From the moment he laid eyes on you, stood with his sister, La Toya, introduced to the family as his sibling’s friend at Hayvenhurst for the first time, in a pretty plaid skirt and a taupe oversized sweater — he knew he loved you.
Loved you so much he’d go to the ends of the Earth for you. Travel miles just to hold you for 5 minutes. Cancel every tour, every show if you needed him, at the drop of a hat.
Especially so once you became his official girl.
He’d do absolutely anything.
Anything but make sweet love to you.
It kept you up at night — how can a man so infatuated not want to strip you bare and ravish you till the sun came up. Not want to see you, stark naked, in all your glory, writhing and whining underneath him as he took you.
Michael had his reasons.
Timidity. Inexperience. Insecurity.
But, the largest factor of all — religion.
Michael was a raised as a devoted Jehovah’s Witness — something his Mother had instilled in him from birth. A religion built on morality and modesty. A religion that forbid sexual intercourse before marriage.
Michael wasn’t as devoted as his Mother — ever since his album Off the Wall, he had slowly began parting ways with the religion. Distancing himself as the connotations of his album were subtly frowned upon due to mentions of sensuality and infidelity — however, his personal beliefs about a higher power still remained.
He still, after his parting, believed that sex was something marital and holy — something to be worshipped and protected, performed with someone you truly love and trust.
And he did. He did, wholeheartedly, love and trust you — with every fibre of his being. But, every time your hand would trickle down his body, grazing over the painfully obvious bulge that clad him beneath his slacks — he would stop you. The guilt that washed over him far greater than any aching pleasure he so desired.
As time progressed, and your relationship blossomed — that guilt diminished. Grower smaller and smaller with each tentative touch or pleading look you’d give him. Each one cracking the glass dome of restraint he had locked himself in.
You knew tonight you’d finally shattered it.
Michael was sat comfortably next to you on the sofa at Hayvenhurst, a gentle hand resting on the curve of your clothed knee, television blabbering in the background as you watched him. He looked gorgeous in every aspect, but right now — calm, relaxed, content, it took the cake.
“Watch the movie, lovey.” His voice soft and bashful, a blush creeping onto the round of his cheeks after catching you staring.
“I think my view is better.”
Michael breathed out a huff of timid air — your quick-witted flirting always got to him. “Stop. Y’know I’ll get shy.”
You giggled next to him, shuffling closer to his warm body, “I know y’beautiful, Mike.”
He laughed, turning his flushed face away from you in embarrassment, “Can’t say stuff like that.”
“Why not?”
“‘Cause..” “‘Cause, what, angelface?”
Michael groaned, finally returning his gaze back onto you, a smile he failed to suppress adorning his ethereal face, “‘Cause y’makin’ me think things that I shouldn’t.”
Ting!
The lustful lightbulb sparked so bright in your brain you almost saw stars.
There was your green light.
“Like what, sweetie.” Your voice now hushed, darker, deeper — an undertone of temptation that had Michael reeling inside, “Tell me.”
“B-Baby.” He was cracking — you were certain. The way he twitched as a calculated hand fell into the tense of his lap, stroking languidly along his clothed thigh, the denim scratching along your manicured nails — paired with a small knit in his eyebrows that made him look so deliciously adorable.
“What’s up, honey?” You teased, face now inches from his own bashful one, “Tell me what’s goin’ on in that pretty lil’ mind of yours.”
Michael whined, deep from his throat, as you pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Your mouth moved slowly — trailing to his warm cheek, to the sharp of his jawline, and ending on the smooth of his bare neck. The gentleness of your lips against his burning skin had him fluttering his eyes shut — basking in the sensation. His hands moved subconsciously, once against your knee, now hesitantly holding the curve of your waist as you pressed yourself against him.
“Wanna hear it, Michael.”
He whined again, ever so louder this time, a statement of his timidity, “Baby, please.”
Your lips left his skin to move upwards, meeting his gaze once more. He looked wrecked — torn between honouring his devout innocence or letting his dirty mouth reveal his secrets.
You made the decision for him, clambering over him to settle in his lap, legs either side of his twitching hips. His eyes shot open in surprise.
“Honey, I-“ “It’s okay, sweet boy, I know what you’re thinkin’, anyways. Someone else is doin’ all the talkin’ for ya.”
Michael knew exactly what you were on about.
His embarrassingly obvious hard-on pressed into the softness of your clothed cunt — your skirt ridden up your thighs so perfectly that the cotton of your panties now resided directly on top of the boner he was attempting to hide. Despite never seeing his gracious cock with your own eyes, you knew he was big — every ridge now digging into the slick of your covered folds, hugging his length through his pyjamas bottoms.
“Let me make you feel better, handsome.”
Heaven and hell. That was the only thought that plagued Michael’s mind in this moment. Did he remain pledged to his beliefs, or was the way your drooling cunt wrapped around him, despite the barrier of clothing, enough to make him crack?
With one flex of his grip around your waist, and a breathy whine from your lips — the restraint shattered.
His lips met yours in a feverish connection — sloppy and messy. Spit coating your lips and chin as he forced his eager tongue into your mouth — hands now splayed across the small of your back, pushing you closer. His mouth met yours in a frantic motion, quick and rushed, like he was afraid someone, or something, would stop him at any moment. Your hands slipped up his body, resting on the lean of his shoulders, before sliding into the sweetness of his curls.
He truly crumbled when your hips began moving.
A slow, tantalising rock against him — movements so precise and languid he was certain one harsh buck and he’d fill his boxers right then and there. You had played this game with him before — being in this compromising position wasn’t new to you and Michael. You had once, in a state of pleasure, picked up your speed as you rocked against him, but he quickly shut it down. Telling you, bashfully, he was soon to finish and felt wrong about it — paired with a pout and blush.
This time, though, when your hips picked up a swifter pace — he daren’t stop you.
He’d been agonisingly hard and denied an orgasm for months now — every time he’d nearly get there, the devil on his shoulder telling him to carry on and make a mess of his shorts, the angel on the other side would force him to halt your hips to a stop, apologising at the way you’d whine in disappointment.
Michael let you take what you needed — back arched, hands threaded through his curls as you fucked yourself on his clothed cock, the prettiest noises falling from your swollen lips.
“Y’look so beautiful like this.” Michael revealed quietly, hands following the liquid movements of your hips, eyes trailing over your frame, focusing on your erect nipples poking through your tank-top, the curve of your breasts becoming more visible with each bounce.
With every drag he guided along the ridge of his cock that relentlessly nudged against your puffy clit — your whines got louder, only forcing his cock to throb beneath.
Michael, all too familiarly, held you to a stop.
“Michael.” His name fell past your lips in a desperate plea, the pleasure depleting as you stilled against his crotch.
“I know, I know, sweet girl.” He reassured, leaning up to press a gentle peck to your pouting lips, “M’not stoppin’, don’t worry that pretty head. Just wanna try somethin’.”
He lifted you off his lap with strong precision — settling you down to a place you’d not explored with the temptation between your legs.
His thigh.
“There y’go, pretty.” He whispered, smoothing down the back of your hair in kind strokes, “Go’head, baby, take what’cha you need.”
Your head reeled at the sudden change in his disposition — the once shy boy had magically been transformed into a confident man as the remains of his restraint settled around you.
His new attitude sent a pulsation so strong between your thighs you ground down on his — the tense of his muscle rolling against your nub in the most sensual way. Something you’d never quite felt before.
“Oh, God.” You whined — ignoring the way Michael tched at the name used in vain, not once stopping as he dragged you along his leg, lip caught between his teeth as he ogled at you.
“D’ya feel good, pretty?” Despite his switch in confidence, he was still desperate for your praise, his voice cracking slightly as he met your glossy eyes.
“Mmhm—s-s’good, Mikey.” Your voice hit him right where he needed you most — the place between his twitching legs that had been denied touch for so long.
You didn’t miss the way his hips bucked ever so slightly upwards, chasing a grasp he undeniably craved. Your hands soothed that ache — reaching forward, ever so hesitantly, to palm the bulge in his slacks.
Michael gasped, hand flinching at your side, frantic eyes meeting yours once more, “This okay, angel?” You questioned.
Michael’s lip sucked between his teeth once again, glance flickering from your gorgeous smile to your manicured hands hovering over his crotch. An act he would once deny — but not this time.
He hummed, his voice high-pitched and needy, nodding quickly, “Please, mama.”
A curse fell from your swollen rosebud at the sound of his despair — your hand enveloping around his length beneath his bottoms.
“Oh, my Lord.”
He was done for — head falling back against the plush of the sofa, eyes rolled to his skull as the pleasure washed over him. You wasted no time in pleasing the man beneath you, never once stopping rocking your hips against him, as you slowly stroked him.
The scene was erotic — a dirty array of arousal in the way he bucked his hips unapologetically into your hand, cock throbbing under your palm, as you continued to hump the meat of this thigh, your slick staining the blue denim that had trickled from your soaked panties. It was enough for him — no direct physical contact, but just the right amount of pleasure to satisfy you both.
When your thumb swiped over the oozing head of his cock, Michael lost it. Whining so loud like he didn’t care who heard — the sudden boldness depleting faster than it had come around, now replaced by uncontrollable desperation.
“O-Oh, s-shit,” The curse fell from his mouth before he could suppress it, “G-Gonna cum, lovey.” His hips now fucking up into your hand pathetically, chasing a high he’d been yearning for for so long.
In your own state of blinding pleasure, your only response was a melodic whimper, his tensing thigh hitting the ridge of your clit that had your own orgasm building. Michael, with no prior warning, came with a cry, his milky white release soaking the material of his boxers — the neediest whines of lust filling the room. You soon followed — an exclaim of his name hitting his ears, only furthering his pleasure, as you came undone on his thigh, humping him at such a speed you were almost a blur in his glassy vision.
Michael heaved as he came down from a high that had been lingering on his mind since the moment you met him — an orgasm so strong he was twitching uncontrollably. You stilled against his leg, catching your breath simultaneously, peering down at his fucked out state.
“Thank you, pretty.”
“Ah, ah, I’m not done with you yet.”
Michael swore he died and went to heaven as you dropped to your knees beneath him — eyes hungry and dark, agenda unclear to him.
It was only when you lay your tongue flat against the rough of his jeans, the ones you had once fucked yourself on, licking up your essence that clad the denim, that Michael realised how much of a sex-hungry slut you were. The tang of your seeping arousal lingered on your tongue as you lapped up the mess you’d made on him — glancing up at him through your lashes at his knitted eyebrows and agape mouth. His suspicion that you were a cock-slut only deepening as you retracted your tongue back into your mouth, savouring the taste of yourself, and kissed your way up his leg, getting dangerously close to where he was pulsating.
“Mama, I—“ “Shhh, just gonna clean y’up, baby.”
Michael saw stars when you shoved his pyjama bottoms down his thighs and latched your greedy mouth to the wet spot that clad his boxers, a crackled groan ripping from his throat as you hummed around him. Your lips, settling right against the softening tip of his cock, suckled the cum straight from the cotton — his salty release flooding your tastebuds, colliding with the tang of your own essence in a delicious blaze on your tongue. His hand flew down to cradle your cheek as you lapped up the cum that stained him — his cock throbbing once more as your hands gripped his thighs, jeans now even more wet from your eager mouth.
“Baby—fuck, I-I’m gonn—“ With a strangled cry, another irrepressible spurt of cum shot from him once more, hands tightening ever so slightly around your flushed cheek as you greedily sucked up what he blessed you with — lapping up his second orgasm like you were dying of thirst.
