) and you tried to push Jungkook away numerous of times, but the attempts were all unsuccessful. Jungkook’s big arms caged you in, and when you tried wiggling away he locked you against his warm body by curling a thick thigh around you.
The sounds he made when sleeping bordered on soft purrs, and he believed he had never been a happier man. He just had sex. He just had sex with a beautiful girl and now she’s sleeping in his bed. He could dance, probably, but he was a bit too tired. So he optioned for the next best thing — falling asleep to your breathing.
But the happy, giddy illusion was all shattered when the door busted open in the morning.
Taehyung stands with fiery eyes in the doorframe, hair wild and everywhere.
He and Sara had apparently went to bed the second you slipped away from the dinner, and fell fast asleep with no worries in mind. They hadn’t even heard the fact that you guys had been fucking like animals outside.
But the problem has creeped up on Taehyung now, as he just went outside into the driveway, ready to take his car for a spin before going to the gym — when he was met with a big, melting stain of old cum on the back of the trunk. As well as a big mess of spilled groceries, wet ice cream seeping into the black and hot tires of his car.
“I hope the two of you had a great time last night, and I’m happy the plan worked, blah blah blah—whatever,” Taehyung hisses, curling his lips inward and jerking his neck. “If that car isn’t cleaned within ten minutes, I’ll castrate Jungkook and send you off to boarding school, miss.”
You apologize immediately, covering yourself with Jungkook’s blanket, looking over at him for any signs of embarrassment, remorse, confusion. But you find none, since Jungkook simply nods, bearing a big, teethy smile.
As Taehyung leaves the room, you turn to Jungkook yet again. He doesn’t seem to have noticed anything weird in Taehyung’s words.
Until he does.
His eyebrows crease low on his forehead, and he turns his head to you slowly. “Uh—plan?”
You let out an awkward giggle, scratching the back of your head. “Okay—don’t be angry with me,” you start, tumbling over your words. “But we kinda planned everything. For me… to you know… sleep with you.”
Mhm. Okay.
Jungkook doesn’t give a fuck at all. Not a single fuck. He just had sex last night. He just had great, fucking, mind-blowing sex. Who cares about Taehyung’s car? Who cares if it was all a plot?
Without even answering, Jungkook leans in with slender eyes, smiling as he kisses you. You on the other hand look confused, not really understanding why he’s not more riled up. You don’t really kiss him back, you just sit still. However, your heart does a weird little flip. Your head tells it to stop, but somehow… it just doesn’t.
And Jungkook keeps his blissful energy, humming contentedly against your lips. The world is all butterflies and rainbows. The world is beautiful, and so are you.
Fulfilling your parents' wish to see their only daughter get married was impossible. Especially since you didn't have a partner. So you come up with a plan. Pretend to get married to someone and then get divorced one year later. But countless blind dates don't seem to present you with the perfect pretend husband. Until your next-door neighbor, who always gets underneath your skin and drives you insane, offers to help. How hard could it be? It's only pretend, right?
enemies to lovers ⋆ next-door neighbor jungkook au
warnings ⋆ 18+! profanity, suggestive language, depictions & mentions of violent crimes, mentions of mental illness!, stalking, mild nudity, alcohol consumption, substance use, cheating, jk is kinda an a**hole in the beginning!
length ⋆ 8.5k+ / total length tbd
series masterlist | 03 04 05
memo ᝰ.ᐟ Apologies this took so long to post! There was so much to write for this chapter so it took way longer than planned to write. Also changed the title of this chapter while writing it. Hope you enjoy this chapter and that it was worth the wait :)
*Note: This chapter contains depictions of violence and stalking, and mentions of suicide. Reader discretion is advised.*
“I can’t believe you told your mom.” He blames you, as if you were that careless.
You did have your moments but this was something that only Jaesun knew about. And he’d know what would happen if he told anyone else about this.
“Hold on, what makes you think I told her about this? I never said a word.” You try to figure out why he jumped to conclusions and blamed you.
“Then how does she know?” Jungkook leans against the doorframe of his open front door. “How else would she know that you have a boyfriend?” He raises his eyebrows and waits for your response while looking down at you.
You breathe a sigh and mutter to yourself instead of answering his question. “That goddamn Chae Minseok. I’m going to kill him.”
“Chae Minseok? Who’s Chae Minseok?”
“He’s a guy that lived next door to me in Suwon when I was a kid. We were really close friends and even went to college together. Then he became an asshole so we had a falling out. And now he just had to be an idiot and tell my mom he saw me with you.” Your eyes meet Jungkook’s. He stares at you blankly. “What?”
“Nothing. Sorry, my mind was somewhere else.” He shakes his head, adjusting his posture and paying attention to you again.
You exhale, “I’ll just tell my mom that I don’t have a boyfriend and that what Minseok saw was nothing.”
“How the hell are you going to cover that up? You were in the swimming pool with me.”
“Yeah, but nothing happened.” You argue with Jungkook who seemed impossible to reason with at this hour. You technically did wake him up but this had to be discussed now, at least that’s what you thought.
“Just tell your mom I’ll meet her. I want to go back to sleep.” Jungkook rubs his eyes.
“What’s your angle?” You suspect that he had something up his sleeve. There’s no way he’d just agree to meeting your parents like that. Especially since you hadn’t even executed the beginning of your plan yet.
“There’s no angle. Can I go back to sleep now?” He whines, wanting you to leave him alone.
“You’re doing this to leave a good impression, right?” You glare at him, wanting to know why he was being so cooperative. Your gaze must’ve bothered him. He looks at you offended.
“I’m doing this so as to not hurt your mother’s feelings. I don’t want her to think that her only daughter has zero luck with men.” He shrugs his shoulders.
Yep, you were the idiot for asking that. To think he’d respond any differently to that question was just wishful thinking. “Fine. If you really want to go through with this, let’s go. I’ll introduce you to my mom.”
“We’re done here, right? I’m going back to sleep.” He shuts the door in your face. He leaves you alone to bite your bottom lip with your teeth and close your eyes anxiously.
How on earth were you going to swing this? There is no denying what your mom knows. You couldn’t deny it. Because it’s all true, Well, except for the boyfriend part. Jungkook was simply a pawn in your plan. He was not supposed to be anything more than that.
-
2 Days Later
“What’s taking you so-?” Jungkook hollers from the other side of your front door but cuts off his words when he sees you open your door all dressed up. “Woah.” He just stares at you, not knowing what to say.
You were wearing a fitted burgundy ribbed turtleneck tee, a black mini skirt with black tights, long knee-high boots, all layered with a long brown wool coat. Your hair was down with your ends slightly wavy, which was how it naturally looked. You also wore mascara and a glossy lip tint on your face. “What?” You wake him up from his daze with your voice.
“N-nothing.” He shakes his head. “You look different.”
“If that’s a compliment, thank you.” You close your door and stand next to him in the hallway.
“It’s amazing what makeup can do. You actually look somewhat presentable.” Jungkook smirks, knowing that he was pushing your buttons again.
You grit your teeth as your fingers curl into the palms of your hands. “Somewhat?”
He was amused by your reaction and just laughed, “Let’s go.” He gestures with his head, telling you to walk with him.
You take a few steps forward to walk behind him towards the elevator when you trip. It was the first time in a while that you had worn heels so you weren’t used to standing 5 inches above your actual height. A gasp reflexly escapes your lips as your body leans forward.
Fortunately, you didn’t fall to the floor. Jungkook had turned around when he heard you gasp and caught you. You lift your head and meet his eyes that are wide. Your heart suddenly races as you watch his pupils move left to right. He holds you for another minute while you lock eyes with him.
“You okay?” Jungkook helps you stand up straight.
You nod, moving the strand of hair in your face back to the side with your hand. “I’m fine. I just haven’t worn heels in a while.”
“I can tell.” Jungkook’s response earns a glare from you. “Sorry.” His voice goes down with his apology and a smirk appears on his face as he adjusts his suit jacket sleeves with his hands. “Shall we?”
“Why do you keep looking at your mirror?” Jungkook glances over at you from the driver seat.
You were holding your compact mirror and looking into it for the third time in ten minutes. Maybe you should’ve put concealer or blush on, or even worn a lip tint. It had been a few years since you brought a man home to your parents. The neighborhood you grew up in was a very tight-knit community where every one of your neighbors got involved when something happened. So if you bring Jungkook home looking as handsome as he does, all the adults will be invested. That got you thinking that you could’ve put more makeup on.
“Maybe I should’ve paid more attention to my makeup.” A soft exhale escapes your lips while you close the mirror in your hands and put it back into your purse.
“It’s fine. You’re pretty.” Jungkook throws that compliment at you so nonchalantly, like something he’d say to a sister.
“I thought I wasn’t your type.”
“That doesn’t mean that I can’t think you’re pretty. Not being my type and thinking you’re pretty are two completely different things.” He keeps his eyes on the road.
You nod, realizing that he was right. “True. I think you’re handsome but you’re not my type either.”
“See my point?” Jungkook takes his eyes off the road for a second to glance at you. His focus is back again on the road ahead of him. “So don’t worry.”
“Okay.” You mumble, turning your head to look out the window. “Did you really have work to do in Suwon when you drove me there that time?”
“Yeah. Well, I just met a friend.” Jungkook turns his head to his right to look at you. “Why? Did you think I just gave you a ride because I had nothing else to do?”
“No.” You mumble while keeping your eyes on the clear sky. You avoid saying anything so you don’t suggest any other reason for his actions.
“By the way, how is that guy I saw you with in the hallway that time your older brother? You told me that you don’t have any siblings.” Jungkook was trying to organize your relationship with Jaesun.
You look away from the window and your eyes are now staring straight ahead. “He’s not my biological brother, he’s my best friend. His and my dad are best friends from college so we grew up like siblings since we were babies. Both of us are only children and apparently I started calling him ‘older brother’ when we were kids. He is actually dependable like an older brother so that title just stuck.”
“So you were lying when you told me that.” Jungkook now understands, feeling slightly betrayed that you had lied, though it had been for good reason.
“That was the only way to stop you from making any more inappropriate comments about us.” You argue, knowing that he would’ve been an ass about you and Jaesun if you said otherwise.
“Fine, you’re right. I was an ass for saying that. I’m really sorry.” Jungkook apologizes again for making such a remark.
“It’s good that you know.” You chuckle, not making eye contact with him.
“What? That I’m an ass?”
“Yeah.”
“For your information, most guys out there are like that. Some are even worse.” He defends himself and all men.
“So you’re saying that you’re an ass just because you’re a guy?” You raise your eyebrows and look at him now. His argument wasn’t strong enough to persuade you on the matter.
“Technically, yes.” He stops talking for a second, wanting to choose his next words wisely. He then rectifies his position on the subject. “Wait, no. There are men who aren’t like that at all. So actually, that doesn’t mean that being a guy automatically makes you an ass.”
“Mm.” That was all you say.
“You don’t believe me.”
“No, it’s not that I don’t believe you. It’s just interesting.”
“What is?”
You scan his side profile, “You are.”
Jungkook scoffs, “I’m interesting? Because of what I said?”
“Yeah.”