Only when you pulled away, satisfied with your salty refreshment, did Michael’s breathing level out — blissed out expression meeting your devilish one.
hUUmm Hiii!! I’m actually REALLY embarrassed to ask for this!!! like damnnnn T-T
But could you write a fanfic where a submissive Michael (Off the Wall or Thriller era) masturbates with a pillow or stuffed animal while looking at photos of the girl he likes?
All while feeling a bit guilty for feeling like he’s sinning, but he just can’t stop.
I hope u like this idea, i love ur fanfics btw!!
guilty ecstasy
Authors Note: y'all are so reverently dirty it makes me giggle. i added a poll to see if there was interest for this -- 97% of you said along with the anon that you wanted this, so here we are! im working my way through other requests, so if anything springs to mind - please write me a letter here!
Pairing: Solo! Michael Jackson
Summary: Michael, alone in his rather large bedroom at Hayvenhurst is feeling a little overstimulated. He needs to release the pressure; but to do this he grapples with his religion and is innate want of intimacy.
Word Count: 1821
Tags: smut,porn with plot, solo masturbation, religious guilt, dry humping, michael in his lil silk pyjamas c'mon now ;), he thinking about all those girls throwing themselves at him and sending their panties in the mail lmao
Playlist; if anyone is interested, you can listen to it here
18+ minors dnu!!!
The air in his Encino bedroom was thick with the scent of orange blossoms from the garden, trapped by the drawn velvet curtains.
It was past midnight, a rare pocket of stillness in Michael’s cacophonous life. It was almost pitch black in the room, except from one of his old multicolour light up disco toys shining on the opposite side of the bedroom.
The house, a sprawling monument to success, slept around him. Only the faint, persistent squeak of the pool filter from outside breached the silence.
He lay on his back atop the oversized bed, its pale sky blue comforter cool against his skin.
He wore silk pajamas, a gift from Latoya when he had turned 19.
His mind, a relentless projector, had been replaying the day’s studio session—the synth beat on “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough,” the way his own voice had soared on the playback, a sound of pure, unleashed joy that felt separate from the boy laying in bed.
That feeling, that electric surge up his spine when the music finally clicked and finally made sense, it was still there, buzzing under his skin like a trapped bug.
But now, alone, the energy had nowhere to go. It pooled low in his stomach, a warm, restless ache. He shifted, and the friction of the silk against his thigh sent a small, shocking jolt through him. He went very still.
It’s just tiredness, he thought, the words forming in the cadence of his mother’s voice. You need to pray and go to sleep.
He tried.
He folded his hands over his chest, staring at the ceiling above.
“Oh Jehovah, thank you for this day. Please help me to be a better person tomorrow and watch over my family. I ask this in Jesus' name, amen.” he whispered, quietly.
But the warmth didn’t subside. It pulsed, softly, insistently, in time with his heartbeat.
He groaned and rubbed his hands over his face, exacerbated.
A memory, unbidden, flashed: a dancer from the last tour with his brothers, a girl with a laugh like wind chimes, the way her sequinned hip had brushed against his as they passed in a crowded hallway.
The memory was hazy, but the phantom sensation was sharp, a brand on his side.
A small, frustrated sound escaped his lips—a quiet “Mmh!”
He turned onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. The new position pressed him into the mattress, and the ache intensified, transformed from a whisper to a clear, demanding shout.
His breath hitched. This was the feeling. The one the elders warned about. The “sin that dwells within.” He was supposed to flee from it.
But his body felt heavy, magnetized to the bed. He gave a tentative, almost imperceptible roll of his hips. The pressure was a lightning strike of sensation, so intense it blurred his vision for a second. A gasp was torn from him, sharp and ragged in the quiet room. “Ah—!”
Guilt thundered in immediately, hot and sour. No. No, this is wrong. He was a good son. A Jehovah’s Witness. He sang about love, pure love. This was… this was base. Animal.
Yet, his hips moved again of their own volition, a slow, searching grind into the yielding satin of his pyjama pants.
The friction was better this way, more complete. A low, shuddering moan vibrated in his throat, “Nnnggh…” He muffled it in the pillow, his fingers clawing at the fabric. He couldn’t let his brothers down the hall hear him, nor his parents.
The conflict was a physical pain in his chest, a vice tightening around his ribs. Every sinful surge of pleasure was answered by a psalm of condemnation in his head.
For the flesh lusteth against the Spirit…
He rocked harder, his legs tightening. The silk of his pajama bottoms was a maddening barrier.
The pleasure was building now, like a copper wire, pulling tighter and tighter in his core, a sensation so profound it felt like fear.
Like standing at the edge of the stage before the lights hit, that terrifying, exhilarating void.
…and the Spirit against the flesh…
With a sudden, frantic movement, he shoved a hand down, fumbling with the drawstring.
His breath came in short, wet pants now, “Hah… hah…” The knot gave way.
He pushed the fabric down just enough, the cool air a shock against his heated skin. The direct contact with the soft material of the comforter made him cry out, a short, sharp “Ungh!” that was too loud.
He froze, listening for any sign of movement in the hall; a creak, a footstep. Nothing but the annoying pool filter and one of his light up gadgets in his room occasionally creaking from its twisting mechanism.
The pause broke the dam of his hesitation. The need was too urgent, too all-consuming. He surrendered to the rhythm, his hips developing a frantic, jerking cadence against the bed. He wasn’t thinking of the dancer anymore, or of anything concrete.
The frantic, muffled humping against the satin comforter wasn't enough. The friction was diffuse, maddeningly indirect, building the pressure but refusing to focus it. A sob of pure frustration caught in his throat, a heavy, choked sound.
His left hand, still tangled in the pillowcase, released its clawing grip. It drifted down, trembling violently, as if moving through water against a powerful current.
His mind was a shattered mirror: one fragment showed the earnest, wide-eyed boy on the Andy Williams Show, another the gangly, hormonal teenager he’d turned into – touch starved and relentless in his want.
His mind was trying to grapple with the young, innocent he used to be and now the sought after heartthrob he had become. Girls throwing themselves to be used at his feet.
He loathed the thought of them thinking he’d merely have his way with them. He’d be gentle if he could, sensual, ensuring their beautiful bodies get the attention they so deserved – his hands ghosting over their perky breasts and their gorgeous curves.
The thought of his hand sliding under a tight waistband, of sly little lace panties, soaked through; wanting him. Needing him.
The thoughts were driving him wild now; crazy with desire.
His fingers brushed his own heated skin. The touch was so electric, so alien and yet intimately familiar, that he convulsed, a full-body shudder wracking his frame. A high, thin whine escaped his pressed lips.
This is the line, a voice, clear and cold, stated in his head. You cross this, you can't go back. He flipped his body over, now on his back.
His body was a runaway train, every nerve screaming for the destination. His fingers, slick with a nervous sweat, curled. The first tentative stroke, from root to tip, was a revelation so profound it bordered on terror.
His back arched clear off the bed, a silent scream stretching his mouth wide. He was so concentrated and overstimulated, that his throat was dry – his lips cracked.
The sensation was nothing like the grinding. It was tactile, exquisite, a direct and fused line to the storm gathering in his belly. His hand was soft and warm – just like he’d imagined the inside of a woman he had taken to bed.
He began to move his hand, the motion clumsy at first, all jerking wrist and frantic pressure. It was too much, too intense.
He slowed, experimenting. A softer, slower glide. A twist at the top. A thumb brushing over the slick, weeping crown. Each variation sent new shockwaves through him.
The sounds he made were no longer attempts at words or even moans. They were raw, phonetic expulsions of feeling, lost in the fortress of his pillow.
His right hand fisted in his own hair, pulling sharply at the roots of his afro, the sting a bright counterpoint to the drowning pleasure below. His hips stuttered, still pushing up into his own grip, a desperate, seeking rhythm.
The sheet beneath him was soaked, a cool patch against the small of his back when it made contact.
The world telescoped down to this: the slick, rhythmic sound of his hand, the hammering of his heart against his ribs, the sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat.
He thought of the recording booth, the absolute silence before he opened his mouth to sing.
That moment of poised potential. This feeling was its dark twin; a silence filled with the roar of his own blood, a potential about to violently, messily become.
His pace became punishing, relentless. He was chasing it now, chasing the echo of that studio high, the feeling of being perfectly, utterly free. His breath came in ragged, hiccuping gasps.
He’d wound himself to breaking point. Pleasure and terror were fused, indistinguishable.
The religious imagery crashed over him not as condemnation, but as sensation: it was a falling, a drowning, a being consumed by a holy fire that felt anything but holy.
"I’m— I’m gonna—" The words were a pathetic, broken whisper, lost.
His whole body locked. For a second, he was suspended in a silent, breathless void. Then it detonated.
It wasn't a single wave, but a series of brutal, wracking pulses that tore through him like internal lightning. A guttural, punched-out cry was ripped from his very core, a raw, open-throated yelp that the pillow could not hope to contain.
His vision whited out, speckled with violent colors, a kaleidoscope of pleasure. His hips jerked erratically, helplessly, as his hand kept working, milking every last, shuddering drop of sensation until it tipped over into a sharp, almost painful sensitivity.
He collapsed.
The stillness that followed was absolute, profound. The only sound was the ragged, torn-up sawing of his breath and the distant, indifferent hum of the filter. The warmth spread across his stomach, a sticky, shameful reality.
The guilt didn't wait. It descended instantly, a heavy, smothering blanket.
The verses from Galatians completed themselves in his head with cruel clarity: "…so that ye cannot do the things that ye would."
Tears, hot and sudden, welled in his eyes. He didn't move. He lay there, a spent, trembling wreck on the stained, wet sheet, feeling the pleasure evaporate and leave behind the cold, hollow shell of transgression. He had reached for a moment of the divine and clutched only his own weakness.
Slowly, mechanically, he pulled up his silk pajamas. The fabric felt disgusting against his soiled skin. He rolled onto his side, curling into a tight ball, facing the grand, empty expanse of his bedroom. The afterglow was just a physiological ghost; the real residue was a deep, aching loneliness.
He would pray tomorrow. He would pray harder. He would throw himself into the music, into the work, until he was too tired to feel anything at all.
But for now, in the deep California night, Michael lay very still, the ghost of his own ecstasy a sharp, sour taste in his mouth, and the only rhythm left was the slow, beat of his own heart.
Authors Note: this is a request! I hope you all enjoy this - i rarely see any maestro au fics, so hopefully this can fill a void. not sure if this is exactly in mikey's voice that i have worked on building but i suppose it is a character he plays.. or an alter ego.
Pairing: Maestro! Michael Jackson X fem! paranormal investigator reader
Summary: The Maestro has been alone for twenty years with a question he cannot answer by himself. You trespassed on his property and now you will pay for your actions - not on the way you think though. You will leave this encounter… enlightened.
Word Count: 5096
Tags: smut, porn with plot, oral sex (f receiving) michael as maestro from the music video ghosts, so... ghost sex?, haunted, 90s,
update: I wrote this all through the night on a red eye flight so if there are any continuity issues,,,, I be sorry lol
18+ minors dnu!!!
You walked through the hallways, that were startlingly still.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath, a thick, dusty silence that swallowed the sound of your own footsteps on the worn parquet. Your flashlight beam cut a wavering path through the gloom, illuminating motes of dust that danced like agitated spirits. The dictaphone in your other hand felt both absurd and necessary, a tiny, plastic tether to the rational world you’d left beyond the iron gates.