“To each their own, I guess.” Jungkook tilts his head, finding you a bit odd. “You do remember that you said I’m not your type, right?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I have no intention of catching feelings for you. Let’s just make sure we pull this off, if anything. Okay?” You put him back in his place as he seemed to get ahead of himself.
“Okay.”
“Cute house.” Jungkook comments while observing the exterior of your parents’ house, which was also the house that you grew up in.
“My mom likes to design so she added her own touch to the whole house years ago. She’s been maintaining it since then, which I’ve got to give credit to her for.” You get out of the car at the same time as Jungkook. That was when you ran into Minseok’s mom who was admiring Jungkook’s car on her way home from the grocery store. “Hi, Ms. Park*!”
*In Korea, women do not take their husband’s last name when they get married and continue to go by their maiden name. The culture focuses on paternal ancestral lineage, with one’s last name considered to be a part of identity that is inherited, rather than one that is adopted through marriage, in this case.*
“Y/N!” Minseok’s mom waves to you with the hand that wasn’t holding a grocery bag. “You’ve gotten prettier!”
You smile, “You’ve gotten younger! Is Minseok behaving now?”
She shakes her head, knowing that what you said was nothing but wishful thinking. “You know better than anyone that he’s still got a long way to go. I mean, he’s still walking around the neighborhood telling on people.”
You breathe a disappointed sigh, “He’s 28 too now. He should stop giving you a hard time.”
“Exactly.” She glances at Jungkook, who bows his head slightly to greet her. “Who’s this?”
“This is, uh, my-.” You cut off your words, not knowing how to explain the relationship that you and Jungkook have.
She gasps before her eyes widen once she remembers. “This is the boyfriend I heard about.” She takes a look at Jungkook’s face. “He’s so handsome. Way better looking than the last man you brought home.”
Upon hearing that, Jungkook looks over at you with his eyebrows raised. His expression seemed to be questioning your taste in men. You dart your eyes at him, telling him not to say a word. He shrugs his shoulders.
“Go on and go inside. Your mom will be happy to see you both. Tell her I say ‘Hi’.” She waves as you and Jungkook both bow your heads to say, ‘Goodbye’.
As Minseok’s mom walks away, Jungkook goes to the trunk to take out the bottle of wine and flowers he had brought for your parents today.
You see the gifts in his arms as the trunk door falls closed. “So you do want to make a good impression.”
Jungkook scoffs, walking around the other side of the car towards you. “This is just standard practice. You can’t come empty-handed to these things.” He motions with his head for you to lead him to the front door.
You punch the passcode into the keypad lock mounted onto the front door and the door beeps unlocked. You are about to go inside when Jungkook clears his throat and you notice that his necktie was crooked. “Your tie.” Using both of your hands, you straighten it. While your fingers are adjusting it, you feel Jungkook look down at you. Your hands loosely hold onto his tie and you look up at him, making eye contact. “Your tie is, uh, straight now.”
“Why aren’t you coming in?” Jaesun stands in the doorway with his hand on the doorknob on the other side of the door.
“Jaesun? What are you doing here?” You weren’t expecting to see him here. Especially since today was the day your parents were meeting Jungkook, which Jaesun knew about.
“I just stopped by after seeing my mom.” He smiles, but you knew that he was really here to meet your partner in this little plan. “I’m Koo Jaesun.” Jaesun extends his right hand out to introduce himself to Jungkook.
“Jeon Jungkook, it’s nice to meet you.” Jungkook shakes Jaesun’s hand with his right.
“Actually, we’ve technically already met in passing.”
“Right.” Jungkook nods before looking at you again. “I better go inside and say ‘hello’.”
“Go ahead. I’ll just be a minute.” You watch as Jungkook walks inside and then you lightly slap Jaesun on the forearm. “Jaesun! How come you’re here?!” You whisper so that no one inside hears you.
“What? I’m part of this family too. Don’t I also get to meet this mysterious boyfriend of yours?” He smirks, teasing you.
“No, you don’t.” You glare at him and slap him harder this time. Now you had a very slim chance of actually pulling this off because the person who knew everything about it was here to surveil.
“Ow! That hurts!” He winces in pain, rubbing his forearm. “Come on, it’s cold.” Jaesun lets you go inside first before closing the front door behind him.
“You might as well move in.” You shake your head and chuckle while leaning your back against the wall of the foyer and taking off your boots.
“I did already. Some of my stuff is in your room.” Jaesun walks past you.
You slide your feet into the pair of slippers you always wear when you’re home. “You’re such an idiot.”
“I love you too.” He laughs, ruffling your hair.
“I thought I told you not to do that anymore.”
“You know I never listen to you.” He playfully bickers with you and then walks up the stairs with you.
“Hi, Mom.” You rush over to your mom in the kitchen and hug her from behind.
“Hi, sweetie.” She’s prepping vegetables in front of the counter. “Your boyfriend’s so well-mannered and handsome. I think your dad likes him too.”
You laugh, not knowing how else to respond.
“But you better go save your boyfriend. He’s being lectured about the history of wine.” Your mom tells you to go take your boyfriend away from what could turn into three hours of wine history class.
“Dad still does that? I can’t believe him.” You laugh, letting go of your mom and rushing into the den to grab Jungkook. “Dad! I’m here!” You smile at your dad who was talking about the origin of wine. “Dad, please. Stop giving lectures about the history of wine to everyone who comes over.”
“Why not? This guy gave me wine so he brought it upon himself.” Your dad argues, seeing nothing wrong with knowing the history of a universally popular beverage.
“Still. You did that to all of Jaesun’s and my friends, my college roommates. It’s getting old.” Walking over the couch where Jungkook was sitting, you touch his shoulder. “Come on, let’s go.”