“Log entry… seven,” you whispered, your voice hushed not just for recording but out of a deep, instinctive reverence. The house demanded quiet. “Time, approximately 10:47 PM. I’ve entered the main hall of the property known colloquially as the abandoned L’Estaque Manor. Initial impressions… the decay is theatrical.
Deliberate.
It feels less like neglect and more like a stage set waiting for its principal actor.”
You panned the light upwards. A grand staircase swept into darkness, its banister adorned with intricate, cobwebbed carvings. The wallpaper, once a rich burgundy damask, peeled in long, languid strips, revealing the skeletal lath beneath. It was cold, a damp chill that seeped through your jacket and settled in your bones. Yet, there was no malevolence in it. Not yet. It was the cold of emptiness, of a vast space long devoid of warmth.
“No standard paranormal signatures yet,” you continued, moving slowly toward a pair of towering oak doors. “No EMF spikes, no temperature fluctuations beyond the ambient chill. But the atmosphere… it’s heavy. It isn’t threat, maybe expectation?.”
You pushed open the doors to what must have been a music room. A sheet-draped grand piano dominated the space, a hulking white ghost in the center. Tarnished candelabras sat on the mantle.
Your light glinted off the glass of a large, gold-framed portrait above the fireplace, but the face within was too shadowed to make out. You stepped inside, your boots whispering on the Persian rug, its patterns faded into vague, blood-like smudges.
“This room,” you murmured into the recorder. “There’s a… resonance here. Auditory? Maybe. A memory of sound. If I listen…”
You stopped. You closed your eyes, letting the silence press in. And then, beneath the sound of your own nervous system, you heard it.
Or felt it. It wasn’t quite a melody, but the echo of one. The faint, phantom vibration of a piano chord—a minor, unresolved, hanging in the air like a question. Your eyes snapped open. The sheet over the piano was perfectly still. No dust had been disturbed.
“Did you hear that?” you asked the empty room, the dictaphone catching your quickened breath. “A chord. C minor, perhaps moving to… no. It’s gone.”
But it wasn’t.
As you moved back into the hall, it followed you. It wasn’t only just a sound, but a presence. The back of your neck prickled. The air, once uniformly cold, now seemed to stir with a faint, impossible current.
You entered a long gallery, portraits lining the walls, their subjects’ eyes seeming to track your progress from faces blurred by time and shadow.
Then you felt it. A breath. Not on your neck, but inside your ear. A cool, gentle exhalation that carried with it the faintest sound—a wordless, melancholic fragment of tune, the same one that had haunted the piano chord. It was intimate, paralyzing. You froze, your blood turning to ice water.
“Who’s there?” you breathed, not daring to turn. The dictaphone, still recording, captured the tremor in your voice.
There was no answer. Only the returning, absolute silence, now feeling like a held secret.
You forced your legs to move, driven by a compulsion that was equal parts terror and desperate curiosity.
The master bedroom was your goal. In these old houses, it was often the epicenter of residual energy.
You found the door ajar. Pushing it open, you were met with a spectacle that stole what little breath you had left.
The room was vast, dominated by a canopy bed whose curtains hung in tattered shreds. But it was the far wall that commanded attention.
The enormous windows were naked, their curtains ripped away or decayed.
They were thrown wide open to the night, and the wind poured through in a silent, powerful river.
The moon, nearly full, cast a slab of pewter light across the floorboards, illuminating the dust swirling in the turbulent air. The curtains that remained on the sides billowed and snapped like the sails of a ghost ship, soundless in the vacuum of the room.
The night itself seemed to be invading, a cool, black ink flooding into the tomb of the house.
You stepped into the lunar wash, drawn to the windows, to the view of the overgrown gardens and the skeletal trees. The wind played with your hair, kissed your feverish skin. This was it. The heart of the strange stillness. You raised your dictaphone.
“The master bedroom. The windows are open. There’s a… a violent peace here. The wind, but no sound. The moon, is so creepy. I feel…”
You felt watched.
The sensation was so intense it was a physical weight between your shoulder blades. You slowly, so slowly, turned from the mesmerizing night.
He stood in the doorway.
You hadn’t heard a thing; footfall or rustle of cloth. He was simply there, having coalesced from the very shadows of the hall. Your mind, trained to document and analyze, short-circuited, overwhelmed by sheer aesthetic shock.
He was beautiful. It wasn’t in a modern way, but like a painting by a Romantic master who believed in the tragic allure of the sublime. Tall and imperially slender, he was dressed in an anachronism of elegant decay: a white poet’s shirt of fine linen, its ruffles at the chest and cuffs pristine, the top buttons carelessly open to reveal a expanse of pale, smooth skin that gleamed like marble in the low light.
It was tucked into tailored black trousers that emphasized his long legs, and over it all, a sweeping black velvet cloak rested on his shoulders, not quite touching the floor. His hair was a cascade of raven-black waves, stirred by a wind that didn’t touch you, framing a face of heartbreaking symmetry—high cheekbones, a strong jaw, lips that seemed carved from something both soft and cruel.
His eyes were the most alive thing about him, a burning, intelligent dark brown, with a glimmer of mischief in them.
And he was opaque, but only just. You could see, faintly, the outline of the doorframe behind him, the subtle suggestion of moonlight passing through the solidity of his wrist where he held the doorjamb. A ghost. A spectacular, gorgeous ghost.
Your legs gave out. The dictaphone clattered to the floor, but you didn’t hear it. The world tunneled into those dark benevolent eyes, and then into black velvet nothingness.
Consciousness returned without a jolt, but as a slow, cold seep. You were on the floor, but not on the hard wood.
You were cradled in an impossible chill, a sensation like being held by a statue carved from winter moonlight. Your head rested against the crisp linen of his ruffled shirt, and through the thin fabric, you registered a profound, deep cold, the utter absence of living heat.
“Open your eyes.” The voice was a melody all its own, low, cultured, vibrating with an old-world accent and a current of simmering anger. “I did not grant you the courtesy of my solitude only for you to escape into unconsciousness.”
Your eyelids fluttered open. His face was above yours, inches away. Up close, his beauty was even more devastating, and more unnerving. His skin had a faint, pearlescent sheen, and the cool air around him smelled of old books, dried lavender, and something metallic, like distant ozone.
“You…” you croaked.
“I,” he agreed, his tone icy. With a grace that was both effortless and unsettling, he shifted you, helping you to sit up. His hands on your shoulders were like brands of ice, a shock that cleared the last cobwebs from your mind. He didn’t release you. He knelt before you, his stormy eyes pinning you in place.
“Now. You will explain. Why do you trespass in my home? Why do you shuffle through my halls with your little machine, speaking to the silence as if it owes you answers?”
He was furious. It was not the rage of a monster, but a deep, personal offense of a scholar whose library has been invaded and ripped up by a vandal.
“I… I’m a paranormal investigator,” you stammered, your professional pride flickering weakly.
“This house… it’s famous. I thought it was empty.”
“Thought it was empty?” He released you as if burned, rising to his full height in a fluid motion. The white ruffled shirt he wore, flapped in the wind.
“You thought. Or you assumed? And on that assumption, you violate my peace? For twenty years I have curated this silence. Twenty years of moonlit rooms and echoing chords, and you believe you can simply… walk in?” He turned his back to you, a gesture of supreme disdain, looking out at his billowing curtains.
“Your world is so loud. So bright. It forgets what lurks beyond it. It bulldozes. And now it sends its curious little children to poke at what it has forgotten.”
You scrambled to your feet, your legs still unsteady. The dictaphone lay at your feet, its red recording light a tiny, accusing eye. “I meant no disrespect. I’m just… trying to understand.”
He turned his head, his profile a sharp cut against the moonlit window. “Understanding is not yours to take. It is mine to bestow. And I am not inclined to be generous.” He faced you fully again, his anger seeming to settle into a colder, more calculating resolve.
“However. You are here. You have seen me. That… complicates things.”
A new kind of chill, one of primal fear, trickled down your spine. “What are you going to do to me?”
A ghost of a smile, bitter and beautiful, touched his lips. “The traditional tropes? Frighten you to death? Haunt your dreams? How pedestrian.” He drifted closer, his movement so smooth on the rotten floorboards. The cold around him intensified.
“I am a man of intellect. Of passion. Trapped. For two decades, I have been a curator of memories, a prisoner of sensation I can only recall. The taste of wine. The warmth of a fire.” His eyes raked over you, not with lust, but with a desperate, hungry curiosity.
“The touch of a living hand.”
He stopped an arm’s length away. You were captivated, utterly. The fear was still there, deep in your veins, but it was subsumed by a terrifying fascination. He was a masterpiece of sorrow and anger.
“I will let you go,” he said, his voice dropping to a intimate murmur that seemed to reverberate in your very bones.
“I will unlock the doors and watch you flee back to your noisy, bright world, and I will return to my melodic silence. But you will have given me something in return. A… experiment.”
“An experiment?” you whispered.
“A confirmation,” he corrected, his gaze holding yours.
“A sensory recollection,” he added, with a whimsical tone.
“I have wondered, in my long solitude, if the memory of pleasure is a lie the mind tells the soul. If the mechanics of passion are lost to a form such as mine.” He lifted a hand, and his fingers, pale and slightly translucent, hovered just beside your cheek.
You felt the chill, a thrilling ache.
“I wish to know if, after twenty years, I can still… feel. In the most primal sense. I wish to know if I can still make a living woman sigh, and in doing so, remember what it was to be a mere mortal man.”
The meaning crashed over you, not in a wave of horror, but in a surge of electric, reckless understanding. He wasn’t asking for your life. He was asking for your body. As a test. As a sacrament. Your mouth was dry. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You should run. You should scream.
You looked into his eyes, saw the centuries of loneliness, the artistic fury, the haunting, fragile hope.
You saw the pale column of his throat above the open ruffles, the elegant line of his shoulders under the worn white shirt. His hair fell shoulder length, and was beautiful - an almost blue hue shone off of it in the moonlight.
He was the most beautiful, terrible thing you had ever seen.
“Yes,” you heard yourself say, the word leaving your lips on a cloud of breath in the cold air.
His eyes widened, a flicker of surprise, then a dark, triumphant fire. “Yes?”
“Yes.”
The word hung between you, a pact sealed. The anger in him seemed to transmute, melting into a fierce, focused intensity.
He closed the distance. Where his body met yours, there was no solid impact, but a gradual, chilling immersion, as if you were stepping into the shadow of a glacier.
His hands came up to frame your face, and the cold was piercing, exquisite. He leaned in, and his lips met yours.
They were soft, and colder than anything you could imagine, but not inert. They moved with a practiced, desperate skill, and a strange thing began to happen.
As the kiss deepened, a sensation bloomed within the cold—a memory of warmth, a phantom heat that seemed to generate from the very friction of your living spirit against his spectral one.
A low, shuddering sigh escaped him, a sound that was half moan, half sob, and it vibrated into your mouth.
The dictaphone was forgotten. The investigation was forgotten. There was only the Maestro and his experiment.
He pushed you backwards, his mouth never leaving yours, until suddenly he was gone. All that was left was a whisper of the feeling of him on your lips. You brought your fingers up to your lips immediately, missing the touch there.
All of a sudden he appeared behind you, as if by magic and grabbed your other hand and pulled you onto the bed.
With unseen force, the tattered remnants of the bed curtains fell away completely. He laid you down on the cold, silken coverlet, following you down, his form settling over yours with a weight that was more pressure than mass. His cloak enveloped you both, a dark tent against the moonlit room.
“Tell me you can feel that,” he murmured against your throat, his lips trailing icy fire down your pulse point. His fingers, deft and chilling, worked at the buttons of your jacket, then your shirt. “Tell me I am not just a dream touching you.”