“It’s okay. It’s actually interesting.” Jungkook looks up at you before his attention goes back to your dad. “Sir, please tell me more.”
“I like this guy. He’s not bad.” Your dad gets excited about someone finally having interest in his wine history talk.
You scoff, completely dumbfounded at the fact that he’s become a completely different person in front of your parents. “You can finish this discussion later. Come on, I have something to show you.” Grabbing onto Jungkook’s arm, you pull his body up so that he’s standing.
“I’m sorry, sir. Please tell me the rest later.” Jungkook bows to your dad before following you out of the den. “What are you doing? I’m trying to make a good impression.” He whispers behind you while you lead him into your bedroom on the third floor.
Once he comes into your bedroom, you close the door. You see a suitcase in the corner of the room next to the window and realize that Jaesun wasn’t kidding about already being moved into your house. You chuckle and then immediately realize where you were again and who you were with. Turning around to face Jungkook, you lower your voice. “What are you doing?”
“What do you mean? I’m trying to make a good impression on your family.” Jungkook talks in a whisper too. “If they think I’m a jerk, we have no shot at pulling this off.”
“Yeah, I know. But why are you suddenly acting so nice? It’s so not like you.”
“Babe, you don’t know anything about me.” Jungkook winks at you.
You close your eyes and shake your head as you open them again. “Wh-what did you just call me?”
“Babe. Why? You don’t like that?” Jungkook raises his eyebrows while smirking. He takes his eyes off of you and looks around your room. “So this is what your room looks like.”
“No, I don’t. Don’t ever call me that again.” You didn’t like that he was flirting with you. It made you feel strange.
“I don’t want to.” He turns around to face you again. He walks closer, shortening the distance between the two of you. His arm suddenly wraps around your waist and he pulls you close. “I want to keep calling you that.”
“Le-let me go.” You whisper, blinking. Your heart begins to race and you were scared that he’d be able to hear it.
“I don’t want to.” Jungkook whispers back, staring blankly at your lips. He begins to lean in as you exhale softly through your nose. His lips were now inches away from yours.
“Come on down. Lunch is-.” Jaesun suddenly opens your bedroom door and interrupts the moment. The sound of his voice immediately separates the two of you. “Woah. Sorry. As you were.” He backs away, closing the door.
You stare at your feet while putting your hair behind both of your ears with your hands.
Jungkook clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck nervously. “I’ll be outside.”
You lift your head and nod, “Okay, I’ll be right there.” You watch as Jungkook opens the bedroom door and walks out into the hallway.
Jaesun was standing by the door and immediately came in as soon as Jungkook left. “What was that?!” Jaesun widens his eyes and closes the door behind him so that Jungkook doesn’t hear him.
“What do you mean?” You take off your coat and throw it on your bed.
“You and him. Are you guys actually together?” Jaesun keeps his voice down.
“No, no. Of course not.”
“Then what did I just walk into?” Jaesun asks, wanting an honest answer from you.
“I-I don’t know either.”
Jaesun grabs your shoulders, “You’d tell me if something’s going on, right?”
“Yeah, of course. You’ll be the first to know.” You smile at your best friend before slowly taking his hands off of your shoulders. You walk towards your bedroom door and open it to find Jungkook waiting right outside. “Hi.”
“Hey. Shall we?” Jungkook lets you walk ahead of him down to the dining room.
“Are we going to ignore what happened before?” You break the silence the two of you were sitting in inside the car, now on your way home from Suwon.
“What? Did something happen before?” Jungkook pokes fun, smiling while keeping his eyes on the road.
“You know, before, in my bedroom. We almost, you know.” You stutter, not knowing how else to bring up the subject. It was awkward to talk about it as it was to think about.
“Why are you stuttering? There’s no reason to be nervous.” Jungkook keeps calm, not thinking much of it. After all, it didn’t really matter if he liked you or not.
Because this was only pretend.
“It doesn’t bother you?” You turn your head to look at him. “We almost kissed. We can’t just ignore that.”
“Yeah, almost. We didn’t actually kiss. So we can ignore it.”
You exhale. You knew that if Jaesun hadn’t opened the door when he did, yours and his lips would’ve touched. Or maybe they wouldn’t have.
Were you getting ahead of yourself?
Especially when Jungkook didn’t seem to really care about it.
“Anyway, are you okay?” Jungkook still kept his eyes on the road, not looking at you once since you left your parents’ house.
“What do you mean?” You squirm in the car seat, folding your arms across your chest as you are feeling chilly.
Jungkook notices you in his peripheral vision and turns up the heat in the car. “You kept getting texts earlier and seemed anxious about them. Is there something going on?”
Those texts were from Moon Taesung. The guy that Jaesun had set you up with. He had been stalking you at this point.
You shake your head, not wanting to tell Jungkook that you were being stalked. “No, I’m fine. Those texts were just spam.” You turn your head to look out the window.
-
Three Weeks Later
4:00 AM
You couldn’t sleep.
Your phone was blowing up with persistent texts from Moon Taesung. They were threats followed by apologies and several excuses, then back to threats. Basically, he was driving you crazy. Blocking his number wasn’t enough because he memorized yours and had been contacting you from burner phones. If you block those numbers, he’d just find another number to keep bothering you from.
On top of that, your next-door neighbor was blasting music and hanging out with friends at this hour. You thought that it was weird that he suddenly stopped playing music at night. It made you let your guard down and maybe consider that he had changed. Of course, that was for nothing because he clearly hadn’t. He was just… not himself for a while, to best describe it.
You turn your phone off because you could no longer deal with that stalker. And because silencing your ringer wasn’t enough.
You get back in bed and toss and turn, trying to find a comfortable position to let your body relax and to block out as much noise as possible.