“I feel it,” you gasped, arching into the shocking cold of his hands on your bare skin. It was a paradoxical feeling—the cold was so intense it burned, and within that burn, pleasure sparked, sharp and shocking.
“You’re real.”
You nearly yelped at the force in which he pulled off your jeans.
He made a sound, a raw, hungry thing, and his own clothing seemed to dissolve into mist and shadow at his will; revealing the pale, sculpted plane of his chest, the elegant taper of his waist. He was slender, graceful, beautifully made, and glowing with that faint inner luminescence.
His skin, when it met yours fully, was a shock—a deep, penetrating cold that made every nerve ending sing a desperate, alert song.
He explored you, focused, like a connoisseur rediscovering a lost art. His mouth, a brand of ice, traced the lines of your collarbones, the curve of your breast, his tongue swirling in a pattern that left behind a trail of goosebumps and fire.
Your voice gave out, the sound swallowed by the billowing curtains and the silent night. Your hands clutched at his back, feeling the powerful muscles shift under skin that was smooth and cold as polished alabaster.
You could fully feel him now, the reality of his form, even as your fingers sometimes seemed to sink into him a fraction too deeply, meeting a core of thrilling, empty cold.
“I crave the warmth between those legs,” he breathed, his voice ragged with wonder. He was between your legs now, his storm-cloud eyes holding yours, his dark hair cascading around his face, stirred by his own spectral energy.
“You are... A delicious, living thing. Something I have not been close to as of late. Let me… let me remember this.”
He prepared himself by using his index finger to rub the precum on his cock, and then entered you in one slow, relentless glide.
The sensation was beyond anything you could have conceived. It wasnt the friction of flesh, but something stranger, more profound. It was a bone chilling cold, a possession that reached into the very marrow of your bones and clawed up to your heart from below.
It was like being touched from the inside out by a icy winter river, shocking and pure and terrifyingly intimate.
Another choked and wordless sound of shock and overwhelming pleasure came from you; your back bowing off the bed, crazily, as if you were possessed. Maybe you were.
He stilled, his face a mask of agonized ecstasy. “Ah… it is… better than I remember….the memory is true. It is… worth the waiting.”
He began to move, and each movement was a study in contradiction—the solid, rhythmic pressure of him, coupled with the eerie, chilling diffusion of his essence spreading through you.
The feel of him became a drug, a stimulant. It sharpened every sensation, made every nerve raw, every pleasure point on the edge of falling apart.
You felt everything with a hyper-clarity: the silken slide of the coverlet beneath you, the rush of the moonlit wind over your heated skin, the exact, perfect angle of his hips as he drove into you, seeking his own forgotten culmination. His rhythm was diabolically good, you did not know that these feelings could overcome your body.
He was not silent within this endeavour. He whispered in a mix of broken words and song, fragments of poetry, curses, prayers. You couldn’t tell what was which - your brain unable to concentrate for the unbelievable pleasure coursing through your veins.
“Warm — you are so extraordinarily warm — I had forgotten — god, the scent of your skin alone is enough to have me—" He stopped. The sentence didn't finish. For the first time since you had met him, the Maestro had run out of words.
His hands were everywhere, icy points of contact that ignited wildfires under your skin. The juxtaposition of this feeling in your brain was hard to comprehend.
One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat to his marauding, freezing kisses.
The other gripped your hip, his fingers pressing in with a desperate strength that should have bruised, but only left a thrilling ache. You were unraveling, your own moans and pleas becoming a constant, ragged soundtrack to the act unfolding in this old gothic home.
The pleasure built not in a warm wave, but in a cryptic crescendo, a pinnacle of sensation so sharp and cold and brilliant it felt like nothing you’d experienced before..
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice guttural, his form seeming to flicker with a stronger inner light. “Look at me when you fall from the precipice.”
You forced your eyes open, meeting his. They were no longer just stormy, but lit from within by lightning, wide with a shock of feeling so long denied.
The sight of his beautiful, haunted face, hovering over you in the throes of a passion both otherworldly and devastatingly real, was the final trigger.
The world dissolved into a ridiculous gothic black and white film. You felt like you’d fallen through the bed and into a whole other dimension - your body experiencing such extreme sensation it had never felt before.
Your climax was not a release of heat, but a vacuum of sensation, a pulling inward of all the cold and the pleasure into a single, singular point of absolute zero ecstasy. You convulsed around him, a wordless scream trapped in your throat.
It triggered his own orgasm. He threw his head back, the veins of his pale neck standing out in stark relief.
His climax was silent, a seismic event contained within the shimmering outline of his form. He grunted mercilessly at first.
A visible shudder wracked through him, a wave of distortion that made the moonlight behind him bend and warp.
His head still thrown back, his mouth opened in a soundless cry of pure, unadulterated release, and for a moment, he became almost fully transparent, a mere sketch of a man lost in feeling.
Then he solidified again, collapsing forward, his weightless form half-covering you, his face buried in the tattered pillow beside your head.
You both lay there, entangled in the wreckage of pure sensation.
You could feel the echo of him inside you, a fading, delicious chill. His skin, where it touched yours, was no longer just cold; it was thrumming with a low, resonant vibration, like a plucked cello string.
He was the first to stir. He pushed himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. The storm in his eyes had calmed to a dazed wonder. He looked… younger. The lines of ancient despair had softened.
“The hypothesis,” he whispered, his voice scraped raw, “was correct. I’m still able to make a woman come undone.”
A breathless, hysterical laugh bubbled in your chest. “Glad I could be of service… for your research.”
The ghost of a real smile, less bitter now, touched his lips. He traced one icy finger from your sternum down to your navel, making you shiver.
“Service implies a transaction completed. I find myself slightly… unsatisfied. The experiment had a singular parameter. Intercourse. It was a blunt instrument.”
His gaze drifted lower, down the trembling plane of your stomach. “I wish to get closer.”
The air, still crackling with the aftermath, grew thick with a new, focused tension. “Closer?” You asked.
“I want to taste you,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that intimate, bone-resonating register. “I felt your heat before. A glorious, enveloping feeling. But I was a clumsy guest, storming the gates.” He began to move, sliding down your body with a serpentine grace that left a trail of gooseflesh.
The silken coverlet whispered beneath you. “I wish to map the source. To taste the joys of your pleasure. To see if I can elicit the same symphony with my tongue as I did with… other means.”
He settled between your thighs, at the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders pushing your legs further apart. The moon cast him in stark relief—the fall of his dark hair, the elegant line of his back, the pale curve of his buttocks.
“I wish to break you open, in your pleasure. Make you question everything you have ever known about your sensory receptors in your body. It needs to be precise”
He was kneeling on the floor, and as he did, you saw his hand move. He took himself in hand, his length already stirring again, impossibly, from the aftermath.
It was graceful like the rest of him, and he gave himself a slow, thoughtful stroke, his eyes fixed on the apex of your thighs with the concentration of an artist contemplating a fresh canvas.
“You are watching me?” he said, without looking up. His thumb swept over the head of his cock, a slow, circular motion.
He sniggered at your lack of response.
“Good, I suppose. This is part of the process. The anticipation. The visual study.” He stroked himself again, a long, languid pull, his breath hitching with a soft, frosty sigh.
“I am reminded that women of this day like to watch solo performances…. However, you’ll be so overcome you won’t even remember I am touching myself too.”
The sight was mesmerizingly obscene. This beautiful, beyond the living man, kneeling in worship between your legs, casually pleasuring himself as he prepared to devour you. It shattered any last pretense of a normal encounter. This was a ritual. Unlike any intimate moment you had shared with a partner before - it was as if they never even existed outwith this moment.
He leaned forward then, and his breath washed over you first—a cold, damp gust that made you jolt and gasp. He didn’t touch you with his mouth yet. He nuzzled, his cheek and the bridge of his nose sliding through your curls, inhaling deeply.
“Extraordinary,” he breathed, the words a vibration against your wet cunt.
“The scent… alive. Musk, salt, sunlight trapped in flesh. I have missed this more than wine, more than music.” He finally looked up, his black thunder-cloud eyes glinting in the dark.
“Tell me to stop if you are frightened?”
You couldn’t. Your voice was gone, stolen by the spectacle of him. You could only manage a frantic shake of your head.
A dark, pleased hum escaped him. “Then we continue.”
His tongue was not like a living man’s. It was cooler, smoother, and yet impossibly deft. He didn’t attack; he was calm and slow when he devoured you.
A long, slow, flattened stroke from bottom to top of your centre, soaking in the feel and taste of you. You cried out, your hands flying to your mouth to cover the obscene sounds coming from you.
“Such a pretty and shy girl,” he murmured against you, the words almost indistinct, felt more than heard.
“Let me hear you,”
He continued to just marvel at your sex; you looked down at him, bewildered that this could even be really happening.
“The texture… the give… the heat is not a wall, it is a tide. And it welcomes me.”
He began to work in earnest, and it was clear he was, as he said, a maestro. His tongue was a precision instrument, tracing lazy circles around your clit before focusing on it with a pinpoint, icy pressure that made you see what felt like the expansion of the universe.
He alternated—broad, lapping strokes that cooled your entire core, then sharp, flickering assaults on that one hypersensitive node. His pace was deliberate, experimental, listening to every hitch of your breath, every twitch of your thighs.
And all the while, his right hand moved on himself. You could hear the soft, slick sound of it, a counter-rhythm to the wet, hungry sounds his mouth was making. He stroked himself in time with the flicks of his tongue, a slow, consistent pumping motion, his own pleasure feeding back into the attention he lavished on you.
It was a feedback loop of sensation, a closed circuit where his cold arousal and your burning need amplified each other.
“You taste of the world,” he groaned, lifting his head for a moment. His lips glistened. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his face flushed with a phantom of color. His hand never stopped moving on his cock.
“You taste of summer grass and night rain and… and life. It is an addiction.” He dove back in, his hunger less controlled now, more ravenous. He added his fingers, one, then two, sliding into you with that same shocking, perfect cold, curling upwards as his tongue lashed at your clit.
You felt obsencely overestimulated, the deep, filling chill of his fingers, the maddening, icy pinpoint of his tongue, and the visual, audible proof of his own mounting pleasure as he stroked himself faster, his breath coming in short, frosty pants against your skin.
You were babbling, pleading, pulling his hair, your hips rolling uncontrollably against his face.
The cold was no longer just a sensation; it was the fuel, the catalyst that made every nerve scream twice as loud.
“Is this the way?” he asked, his voice muffled, desperate for confirmation. “Tell me, my living beauty… does this path lead to the same peak?”
“Yes—God—yes, please, don’t stop doing whatever you’re doing, please—” you sobbed. “I am so close”
He redoubled his efforts. His tongue became a blur of cold, relentless motion. His fingers pumped, crooking just so, and his thumb pressed hard, circling your clit. His other hand was a piston on his own length, the rhythm frantic now, the soft slapping sounds filling the air. He was chasing it, chasing your climax with desperation; starving for proof of his own existence.
The build was different this time. Not a shatter or a falling apart that you’d have been used to, but a slow, inexorable melt. The cold he was pumping into you seemed to meet the core of your heat and create a thermal reaction, a swirling vortex of sensation that pulled everything you were into its center.
Your muscles locked. Your breath stopped. The world narrowed to the freezing, brilliant point between your legs and the sight of his beautiful, obsessed face buried there, pleasuring himself as he drove you mad.
It broke silently, a vast, wave-like submersion. Your climax washed over you profoundly, a drowning release, a slow-motion unfurling of every tense wire in your body.
You pulsed around his fingers, a long, shuddering series of contractions, a silent scream locked in your throat.
He felt it. He let out a choked, triumphant cry against you and his own rhythm stuttered, then broke. His back arched, a perfect, taut bow, and he spilled over his own fist with a ragged, gasping groan, his release pearlescent and faintly glowing in the moonlight, striping his own pale stomach and the dark coverlet beneath him.
He trembled violently through it, his mouth still pressed against you, drinking in the final aftershocks of your pleasure as his own wracked him.
Slowly, he pulled away. He looked wrecked, glorious. His hair was wild, his lips swollen and slick. His eyes, when they met yours, held a look of stunned, satiated reverence.
He looked down at the evidence of his own pleasure on his hand and stomach, then back at you, as if he couldn't quite believe either.
"The data," he whispered, his voice utterly spent. "Is... overwhelming. The hypothesis is not only confirmed... it is expanded upon. The variables are infinite."
He moved then, fluid and weary, coming to lie beside you. He didn't pull you into the full, chilling embrace of before, but he slid an arm beneath your neck, his body a line of cool pressure against your side. He was still stroking your hair with his other hand, his touch now almost gentle.
"You have," he said to the canopy above, "given a ghost a memory that does not hurt to hold. That is a rare gift, little trespasser."
You turned your head on his arm. The dictaphone was still on the floor, its red light a steady, distant pulse. The investigation was over. Something else had begun.
"What now?" you asked, your voice hoarse.
He was silent for a moment, watching the curtains dance with the night. "Now," he said finally, a new, contemplative note in his voice, "we discuss the parameters of further... experimentation. And you tell me your name. One should know the name of a beautiful, living creation, should one not?"
synopsis: reader gives jaafar a handjob (and edges him :p)
cw: smut, sub!jaafar, maybe switch!jaafar if u squint?, edging, handjob, teasing
ib: @prettyangeliczz
guys this is like my first ever post/fic so like...be nice pls
rain pattered softly against the apartment windows while the tv played quietly in the background, long forgotten by now.
you were sprawled on top of jaafar on the couch, your head resting against his chest while one of his arms stayed wrapped loosely around your waist. his other hand traced absentminded patterns up and down your back, fingertips warm through the thin fabric of your white tank top.
he looked so good like this.
grey sweats hung low on his hips, the fabric bunched slightly where your legs tangled with his. his black shirt clung to him just enough to outline the shape of his arms and shoulders, sleeves stretched snug around his biceps every time he shifted beneath you.
your fingers drew lazy circles against the middle of his chest while you looked up at him quietly, observing his features.
the tiny mole above his eyebrow.
his lashes resting low against his cheeks every time he blinked sleepily.
the curve of his jaw.
his lips.
god, his lips.
jaafar looked relaxed in a way he only ever did around you. hair messy, cheeks slightly flushed from the warmth of the apartment, eyes half-lidded while he played with the hem of your tank top absentmindedly.
you didn’t even realize how long you’d been staring until his gaze finally dropped to yours.
a slow smile pulled at his mouth.
“you’re staring.”
you hummed softly, still looking at him. “you’re pretty.”
his entire face changed immediately.
a blush spread across his cheeks so fast it almost made you laugh, and he let out a quiet groan before dropping his head back dramatically against the couch cushion.
“stop.”
“it’s true.”
“you say it like every day.”
“‘cause every day i look at you and think ‘he’s so pretty.’”
“baby,” he mumbled, embarrassed now, one hand sliding up to cover part of his face.
you grinned and pulled his hand away gently, intertwining your fingers with his before leaning up to kiss him.
it started soft.
slow.
jaafar kissed you like he was sleepy and addicted to you at the same time, lips warm and lingering against yours while his grip tightened unconsciously at your waist. your hand slid higher up his chest, fingertips brushing over the fabric stretched across him, while your other hand settled along his jaw and neck.
his hands moved instinctively up your back, fingertips pressing into your skin beneath your tank top. the other drifted lower, resting just above your ass while he kissed you deeper, slower.
needier.
you shifted slightly closer against him without thinking.
jaafar inhaled sharply.
the movement dragged you right against him through the fabric of both your sweats, and a low groan slipped from his throat before he could stop it.
your lips curved instantly against his.
the second he realized the sound he made, his cheeks burned again. he let out a breathy laugh under his breath and buried his face against your shoulder like he was suddenly shy about how affected he’d gotten.
“you okay?” you teased softly.
“no,” he muttered into your skin.
you laughed quietly, fingers slipping into his curls again. you smiled softly, brushing your nose against his temple. “you’re cute.”
he lifted his head just enough to look at you again, all flushed cheeks and messy curls and swollen lips from kissing you. he looked completely wrecked already.
just from this.
your thumb brushed lightly over his jaw while you watched his expression soften under your touch.
“don’t start,” he murmured, though there was no real complaint behind it.
his eyes dropped immediately to your lips.
then he kissed you.
hard.
the sound you made got swallowed by his mouth as his hands slid firmly to your hips, pulling you down against him again. your bodies fit together too perfectly like this, warm and tangled together on the couch.
you shifted experimentally against him.
jaafar groaned low into the kiss.
his grip tightened instinctively, fingers digging into your hips while he guided your movements without even thinking about it now. slow at first. then, a little rougher when another soft moan slipped from your mouth.
“fuck,” he breathed quietly against your lips.
you could already feel how affected he was through the fabric of his sweats. the way he reacted to every little thing you did was addictive.
your kisses drifted from his mouth to his jaw, then lower to his neck while he tipped his head back against the couch for you. a shaky breath left him the second your lips brushed against the sensitive skin there.
his hands stayed locked on your hips, still guiding you against him steadily while soft sounds kept slipping from both of you.
“baby,” he whispered, voice rough now.
you hummed innocently against his neck before kissing lower, down the center of his chest. your fingers trailed after your lips slowly, dragging over the fabric stretched across his stomach and pushing his shirt up slightly, before settling near the waistband of his sweats.
jaafar’s stomach tensed beneath your touch.
his eyes stayed glued to you while you toyed with the edge of the waistband, fingertips dipping the fabric down. his black boxers did very little to hide the outline straining beneath them, the dark fabric already damp where precum had started to leak through.
it was truly unfair.
jaafar already had the face, the body, the personality– and was this big too.
thick, flushed, fully hard beneath the fabric, and twitching slightly when your hand draws close.
a soft curse slipped under his breath.
you swallowed hard.
god, he was so fucking fine.
you peeled his boxers down next, trying to keep your expression composed even while your stomach tightened at the sight of him. the second the fabric cleared him completely, his dick sprang free against his stomach, twitching once as more precum gathered at the tip.
your hand wrapped around him gently.
the hiss he let out made heat rush straight between your legs.
you stroked him once.
twice.
then stopped.
“baby,” Jaafar groaned, head tipping back against the couch before his eyes dropped to your hand again.
you ignored him entirely and started moving again, slower this time. deliberate. your hand barely twisted as you stroked him, just enough pressure to make his breathing start breaking apart.
his hips pushed forward unconsciously, trying to chase more friction.
you let go.
his eyes snapped shut.
“you’re killing me,” he breathed out, voice rough and wrecked in a way that made your stomach flip.
you smiled sweetly. “aw, baby. I’m sorry.”
jaafar let out a short, strained laugh under his breath at your tone, one hand dragging down his face before falling back limply on the cushion below him.
you were going to be the death of him.
you wrapped your hand around him again before he could say anything else, stroking him a little faster this time. a soft sigh slipped from him instantly, his lips parting while his head fell back.
“you’re so hard, j,” you teased quietly.
his eyes snap to yours, fully aware now that you were teasing him on purpose.
usually, he was the one doing this to you– teasing you until you were squirming in his lap, until you were whining into his neck and begging him for more while he took his sweet time giving it to you. and when he finally fucked you, he never let up until you were completely gone for him.
now the roles were reversed.
you could practically see the moment he started connecting the dots.
in all honesty, you hadn’t even planned on teasing him like this. but the way he reacted to every little thing you did kept giving you new ideas, making you improvise as you went.
jaafar ignored the comment at first, jaw tightening slightly like he was trying not to give you the satisfaction.
so naturally, you pushed further.
as your hand slid back up his cock, your thumb brushed slowly over the slit at the tip.
jaafar’s hips jerked sharply off the couch, and a whine slipped out before he could stop it.
the sound punched straight through you.
his head fell back against the couch, throat exposed, chest rising unevenly, while both hands gripped tightly onto the cushion beneath him. you watched his jaw flex, watched the muscles in his stomach tense every single time your thumb brushed over that sensitive spot again.
and every single time, he reacted just as hard.
a sharp inhale.
a curse muttered beneath his breath.
his fingered drumming once against the cushion before curling tighter into it again.
his dick was twitching harder in your hand, leaking steadily enough that your strokes had turned slick.
his moans had also become more consistent.
a telltale sign he was getting close.
you brought your other hand up slowly, twisting both hands around him now as you stroked him more firmly.
jaafar bit down hard on his lower lip, clearly trying to contain the noises leaving him and failing miserably.
the second his hips started lifting more insistently into your hands, and his grip tightened sharply against the couch cushion, muscles flexing beneath your touch–
you let go again.
jaafar whined, hips jerking helplessly upward as he searched for your hands again. for friction. for anything
“no, no, no–”
his hands flew down instinctively, reaching for himself, and you caught his wrists before he could touch himself properly, laughing softly at his genuinely offended look that flashed across his face.
“baby,” he groaned, frustrated now.
you shifted quickly before he could recover, moving until you were straddling his hips beneath him to keep him from bucking upward properly.
jaafar dropped his head back against the couch with a curse, chest heaving while his hands landed uselessly at your waist instead.
“you’re mean,” he muttered breathlessly.
you tried to hold back your smile for maybe half a second before leaning down toward him, peppering soft apologetic kisses across his face. the corner of his mouth. his cheek. the little mole above his eyebrow. his jaw.
jaafar exhaled shakily through his nose at that, eyes fluttering shut for a second while his hands settled more firmly against your body.
“there,” you whispered against his skin. “better?”
his head shook weakly enough to make you laugh quietly.
your hand slid back down him, fingers wrapping around him again while your lips hovered near his. his dick twitching in your hand as another strained breath left him.
one hand slid up the outside of your thigh before settling firmly on your ass, squeezing once through the fabric of your sweats. the other slipped beneath your tank top, warm palm spreading against your bare skin before moving higher until he was cradling your chest in his hand.
you sighed softly at the touch, the sound mixing with the uneven breaths leaving jaafar’s mouth as you continued stroking him.
he was unraveling faster now.
the teasing from earlier had left him sensitive enough that every movement pulled a reaction from him immediately. his groans had turned rough and consistent, slipping out every few seconds while his head rested back against the couch.
he breathed out your name shakily.
your hand twisted slightly around him again and jaafar cursed under his breath, grip tightening hard enough against your body to almost keep you still. his stomach flexed beneath you while his hips fought the urge to jerk upward again.
“so sensitive now,” you murmured teasingly.
“it’s your fault,” he shot back instantly, though the words came out strained around another groan.
you smiled against his jaw, still stroking him steadily while his breathing grew more uneven by the second. his dick kept twitching in your hand, leaking enough now that your strokes had turned slick and easy.
jaafar’s composure was hanging by a thread.
you could tell by the way his thighs kept tensing beneath you.
by the way his fingers dug into your skin every few seconds.
by the fact that he’d stopped trying to hide his noises entirely.