But it doesn’t work.
The loud external stimuli causes your head to pound, making you feel like your brain is floating outside of your head. You control yourself and remain as calm as possible. But of course, this situation didn’t allow for self-control. Because the noise from next door just kept getting louder.
And louder.
And louder.
His blasting music and the sound of three grown men talking their heads off at 4:00 in the morning now echoes in your ears.
You had now been up for almost 48 hours straight and not by choice.
You needed sleep. But you couldn’t get any because of…
“This fucking asshole. I’m going to kill him.” You storm out of bed and walk out of your apartment to go over to your neighbor’s door. You ring the doorbell repeatedly and bang your fist against his door until he answers it.
After five minutes, he finally opens the door and you hear his laughter as he greets you in a way that is a little too nonchalant. “Hey, what’s up?” He was smiling at you.
Smiling.
“‘What’s up?’” You scoff, “Do you know what time it is right now?”
He just stares at you.
“It’s 4:00 in the morning, Jungkook.” You sigh, this wanting to be the very last thing you are dealing with right now.
“So?” He laughs, mocking you.
That response leaves you speechless. It was amazing that he couldn’t understand what was happening right now. Almost as if his judgement was impaired.
Unless it was.
You rest your hands on the sides of your waist and look down at the floor in disappointment. “‘So?’ ‘So?’” You were now angry. You huff, lifting your head to look at him again, “Are you drunk?”
Jungkook giggles, and puts his hand to his face to show you his index finger and thumb that were slightly parted to signal, ‘a little’.
“I think it’s a lot more than a little.” You let out another sigh. “You and your friends should just go to sleep.”
“I don’t want to.” Jungkook pouts, staring at you.
“Dammit, just go to sleep!” You scream, making him jump and at the same time, sobering him up a little. You exhale deeply to calm down and then lower your voice, “That way I can sleep too. Okay?”
He nods, not knowing how else to respond to your rage.
“I’ve been up for the past 2 days straight. I haven’t gotten any sleep at all. So, if you and your friends can just shut up for a few hours, so that I can sleep, that’d be great.” You explain your current deteriorating state of alertness to the drunk man standing in front of you, as if he’s able to comprehend a single word of it.
Jungkook nods again.
“Good. Thank you.” You exhale and watch as he closes his door. You drag yourself back inside your apartment.
Jungkook obviously didn’t listen to you and kept on making all the noise he wanted.
You whine, hearing the continuous loud noise. “I should’ve known better than to expect anything from him.” You sit on your bed in a daze. Insomnia kicked in and kept you from getting any rest at all.
9:00 PM
“Then what do I do?” You run your free hand through your hair while the other one holds your phone in front of your face.
You were so tired.
“The restraining orders weren't enough. And I can’t keep blocking every single number he tries to contact me from. Changing my number will just make him angry and he’ll eventually find out what it is.”
“Did you get any sleep?” Jaesun glances at you through his phone screen.
“No.” You rub your eyes. “I‘ve been up for 3 days straight.”
Jaesun exhales while typing on the keyboard of his work laptop. “He’s been arrested before for stalking.” He concentrates on reading his computer screen.
“What? He’s done this to other people?!”
“Yeah. I’m doing a more detailed background check on him on the Seoul Police database and it says that he’s been arrested on multiple occasions for stalking. Once 7 years ago, then again 5 years ago and then a third time 6 months ago. The first time, he was subjected to a fine of 30 million KRW as it was a first-time offense. The second time, he was sentenced to 3 years in prison. And then 6 months ago, he was tried but excused because the victim committed suicide. He pleaded not guilty because the victim was his girlfriend and the reason she committed suicide had nothing to do with him. The verdict of that trial was obviously in his favor.”
You scoff, in complete disbelief of what you just heard. “Can you find out who the victims were?”
“One sec.” Jaesun clicks around on his computer screen before finding a string of restraining orders against Moon Taesung. “Woah. What the hell?”
“What? Did you find the victims?”
“No. There’s a shit ton of restraining orders against this guy. Seriously, what the hell?” Jaesun takes his eyes off of his computer and looks at you on the FaceTime call. “It's dangerous for you to be alone right now. Come stay with me for a while. I’ll come pick you up.
“You sure? What about Dohee?” You didn’t want to crash at his place when he has a girlfriend.
“It doesn’t matter. We broke up anyway.” He gets up and talks to you while walking down the stairs. “Come on. Pack some clothes and things you need. I’m on my way right now.”
“Okay.” You nod, rushing to your bedroom to pack a carry-on.
“I’ll switch this call to a voice call so stay on the phone with me until I get there. And stay in your apartment. I’ll come up and get you.” Jaesun was really worried about your safety right now. He didn’t want Moon Taesung to hurt you, or worse.
You stay on the phone with Jaesun while packing your things. Your phone then goes off, receiving a text message from Jungkook.
You exhale and pick up your phone to respond to his text.
You groan, annoyed with his childish behavior. You weren’t finished packing up and Jaesun lived only ten minutes away. He could technically wait for you while you finished but you just hated having things not done. Now you had to go to the door when you honestly were scared. Bringing your phone with you, you walk out to the front door. You turn on the video intercom just to make sure it was Jungkook at the door and not anyone else. You weren’t able to trust anyone but Jaesun and your parents lately.
And rest assured, it was Jungkook at the door. You breathe and take a few steps to the door before pushing it open. “What?” You were greeted by Jungkook holding a bouquet of flowers and a small teddy bear in front of his face. “What the-?”
“An apology for all the noise I caused earlier this morning. I didn’t know that you couldn’t sleep because of me.”
What’s with the sudden apology?
“Of course you didn’t know. You were that drunk.”