“fuck, baby,” he breathed, his eyes squeezed shut.
then your thumb brushed over the tip again.
his body jerked.
a low sound tore from him as his grip tightened sharply on your ass, the hand beneath your tank top flexing against your chest at the same time.
“oh my god,” he groaned, eyes squeezing shut. “don’t do that—”
you did it again anyway.
and again.
and again.
a higher moan slipped out of him this time, his head dropping back down against your shoulder as he shuddered into you. the sound alone sent heat rushing straight through you, your stomach tightening at how completely wrecked he sounded.
your hand picked up the pace slightly, enough to make jaafar’s hips start jerking upward again before you pulled away all at once.
his entire body jolted.
“baby–” the word came out broken.
jaafar’s hands tightened desperately against you while his breathing fell apart completely, little tremors running through him from how close he’d been.
“please,” he breathed, voice rough and wrecked. “please, baby, let me cum,”
“i was so fucking close,” he whined, “fuck, please.”
and how were you supposed to deny him after that?
You leaned down to kiss him softly, and jaafar melted into it instantly, kissing you back like he needed it. your hand wrapped around him again, stroking him steadily this time.
he broke the kiss with a moan, eyes fluttering shut while his brows furrowed deeply.
“you’re doing so good, jaafar,” you whispered against his mouth.
a shaky breath left him.
“c’mon, baby. you wanna cum, don’t you?”
he nodded quickly, too needy to pretend otherwise.
“look at me.”
his eyes opened slowly, gaze locking onto yours before drifting lower, watching where your hand moved against him.
the sight alone dragged another helpless sound from him.
his hips stuttered upward into your hand while his grip tightened hard against your waist.
“don’t stop,” he breathed quickly. “don’t stop, don’t–”
you kept your pace steady, watching him come apart beneath you piece by piece, broken curses slipping from him between uneven breaths.
“fuck–fuck, baby,” he whimpered. his entire body tensed suddenly, hands gripping you tighter as he buried his face against your shoulder with a low groan.
you smiled softly, leaning down to kiss his cheek while he caught his breath shakily against your skin.
“such a pretty boy,” you murmured
jaafar let out another shaky breath, still breathing hard as you started shifting off him.
his hands gripped your hips immediately.
you looked back at him and your stomach dropped.
the wrecked look on his face was gone now. he still looked flushed and messy, but his eyes–
his eyes had sharpened, fixed on you with that look that made heat crawl up your spine instantly.
he pulled you back against him.
“you had your fun?” he asked quietly.
the calmness in his voice was terrifying.
a slow small smile tugged at his mouth when you didn’t answer right away.
“yeah,” he murmured. “that’s what i thought.”
before you could say anything, he stood, lifting you with him effortlessly. a surprised gasp left you as your legs wrapped around his waist automatically.
jaafar’s hand slid up your thigh as he carried you toward the bedroom.
yeah. you were done for.
───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───
hi lol .. this was kinda fun to write so i think i might start writing more !
lmk if this stinks or if u have any reqs or anything :DD
Summary: His desperate phone call pulls you to Hayvenhurst, to get you in a place he's comfortable in; the studio. He plays an isolated vocal with trembling hands, sexually charged lyrics, searching your face for approval. The thrill of you has him completely unraveled. Michael is caught between what he wants and what he's been taught to fear, unsure how to reconcile the two.
Tags: 18+, smut, sub!Michael (I mean is he really or just inexperienced?), thriller era, Michael is battling between religion and wanting to risk it ALL for you, oral sex (male receiving), first meeting, mutual pining, friends with benefits, studio session as foreplay (???), p*rn w plot basically,
Word Count: 5481
Author’s Note: i do not think that anything could live up to the first part in this lil series, it was meant to be a stand alone, but y'all were IN my dms lmao. hope u enjoy mike getting some fun, he certainly deserves it ;)
If you'd like more, send me an ask ;)
18+ minors DNU
You were in your apartment getting ready when the phone rang. You were halfway through your makeup, focused on getting your eyeliner just right, and you let it ring out. Whoever it was could call back. Lay All of Your Love on Me by ABBA blasting out from your turntable speakers, loud enough to shake the vanity beneath your hands.
It went to the answering machine.
His voice came through on the speaker phone, over your noisy room, a little rushed, like he'd called without thinking it through first:
"Hey, um, it's Michael. Jackson. Michael Jackson– umm. I know we were supposed to meet up later but I—"
There was a pause. You could hear him breathing.
"Can you just come over? To the house, to Hayvenhurst? Like, this afternoon? I don't want to meet you somewhere public. If we go out they'll mob us and I can't— put you through that. I just need to see you without all of the annoyances. Without people watching. Just come straight to the gate and I'll—I'll meet you there, okay? I couldn't stop thinking about you all week and I don't want to wait any longer. Please? Ok. Goodbye."
There was the sound of him hanging up, then the mechanical beep of the machine.
You stood there in your half-done makeup and stared at the phone, music still blasting in the background.
You grinned almost manically as the crescendo built on the last chorus of the ABBA song, the entire apartment suddenly feeling too small to contain the electricity buzzing beneath your skin.
“Don’t go wasting your emotion…”
The words crashed through the room like they were meant specifically for you, like the universe itself was laughing at how impossible it would be to stay calm after that phone call. Your pulse was hammering so hard you could feel it in your fingertips. Michael Jackson had just called sounding desperate; he didn’t sound like the untouchable megastar the world saw on television. Just Michael. Breathless. Impatient. Wanting you there now.
You looked at yourself in the mirror, one eye lined perfectly, the other unfinished, lipstick still uncapped on the vanity. The song swelled louder. Dramatic. Hungry. Urgent. You did one finally layer of eyeliner to even it out.
“Lay all your love on me…”
God. The way he’d said I couldn’t stop thinking about you all week. The way his voice caught slightly on please.
Your stomach flipped violently.
Every second you stayed in the apartment started to feel unbearable, like wasted time. Like he was pacing somewhere inside Hayvenhurst waiting for you already. Maybe looking out the windows. Maybe replaying the call in his head wondering if he sounded too eager. Maybe counting the minutes until you arrived.
You snatched up your keys so fast they nearly slid from your hand. The eyeliner pencil rolled forgotten across the vanity. ABBA kept roaring through the speakers behind you as you rushed for the door, heart racing faster and faster with every thought of him waiting there alone, hidden away from the world, wanting you before anyone else could take another piece of him first.
₊˚°⊹˚
The taxi pulled up to Hayvenhurst Avenue around four o'clock. The gates were impressive even from the street, black and imposing, and there were people standing outside them. Not a huge crowd, but enough to be weird; three or four girls in their twenties, one older woman with a camera around her neck, all of them just... waiting.
Watching.
When you stepped out of the taxi they all turned to look at you at once. Their expressions shifted from hopeful to dismissive in about half a second — you weren't anyone they recognized, so you were nobody. One of them actually rolled her eyes.
You felt a bit small under their gaze, and wrong, like you didn't have the right to be here. But you straightened yourself, your 60s shift dress flowing in the wind slightly, and you shrugged it off.
You walked toward the gates despite the numerous eyes on you. Toward the buzzer.
You buzzed and waited. Then, all of a sudden, rapid footsteps.
Michael appeared almost running down the drive, but you could tell he was still trying to act casual. You bit your lip to stop yourself from giggling - what a sight. The butter yellow shirt and bright orange wooly jumper against his skin made him look almost otherworldly — like he'd stepped out of a dream. His hair dark was shorter than you thought it'd be, but still very curly. His skin was gorgeous, like smooth caramel in the California sun. He looked pretty enough to devour.
He was moving fast, purposeful, and when he saw you through the bars of the gate his whole face did something that made the fans' heads whip around in aching unison.
He unlocked the gate from inside and let you step through it, closing it behind you so the other girls couldn't follow, and then he was standing in front of you and you couldn't breathe properly.
He was real. In front of you. Not a voice on the phone or a picture in the newspaper or in a music video on the television screen. He was tall and he smelled like powdery cologne and something sweet, his hair was falling into his face perfectly and he was looking at you with a worshiping, adoring look.
"Hi," he said softly, a great big wide grin on his face. His teeth were impossibly white and straight.
"Hi."
"Now…Your dad showed me your picture," he said, almost immediately, like he'd been holding it in. "The one on his desk at Epic. But you're so much more beautiful in person."
Heat bloomed across your chest. You didn't know what to say to that and before you could even think to reply, he’d moved on from it.
"I'm sorry about them." He glanced at the fans behind him, at the way they were staring. "They're always here. I don't usually—" He stopped himself from explaining their stares. "Can I hold your hand?"
"Yeah. Yeah, of course."
He reached out and took your hand, and his palm was warm and his grip was gentle and he looked at your joined hands like he couldn't quite believe they were connected. He brought you closer to him.
"I couldn't stop thinking about you," he said quietly. "All week. I needed to see you."
"Michael, I—" You didn't know what to say.
"Come on." He pulled you gently away from the gates and prying eyes. "Let's get inside."
He turned and gave a brief nod to the security guard stationed at the small entrance building on the estate. The wealth that this family had, genuinely was incomprehensible to you. Michael didn’t have that air about him, he seemed like he was down on earth in some ways, and high in the sky in others.
He kept your hand the entire walk up the drive. You could see the house getting bigger as you approached, could see details you'd only ever glimpsed in photos, and it was surreal — this whole thing was surreal. You were here. You were actually here.
It was crazy, you didn’t even know what compelled you to call him that night. Boredom mostly, and the thought that it would ring a few times and he’d not answer.
Your father had told you all about Michael, his charisma, the spectre of his talent. How he could command a room when he was singing, but also the hushed conversations over the console when Michael was laying down vocal in the studio. The producers and executives at Epic were always fed information on the young star. He seemed lonely in a room of people; someone who needed direction, away from all the ‘yes’ men, merely in his orbit for his money. Your father always stuck up for Michael, you felt a strange longing to do the same.
You felt a need to make him feel something other than adoration from fans, you wanted him to have some sense of normality - you were, for the most part, living a normal life in LA. You could bring him up to speed, let him see that his fame doesn’t need to hold him back from absolutely everything.
He squeezed your hand, like he was checking you were real to him.
₊˚°⊹˚
Michael guided you through the doors of Hayvenhurst, through the hallowed halls of the infamous Jackson family. It smelled oddly sweet, like cookies and flowers. You ogled in awe at the entryway and the hallways until you started hearing chatter and television static down the luscious, pristine hall.
The living room was chaos.
"—I'm telling you, he was out of bounds, the whole play was—"
"Randy, you can't just make up rules—"
"I'm not making up rules, those ARE the rules you moron—"
The petite girl on the sofa with big hair, you assumed after seeing pictures, was Janet. She sat on the couch with her legs tucked under her, half-watching the basketball game and half-reading a magazine.
When you and Michael came through the door she looked up and her eyes went straight to your joined hands, to the way Michael looked at you like you might disappear if he let go.
She didn't say anything, but Marlon, who was leaning against the doorframe of the opposite door that led to another hallway, caught it too.
He and Janet exchanged a look that was loaded with information.
"Oh, heyyyyy," Marlon said, drawing it out like he was tasting the word. Like he hadn't been expecting you.
Like he hadn't heard Michael practically vibrating with nervous energy all afternoon.
"This is Y/N," Michael said quickly. "Her dad's part of my team at Epic."
"Right," Marlon said slowly. He was looking at your hand in Michael's hand. "The producer's daughter."
"Oh, THIS is the girl Mikey was drooling over at the receiver earlier," Randy said, finally sitting up from where he'd been sprawled on the floor with a pillow. "Wait, isn't this your first time meeting her in person?"