He notices your extremely tired-looking eyes and dark circles that could be seen from a mile away. “Did you get any sleep last night?”
“What do you think? You kept your music blasting until 11:00AM but by then I was wide awake and couldn’t get any sleep all day.” You just wanted him to go away. You weren’t in the mood to deal with him right now.
“I’m a horrible neighbor.” He was being sarcastic.
You stare at him with a bored look in your eyes, not amused. “If that’s all you had to say,” You pull back the door to close it when Jungkook stops it with his free hand.
“Wait, you’re not going to take this?”
You raise your eyebrows, “Why would I take that?”
“Because it’s for you.”
“Yeah but why is it for me? I’m not your girlfriend or anything. You don’t have to give me stuff like that.”
Jungkook sighs, letting his hand holding the bouquet and teddy bear fall down to his side. “You got me. Some guy wanted me to give this to you on the way up. He looked oddly familiar.” Jungkook tilts his head, trying to remember where he saw the guy before.
“Oh shit! He’s here.” You grab Jungkook by his arm and pull him inside your apartment.
“Y/N, what are you-?” He starts, confused by this whole situation, but you lean your chest against his and reach up to cover his mouth with your hand. Jungkook instinctively lifts his arm and gently touches your back.
You keep your hand on his mouth while putting your phone to your ear. “Jaesun, Moon Taesung is here. He just gave Jungkook flowers and a teddy bear to give to me. I don’t think I should leave my apartment.” You whisper into the speaker of your phone, scared. The left side of your head is now slightly leaning on Jungkook’s chest.
“Hold on. I’m almost there. He’s probably still there and even if he’s gone, he probably didn’t get far. There’s nowhere to go in your neighborhood. Just stay inside until I go up, okay?”
“Okay.” You calm down a bit.
“Are you alone right now?”
You shake your head as if Jaesun could see you right now. “No, Jungkook’s with me.”
“I’m here. I’ll see if he’s still around and then call you back, okay?”
“Okay. Be careful.” You end the phone call and exhale before noticing that you and Jungkook were still in that position. You feel him looking at you so you turn your head and look up at him. The next few minutes are silent as you hold eye contact with each other. Your heart begins to race as does his. Once it calms down a bit, you take your hand off of his mouth. “Sorry. I didn’t want Moon Taesung to hear anything just in case he passed by.”
“Are you being stalked right now?”
You nod with your body still close to his.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jungkook keeps his voice down and doesn’t ask you to move away from him.
“We’re not exactly close enough to tell each other these things.”
“I’ve met your parents. I’d say we’re close.” He pauses before speaking again, now connecting the dots. “That’s the guy that was texting you nonstop three weeks ago when we were at your parents’, right?”
He didn’t let go of your back. Not that it bothered you.
“Yeah.” You now back up from Jungkook, realizing that you had been standing that close to each other for way too long. He also lets go of your back. Your phone then rings, it was Jaesun. “Did you find him?”
“Nope. I couldn’t find him anywhere near here.” His voice shakes as he is running up the stairs to your apartment. “I’m almost all the way up to your place. Just sit tight.” He ends the phone call and sprints up the remaining flights of stairs with Detective Ahn behind him as backup.
You exhale, and let your right hand that was holding your phone, fall to your side. You didn’t know whether to feel relieved or more nervous. You bite your lip and run your left hand through your hair while impatiently waiting for Jaesun. Two minutes later, your doorbell rings. “He’s here already?” You mumble to yourself before checking the video intercom.
There was no one at the door.
The bell rings again so you look through the intercom again.
Again, no one.
“Jaesun, is that you?!” You call from inside to see if he was there. No one answered back so you decided to go to the door and open it.
“Y/N, don’t open it.” Jungkook whispers, trying to stop you from potentially hurting yourself as neither of you knew who was out there. You don’t listen and just keep inching toward the door. He gets frustrated with you, “Have you never watched a horror movie? Don’t open it. Just stay here.”
Your hand grabs onto the doorknob and turns it so that the door opens. You peer around to see if anyone was there.
Just then, Moon Taesung’s head pokes out in front of you with a creepy smile on his face. “Peek-a-boo.”
You scream and try to close the door but he was obviously stronger than you so you lose that fight and the door is now wide open. You turn back around to face Jungkook, who’s standing a few feet away from you, completely helpless. “Jungkook, help.” Your voice shakes as Moon Taesung hovers behind you.
Moon Taesung is holding a pocketknife in his right hand, lifting it as he abruptly wraps his left arm around you from behind and takes you hostage. You jump in response. The hand holding the pocketknife clumsily hovers close to the left side of your neck, with the knife just barely grazing your skin. “Just stay where you are. If you move, she goes.” His voice trembles, giving away that he was also scared.
You exhale slowly, not wanting to provoke the man threatening to kill you right now.
Jungkook looks at your face and lifts his hands into the air. “Let her go. We can talk this out.” He tries to keep Moon Taesung calm.
“No, we can’t.” Moon Taesung shakes his head and tightens his grip on the knife. The blade slightly pokes your skin making it sting. He talks to you now, “Why do you keep ignoring me? I like you so much.”
“If you like me so much, why do you keep threatening to kill me? Is that the way you show your love?” You ask, not trying to provoke him, but to understand.
“Because you keep ignoring me!” Moon Taesung raises his voice, the knife now slightly piercing your skin. He exhales slowly, “You told me to leave you alone and I can’t do that.”
“Why not? You just have to give me some space.” You continue talking to him so that his mind is off of the real reason he’s here.
“I just can’t.” Moon Taesung exhales shakily.
“Why?” You close your eyes and let out a soft groan as the blade from the pocketknife was pressing deeper into your neck, now cutting your skin.