Michael's grip on your hand tightened slightly. "Yes. It is. And we're going to use the studio, so please do not disturb us. Or you'll get clapped around the head, you schmucks."
"So this is like a first date situation," Randy continued, totally ignoring what Michael said, his grin spreading. "That's bold, Mikey. Bringing a girl back here on the first try — she'll probably run away screaming when she meets Joseph."
"Don't joke about that," Michael said, but there was an edge to his voice now. You felt him tense up, felt his hand grow slightly sweaty in yours.
Marlon slowly made his way from the threshold of the room and plopped himself down beside Janet, who'd gone back to her magazine with a smirk plastered across her face.
"Y'all better be sneaky if you don't want caught by the parentals," Janet piped, her voice muffled behind the magazine. "They'll have ALL sorts of smothering questions. Mother will want to know your entire family history, Y/N."
"And Father will want to know your intentions with her, Mikey." Marlon added with mock seriousness. “That man is gonna be setting up lawyers; locked and loaded with a prenup, just like he did with good ol’ horny boy, Jermaine”
"Dad is gonna freak when he realises half of his fortune is at stake," Randy said, cackling at his own joke.
"Randy, shut up," Michael said, but there was no heat in it. He was already flustered enough.
Randy jumped up from watching the game and darted over to Michael, clearly trying to dap him up. Michael let go of your hand to shove him away, but Randy just grinned wider.
"My big bro FINALLY got some game," Randy announced to the room like he'd just made a major scientific discovery.
"Man, you guys are the worst," Michael said, shaking his head and nervously running his hands through his hair. "I was trying to play it cool and you all start acting like complete idiots."
"JANET," came a painfully loud, high-pitched voice from the echo-y hallway. "Mother wants your opinion on new patio furniture from the catalogu—"
LaToya walked into the living room, stopping dead when she saw everyone standing there. She looked at you, then at Michael, her eyes wide with shock.
"Oh," she said, her eyebrows raising in an exaggerated arc. "I'm interrupting something, aren't I?"
"No," Michael supplied almost immediately. "We are going to the studio so I can let her hear the song that I’ve been working on, for the new album."
"Mmm-hm," LaToya said, and it was the most loaded 'mmm-hm' you'd ever heard. "Of course. Working on the song."
Michael grabbed your hand again and started dragging you toward the hallway. "C'mon, Y/N, let's leave these Neanderthals behind before they say anything else mortifying."
"Too late," Janet called after you both,
You followed along, your arm outstretched in front of you as he pulled you through the house and then out another door onto the driveway. The evening was cooling down, the sun starting to dip lower in the sky.
"Our studio is just across here," he said, turning back to look at you as he walked, his excitement finally breaking through the embarrassment. "Fully kitted out. State of the art."
He was already pulling you toward a separate building, this sleek modern structure that looked like it had been added on recently. When he pushed the door open you stepped into controlled chaos; equipment everywhere, soundproofing on the walls, a mixing board that looked like it cost more than a car.
Interestingly, there were post-it notes covering most of the felt walls. Sketched drawings, yellow paper scrawled with black or red sharpie. You realised you were seeing a map of Michael’s internal monologue whilst he worked. It was just as chaotic as you imagined.
But Michael went straight to the tape machine, his entire demeanor shifting. The nervousness fell away. This was his space. This was where he was in control.
"Okay, so—" He was already threading a tape in, his hands moving with an understanding not many people have of that apparatus. " I have been working on this for about three weeks.” He grinned back at you.
“All thanks to your Dad for helping green light this new project” He supplied after.
“Jackie, my older brother, has been helping me hone in on the tone of the lyrics I was writing for a concept song I am working on. I wanted to lean into something a bit more synthesized. Much darker than Off The Wall”.
You chewed your lip in anticipation of being able to be one of the first people to hear this demo.
The tape finally stopped rewinding with a short ‘Click’ and it was ready to go. You got a bit of fright when the demo started playing, a sharp creak of a door opening and shutting, and then all of a sudden, Michael howling like a wolf in the background. It was clearly a rough cut up of his vision.
You side eyed him after hearing this, not fully trusting his process on this one, and he was already staring at you, his eyes large, hopeful, saying ‘give it a chance.’
Then the beat kicked in, strong horns in staccato, blaring over the track, and then finally the Michael you had listened to over and over again on his first separately produced solo album. His tenor was smooth, he was an expert in being, not only a soulful singer, but also able to be the rhythm as well through his adlibs, and his beatboxing. The song was almost fully realised just with him making sounds with his mouth. Good with his mouth, you thought.
He played the rest of the song, and bopped and beat boxed along to it, whilst holding eye contact with you. It was really intense. You could not believe the change in him — the way his whole body moved with the rhythm, the way his voice could shift from vulnerable to commanding in a single breath.
This wasn't the boy who'd been mortified by his siblings upstairs. This was someone else entirely. Someone creatively dangerous in the best way possible.
When it ended, the tape spooled to silence and Michael turned to you, breathless, his chest still moving with the energy of what he'd just performed along to.
"That's called 'Thriller,'" he said quietly, straight back to his airy speaking voice.
"Thriller," you repeated. It fit. Everything about it; the wolf howls, the darkness underneath the pop production, the way his voice became almost predatory in places… it all made sense now. "Michael, that's..."
"Tell me honestly."
"Honestly?" You shook your head. "I think that's its the most sophisticated thing you've ever done. The production, the concept — it's not like anything on the radio right now and that’s a fact."
He smiled, but it wasn't his shy smile. It was something more confident, more sure of itself. He reached over and rewound the tape again.
"I want to play you something else," he said. "There's a bridge section that I wanted to take out, as it felt a bit too sexual, the innuendo. Jackie suggested I just let lose and try it, and I wasn't sure but now I think—" He stopped himself, looking at you.
"Actually, before I do that, I need to ask you something."
"What?"
"Do you feel it? What I'm trying to do here?"
"What do you mean?"
"Like, do you understand what I'm going for? Because most people don't get it. They hear the pop hooks and they think it's just a dance record. But it's not. It's supposed to be scary. It's supposed to make you uncomfortable but also, elated, make you feel thrilled."
He was animated now, his hands moving as he talked. "I want people to feel hunted when they listen to it. I want them to feel like something's chasing them and they can't escape it and whether that's a zombie or a crazed crush in the night… that’s up to who’s interpreting."
You thought about the phone call. About how vulnerable he'd been, how exposed. And then you thought about this — him in his element, confident and commanding, talking about his art with you like you’d always been in the room with you. He had no ego though, completely stripped of one, he spoke as if he knew that you would be able to understand everything he was talking about.
You couldn’t, but with the way he looked and spoke at you - you might just be able to figure it out. His vulnerability was what gave that little bit of darkness in him, its teeth.
"Yeah," you said. "I feel it."
He looked at you like you'd just given him the most important compliment of his life. Then he turned back to the mixing board and started adjusting levels, his fingers moving over the knobs with practiced ease.
"Tell me honestly if the innuendo was too much, because I don’t really have a reader on these things, if I am completely honest," Michael said, not looking away from what he was doing. "But it's said that the best artists are the ones who aren't afraid to show people the parts of themselves that scare them or that they have not tried to utilize yet. The parts they usually hide."
"It’s hard to hide from your inner monologue, it's why I journal." You supplied, feeling nervous that you weren’t getting it.
He smiled at you.
The tape that changed and rewound started playing, a muffled static and hum of the mic and then his isolated vocal - “all through the night” his strong vibrato lingering in the otherwise empty and quiet studio, “I’ll save you from the terror on the screen, I’ll make you see, that this is thriller, thriller night.”
Then he grabbed your arm, and signalled to listen to the next line, ‘cause I can thrill you more than any ghoul would ever dare try”.
The line hung in the charged silence.
His eyes were wide, vulnerable, waiting for your judgment on the lyric, on the boldness of it. You didn't answer with words. You stepped forward, closing the distance, and kissed him. It was a soft, firm press of your lips to his, an answer in itself.
He froze, a startled little "Mmph!" caught in his throat. Then he melted, his hands coming up to hover near your shoulders before finally settling, trembling, on your upper arms. The kiss was achingly chaste, closed-mouthed, lasting only a few seconds before he broke it, pulling back just enough to look at you, his breath coming in quick, shallow puffs.
“I really am glad you decided to call me, because this is what I have been needing… what I have been missing” He said, quietly.
This time, he pulled you in with confidence. His lips moved tentatively against yours, and when you gently coaxed them apart, he sighed—a surrendering, warm sound—and let you in. The kiss deepened slowly, becoming wetter, hotter. His hands slid down your arms to your waist, clutching the fabric of your dress.
You walked him backward until his legs hit the low, wide leather listening couch. He sank down, pulling you with him so you were straddling his lap. The position made him gasp into your mouth.
He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours, his eyes closed.
"I want to..." he started, then stopped, swallowing hard.
"I want to touch you. So much. But I can't... you know, I can't go all the way. It's not right. Not yet. Maybe not ever, I don't know, it's all so confusing..." He sounded genuinely distressed, torn between desire and deep-seated doctrine.
"Shhh," you soothed, running your hands through his soft curls. "We don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with. We can just... fool around."
He looked up at you, his eyes liquid with gratitude and pent-up want.
"Can I... can I see you?"
You nodded, reaching back for the zipper of your dress. His hands were there first, fumbling clumsily.
"Let me, please," he murmured, his fingers shaking. He managed it after a few tries, and helped you shimmy out of the simple 60s style shift dress. It pooled around your hips on the couch.
He stared, his lips parted. You were in just your bra and underwear now. His gaze was one of pure, reverent awe. "You're so beautiful," he breathed, almost to himself. "Like a little painting."
He leaned forward, burying his face in the valley between your breasts, nuzzling the soft skin there with a soft, desperate sound. His arms came around you, holding you tightly.
You could feel the hard length of him, trapped in his trousers, pressing against you. You rocked your hips against him, a slow, deliberate grind.
He moaned, a long, low, helpless "Oooohhh..." and his own hips jerked up to meet the motion.
"Oh, wow," he gasped, his voice strained. "That feels... that's okay, right? Just... just like this?" He jerked his hips again, and rolled, like the motion of a dance he was familiar with.
"Just like this," you affirmed, continuing the slow, rocking rhythm.
It was dry, and a bit frantic at times, though still incredibly intimate through the layers of fabric.
His hands clutched at your back, his fingers pressing into your skin. He was panting, little hot breaths against your chest.
"Can I... take this off?" he asked, his fingers hooking under the strap of your bra.
"Yes."
He undid the clasp with surprising dexterity, and when the garment fell away, he made a small, choked sound. He didn't touch at first, just stared, his eyes dark.
Then, hesitantly, he reached out and cupped your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple.
A full-body shiver wracked you.
"You're so soft," he whispered. He leaned in and took the peak into his mouth, suckling gently, then with more pressure when you arched into him with a soft cry. His hips were moving in a frantic, grinding counter-rhythm to yours now, the friction maddening for you both.
After a few minutes of this, he pulled his mouth away with a wet pop, his face flushed. "I'm... I'm gonna… go too far… I can't stop myself like this," he confessed, his voice thick with shame and arousal. "It's too much, to feel you up this way. I’m so tempted."
You stilled your movements. "What do you want to do, Michael?” You whispered. “I don’t want you to feel pressure to actually go through with this if it will hurt you mentally or have…reprecussions"
He wouldn't meet your eyes. His brain ran off for a minute, clearly trying to brainstorm ways to keep this going.
"I've... I've thought about it. What it might be like. If you... if you used your mouth." The words came out in a rushed, guilty whisper.