Jungkook furrows his eyebrows and tilts his head, looking at you like you're crazy for talking to Moon Taesung. He shakes his head, telling you to stop and just be quiet. Especially since Moon Taesung was seriously trying to hurt you now.
You slightly nod your head, asking him to trust you. You had already sent an SOS to Jaesun before you opened the front door because you were wary of what was about to happen.
“I just-.” Moon Taesung exhales deeply and closes his eyes. “Can’t.”
Just then, Jaesun approaches from behind with his partner, holding a taser in his hands. Moon Taesung had his back to the door so he couldn’t immediately see who was behind him.
“Drop the knife and let her go, Moon Taesung.” Jaesun stands behind him, pointing the taser at his back.
Detective Ahn stands on the other side, behind Moon Taesung also armed with a taser for defense.
Moon Taesung holds onto you tighter and laughs, amused at your attempt to lock him away. “It’s been a while, Detective Koo. Thanks for introducing me to this lovely girl.”
“Just step away from her.” Jaesun keeps his voice calm, trying to control the situation.
“It’s too bad that I won’t be able to see her anymore.”
“What do you mean?” Jaesun asks, confused.
“Because I’m about to kill her.” Moon Taesung smiles, peering over to see blood dripping down your neck. “See? I’ve already started. Just an inch over to the jugular vein and with a little more pressure, she goes ‘Bye-bye’.” He laughs, proud of the job that he’s done already.
“Don’t you fucking dare.” Jaesun’s voice now shakes, scared for your life.
Moon Taesung turns his head to his left and glances at Jaesun, “Watch me.” He whispers, pressing the knife further into your neck.
You groan, beginning to feel lightheaded.
“Y/N!” Jungkook calls from the other side of the room. He looked like he was going to sprint over to you any second.
“Shut up! You.” Moon Taesung makes eye contact with Jungkook, “I remember you. You’re her husband. Or at least, that’s what you said that time.” He inhales before speaking again. “Why don’t you try and come save her?” He laughs at Jungkook, whose eyes stare at his angrily.
Jungkook takes a step forward, but then retreats back to where he was standing at Jaesun’s command.
“Don’t move. Just stay there. Responding to him is only going to make things worse.” Jaesun’s attention is back on the armed man in front of him. “You crazy-.” Jaesun starts, but gets cut off by Moon Taesung.
“Careful, detective. The more you talk like that, the deeper into her neck the knife will go.”
Jaesun now tears up. He knew that he couldn’t let his emotions take over right now, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t want to lose you. “Drop the knife and let her go when I’m telling you nicely.”
“Fine.” Moon Taesung smirks, sliding the knife against your neck. He lets go of you and you begin to fall to the floor. He turns around and drops the knife, “Happy?”
“You bastard!” Jaesun curses and drops his taser to grab Moon Taesung’s collar and punch him repeatedly in the face.
Jungkook sprints over and catches you before you fall to the floor.
“I-I’m sleepy.”
“Shh, shh.” Jungkook puts his hand to the cut on the left side of your neck. He takes his hand off and sees that his palm is stained with blood. “Don’t talk.” He whispers and covers the cut on your neck again with his hand
“Jaesun, stop. You can’t kill him.” Jaesun’s partner, Detective Ahn, pulls Jaesun away from Moon Taesung. “He’s not worth losing your job.”
Moon Taesung’s face was bruised all over with his lips bleeding. He stares at Jaesun with a smirk on his face, mocking him. Jaesun huffs and glares at Moon Taesung before relaxing his body. Detective Ahn lets go of him and walks over to handcuff Moon Taesung. Detective Ahn recites the Miranda Rights while handcuffing Moon Taesung.
Jaesun rushes over to you and Jungkook. He kneels down and grabs your face with his hands. “Y/N.” He looks at you with watery eyes.
“Jaesun.” Your voice is weak as you slowly blink while looking at Jaesun. Cold sweats begin to fall down the edge of your face. “I-I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” Jaesun’s voice cracks, sniffling. He shakes his head before looking at Jungkook’s hand that was stained with your blood. “Oh god.”
You close your eyes as you are now losing consciousness.
“Hey.” Jaesun lightly taps your face with his hand. “Hey, stay with me.” His voice cracks.
“Jaesun.” Detective Ahn calls, telling Jaesun that they have to go to take Moon Taesung down to the station to book him.
Jaesun sniffles and clears his throat. “Go ahead. I’ll meet you there after I take her to the hospital.”
“I’ll go with you.” Jungkook offers to help.
Jaesun nods, “Then if you don’t mind.”
“Let’s go.” Jungkook stands up from the floor, carrying you in his arms. He follows Jaesun out your front door down to the car.
10:00 PM
“Minjun! Seo Minjun!” Jaesun calls for a mutual friend of you and Jaesun’s, while running into the emergency room with you and Jungkook. Seo Minjun is an in-hospital Internal Medicine specialist at Seoul National University Hospital, which is where Jaesun brought you to.
“Hey, is she hurt badly?” Minjun runs up to Jaesun after getting his call. He looks at you, who was unconscious in Jungkook’s arms. “This way.” He leads the three of you to the empty bed in the inner corner of the emergency room.
“She was held hostage in her apartment by an armed stalker with a pocketknife just now and he cut her pretty deep. Then she just passed out.” Jaesun catches him up to speed as Jungkook lays you down on the hospital bed.
Minjun calls for a nurse. “Nurse Park!”
A young man runs up to him, “Yes, sir,” and he immediately hooks you up to a monitor to take your vitals. “BP 140/90, pulse rate 110. Temp, 39.8 degrees Celsius.” Nurse Park reports.
Minjun stands at bedside looking at your tired face and notices your cold sweats, “What about sleep? Has she gotten any?” He immediately knew that you were also sleep deprived.
Jaesun stands on Minjun’s right. He shakes his head and sighs, “Not for the last 3 days.” He rubs the back of his neck with his hand. “I can’t believe I let this happen.”
“How are you? Are you hurt?” Minjun looks after his best friend.
Jaesun shakes his head and exhales, “I’m fine.” He lifts his left arm to look at the time on his watch. “I have to go. I said I’d meet my partner back at the station to help him book the guy that did this to Y/N.”
“Go. She’s in good hands. I’ll call and update you later.”
“Thanks, man.” Jaesun pats Minjun on the shoulder and leans down to stroke your head softly with his hand. He was about to leave when he remembered that he had to fill out paperwork for you. “What about the emergency room admission-?”
“Don’t worry about it. I got it.” Minjun smiles. “You’re not the only one who knows everything about her.”
Jaesun nods and chuckles, “See you later, man.”
“Please give her IV fluids, a tetanus shot, get labs on her and bring me 2% lidocaine and a suture kit for stitches.” Minjun orders before Nurse Park goes to prepare everything.
“Is she going to be okay?” Jungkook asks Minjun after Jaesun leaves.
“Who-?”
“Oh, I’m her boyfriend. I’m Jeon Jungkook.” Jungkook extends out his hand to shake Minjun’s. He just called himself that for the sake of the situation. Well, he technically was worried about you right now. So if the situation permits…
“Seo Minjun. I’m a good friend of both Y/N’s and Jaesun’s. Nice to meet you.” He shakes Jungkook’s hand. “It looks like she passed out from shock and sleep deprivation. I’m going to stitch the cut on her neck, give her antibiotics and do some blood work. Once we give her fluids and she gets some sleep, she should be fine.”
“Thank you.” Jungkook bows his head.
“I’ll be back.” Minjun smiles at Jungkook before going to the nurse station to fill out your paperwork for you.
3:00 AM
You stir awake after being asleep for what seemed like days and slightly open your eyes. You weren’t in your bedroom. Instead, you were laying down on your back on a rather uncomfortable mattress. You tilt your head up to see a monitor and an IV bag hanging next to it. Then you feel a sting from the needle that was stuck in your right arm.
Voices from the emergency room echo in your ears and you realize that you were in the hospital.
Why were you here?
You couldn’t remember what happened after Jungkook came to your door earlier. You stare at the ceiling, trying to remember. That’s when you feel someone holding your hand. You turn your head to the right to see that someone was sleeping with his head resting on the mattress next to you. You weren’t sure who it was because his face was turned away from you. His right hand loosely holds yours.
Is it Jaesun?
A smile slowly curls on your lips before you fall asleep again.
7:00 AM
You open your eyes and see Minjun at your bedside adjusting the drip of the IV bag.
“You’re up?” Minjun looks down at you.
“Minjun?” You were confused to see him here. You look around and notice that you were in a hospital room. “What am I doing here?”
Minjun puts his hands into his white coat pockets, “Jaesun and your boyfriend brought you into the emergency room last night after you passed out with a big cut on your neck. I heard that you were being held hostage by a stalker who was trying to kill you.”
You now remember what happened. “Right. I was.”
“Not only were you sleep deprived and in shock, but also dehydrated and malnourished.” Minjun tells you after doing blood work on you last night. “How could you let yourself get to that state?” He nags.
“Sorry.” You apologize for worrying him.
Minjun chuckles and ruffles your hair, “Jaesun said he’s coming later so ask him to buy you good food. You need to eat.”
“He’s probably going to buy me food even though I don’t ask him to.”
He laughs, “True. Anyway, get some more rest and I’ll come back to check on you again later.” Minjun was about to walk away but you tug on his sleeve. He turns around to face you again.
“Why am I in a room? Wasn’t I in the emergency room earlier?”
“This morning your boyfriend asked if you could be moved into a room. He paid for it and everything.”
“Oh.” You let go of his sleeve and let him walk out. You lean back in the bed and stare at the wall.
Why did he do that?
-
One Week Later
“Hey.” Jungkook speaks through the cigarette in his mouth.
You just walk past him without saying a word.
He takes the cigarette out of his mouth with his fingers and speaks again, this time getting your attention. “You’re still ignoring me?”
“When did I ignore you?” You turn around to look at him.
Jungkook puts the cigarette back against his lips to inhale the nicotine. He pulls the cigarette away before exhaling the smoke. “You haven’t said much to me for the past week.”
“So that means I’m ignoring you?”
“I’d say so.”
You shake your head, “If you want attention so badly, then you should be the one to say something to me first.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You haven’t said much to me either. I’m just going with the flow here.”
Jungkook chuckles and takes another inhale of his cigarette before walking closer to you. “When did I not say much to you?”
“All week.”
“Nope. I never did.”
“Well, you have.” You argue with him, making it clear that you were only not talking to him because he wouldn’t talk to you.
He takes another inhale of nicotine. “Fine.” Smoke escapes through his lips as he speaks. He didn’t want to argue with you anymore about this.
“Why did you stay in the emergency room with me?”
“That wasn’t me.” He denies it, not wanting to get caught about the fact that he stayed with you.
“Well, it wasn’t Jaesun. I asked him. So it must’ve been you.” You fold your arms across your chest. “You could’ve gone home. Why did you stay?”
“Was I supposed to leave you alone then?” Jungkook lets the cigarette burn out at his side.
“You could’ve.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“Why not?” You were genuinely curious. You couldn’t understand him at all.
“Because,” he pauses before finishing his thought. “I’ve become curious about you.”