"But that's probably worse, isn't it? And you wouldn't want to, we aren’t going steady, and it's dirty, I'm—"
"Michael," you interrupted softly, tipping his chin up so he had to look at you. "I want to. Very much. I don’t really care that we aren’t going ‘steady’."
His eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of deception or pity. Finding none, he bit his lip, a war playing out on his face. "Really? You... you want to?"
"Oh, yes."
A tremor went through him. He nodded, a quick, jerky motion. "Okay. Okay. But... can we... not all the way? I mean, I'm still dressed, you're... you're mostly dressed. It's less... it's less like that."
You understood where he was going with that statement. A slight barrier to his fervent sexual intention. His religion was stepping in the way of the raw desire he had burning up through him, it was clear to see.
You could see it, raw and held back in the way he danced on stage, even in the way he sang. This strain…a fight against the odds.
The layers were a psychological barrier as much as a physical one.
"Of course." You said.
You slid off his lap and knelt on the plush carpet between his knees. He watched you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Your babydoll shift dress was still sitting just above your hips, so your whole chest was on show to him.
You reached for his belt, and he flinched, then forced himself to be still. You undid the buckle, the button of his trousers, the zipper. He lifted his hips to help you push them down just enough, along with his underwear, to free him.
He was fully erect, beautiful and flushed. He was quite big - a bit bigger than you initially expected, from his wiry frame.
The sight of him though, combined with his utterly vulnerable expression, sent a jolt of pure heat through you. You wanted to make him feel good. Inform his art, his craft and allow him to draw on real life desire.
You leaned forward, but he suddenly put his hands over his face, peeking through his fingers.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, his voice muffled.
"I'm so embarrassed. I shouldn't be letting you do this. You must think I'm not strong, for being so easily swayed."
"I think you're beautiful, and very normal" you said firmly. You reached up and gently, but insistently, pulled his hands away from his face. He resisted for a second, then let you, exposing his blush-red cheeks and worried eyes.
"And I want to do this. Look at me, Michael. See that I want to."
He held your gaze, his own wide and trusting. Slowly, you lowered your head and took him into your mouth.
The sound he made was unlike anything you'd ever heard—a high, shattered gasp that broke into a choked-off sob. "Ah! Oh—gosh... Y/N..."
His hands flew to your head, not to guide, but to simply hold on, his fingers tangling in your hair.
You started slow, using your tongue, your lips, finding a rhythm. He was vocal, helplessly so, filling the studio with a stream of breathy, broken praise and disbelief.
"It feels... oh, it feels so good... how does it feel so good? You're so warm... your mouth is so soft... I shouldn't... I shouldn't like it this much..."
His hips began to move in tiny, aborted thrusts, a subconscious seeking of more depth. You took him deeper, relaxing your throat. He moaned, long and loud.
"God, I am so close... How can I be so close, I can't... I've never felt anything like this..." His voice was taut with panic and pleasure.
His grip in your hair tightened unconsciously as you took him deeper and deeper, teetering on the edge of hitting your gag flex he was so big. "Please... don't stop... I'm gonna..."
His rhythm became more urgent, his thrusts into your mouth less controlled. He was losing himself, the conflict drowned out by sheer sensation. "Oh, I'm gonna cum... where... where should I...?"
You didn't pull away. You looked up at him with only your eyes, meeting his desperate gaze, and took him as deep as you could, your message clear.
That was his undoing.
With a cry that was half-anguish, half-ecstasy; his hips snapped upward, his hands on your head holding you firmly in place as he spilled himself down your throat.
He wasn't rough per se, but there was a surprising, instinctive strength in his grip, a complete surrender to the climax that forced you to take every last pulse. He shuddered violently, his whole body bowing off the couch.
When it was over, he went limp, his hands falling from your hair to hang uselessly at his sides.
He was panting, staring at the ceiling with a dazed, shell-shocked expression. You pulled back, swallowing, and rested your cheek on his inner thigh.
For a full minute, there was only the sound of his ragged breathing. Then, slowly, he looked down at you.
His expression shifted from a somewhat post-coital blankness to dawning horror. He saw your lips, your chin, the evidence of what he'd done.
"Oh, no," he whispered, his voice small and shattered.
"Oh, no, no, no." He scrambled back on the couch, pulling his trousers up with frantic, clumsy movements, covering himself. He covered his face with those big hands again.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I made you do that. I lost control, I hurt you, I— just wanted you so badly. It felt so much better than just using my hand."
"Michael," you said softly, climbing onto the couch beside him. You reached out and touched his arm. He flinched. "You didn't hurt me. I wanted to. Every second of it."
He peeked out from behind his hands again. His eyes were so honest - this was not an act. He really felt this internal battle, of what his body wanted, what it called for and what his religion told him was right.
"Really?"
"Really. It was beautiful. You are beautiful. I don’t mind being slow, as long as I get to spend more time with you" You said, now tracing circles on top of his thigh.
The tension slowly bled out of him. He uncurled slightly, letting his legs drop from where they had tense.
He looked at you, his boyish vulnerability returning in full force, replacing the tortured guilt. He reached out a trembling hand and brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, wiping away a stray drop.
"Your mouth," he said, wonder in his voice. "It was… so… addicting." A faint, disbelieving smile touched his lips. It was gone in a second, replaced by shyness. He couldn't hold your gaze.
"I... I liked it. A lot. More than I've ever liked anything. Does that make me terrible?"
"It makes you human," you said, leaning in to kiss him, a soft, chaste press of lips.
He tasted himself on you, and he sighed into the kiss, a sound of pure, sweet surrender.
He pulled you up to lie beside him on the wide couch, arranging you so your back was to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around you. He nuzzled his face into your hair.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"For what?"
"For being patient with me. For being so sweet. For... for letting me feel normal for a little while." He paused.
You smiled in the dim light. "It was thrilling." You let your dirty sense of humour come out to play again, as he didn’t seem as vulnerable.
He giggled then, a soft, silly, boyish sound, and squeezed you tighter. "Good." He was quiet for a long moment.
"Jackie is going to freak when I confirm I added that little line to the song." Michael said. “He’ll want to know why I changed my mind.”
"Maybe it can be our secret," you suggested. “Just be friends, but fool around like this?”
He pressed a grateful kiss to your shoulder. "Yeah. Our secret." He yawned, a huge, unguarded yawn, and snuggled closer.
"Don't go yet, okay? Just stay for a little while longer, I don’t want you to go back to being a voice on the phone or an image in my head.”
Summary: You are the daughter of a big shot producer close to Michael's album development team, at Epic. Your dad gives you michael's number after you beg him... and he actually decides to humour you and have a conversation
Tags: 18+, smut, Phone sex, sub!michael (sort of), thriller era, he is a bit older and probs yearns to be a bit more frisky, all those hormones, Michael comes out of his shell a bit, he has a filthy little voice, one he didn't even know about til now, but boy does he WHIMPER, silk pyjamas, but Michael still being Michael and talking about disney parks cuz hes a total NERD
Word Count: 4346
Author’s Note: just saw the movie again for the 7th time in imax today. i think i could play a part in it tbh. ALSO PLS LETS TALK ABOUT THE MIDDLE PHOTO ABOVE OF MICHAEL WITH HIS PANTS UNZIPPED PLS AND THANKS. feral. and its what inspired this.
you can read part 2 of Dial tone here
If you'd like more, send me an ask ;)
The phone rang at an odd hour, the shrill sound cutting through the quiet of his bedroom. Michael picked up the receiver, his voice soft and uncertain. "Hello?"
"Hi... is this Michael?" Your voice came through the line, slightly breathless, like you'd been working up the courage to make this call for hours.
He blinked, sitting up straighter against the headboard. "Yes. Who is this?"
"Hi Yes, well, I'm sorry, I know this is strange. My name is Y/N. My father—he's a producer at Epic—he gave me your number. I promise I'm not some fan who broke into his office or anything." You let out a nervous little laugh, and something about it made the corner of his mouth twitch upward.
"Oh.. Well hi. And yes, I know your father quite well. He’s a great man." His tone was cautious but curious, not angry, his voice airy and highly pitched. Even more so than you had heard before in interviews.
"I know, he’s great, and he’s crazy about working with you," you admitted. "I just—I told him I felt like I needed to talk to you. He probably thought I was crazy. Maybe I am. But yeah. You know my dad, so don’t worry about me being a stranger, I guess."
There was a pause like he was mulling over putting the phone down, and then Michael asked, "Why… did you need to talk to me?"
You swallowed. "Because I saw that interview you did last month. The one where you talked about growing up in the industry and how it felt like you never got to just... be a kid… or a young adult. I feel the same, my dad moved us around a lot for his job, so i never got the childhood i deserved."
Silence on his end. Not quite the uncomfortable kind—the kind that said you'd struck something true in his heart. You had heard he had quite an old fashioned soul, really spoke from deep within.
"I've never had anyone say that to me so plainly before," he finally said, his voice even quieter than before. "Not someone who actually understood what I was talking about when I said i missed out on my childhood. Its odd to hear someone agreeing, actually."
"Then I'm glad I called." You smiled, curling the phone wire giddily in your hand.
The conversation flowed like water finding its natural course. You talked about childhoods that weren't really childhoods—yours spent hovering at the edges of your father's world, his spent at the center of a spotlight so bright it cast shadows everywhere else.
You discovered you both loved old Cary Grant films, that neither of you could sleep before midnight, that loneliness felt like a second skin, a skin, you both needlessly tried to shed but couldn’t.
"You know what I think?" you said, curled up on your bed with the phone pressed to your ear.
"I think the universe put us in each other's path. Too many coincidences for it to be random."
Michael laughed—his real laugh, breathy and bright, and you’d never heard it before. "You believe in fate?"
"Don't you?"
A pause. "I think I'm starting to. If I have my producer's cute daughter calling me this late. I’ve seen your pictures..." He said. “Your dad is proud of you, Miss training-to-be-a-nurse”
Your chest warmed at that. It was strange to think your father had sat across from this person — this boy who'd just spent twenty minutes debating the correct order to experience Fantasyland — and watched him become someone else entirely in a recording studio. A beast, your dad had called him. The kind who walked into a room and knew immediately when the string quartet had played their last note, who could hear a synth line once and tell you exactly why it was wrong. Someone who agitated his own vocal until it sat right, not because he was told to but because he simply knew.
You'd turned that over in your head for weeks after your father told you. The contradiction of it. Because nothing about Michael Jackson suggested beast. Everything suggested careful, considered, a little fragile around the edges; and tonight had confirmed it.
He'd been so clipped at first, his answers arriving in small careful portions like he was rationing himself. You'd talked about The Shining, which he'd been watching alone in the big quiet house while his family were out, and somewhere in that conversation something had loosened.
Then Disneyland, and he'd come fully alive, telling you about a replica Walt Disney World train set he kept, his voice losing every last trace of caution as he described it. He'd sounded like a kid. Like someone who'd never had to perform for a train set.
That was the contradiction your father hadn't mentioned. That the beast in the studio and the boy on the phone were the same person, separated by something you couldn't quite name.
By now his guard had come all the way down. You could hear it, the way he'd settled deeper into his pillows, the quiet rustle of silk against sheets, his voice sitting lower and easier than it had two hours ago.
"What are you doing right now?" you asked.
"Lying in bed. You?"
"Same." You smiled to yourself. "What are you wearing?"
A surprised little huff. "My pajamas. Why?"
"Hmm. What do they look like?"
"They're... blue. Silk."
"Sounds nice." You let your voice drop, just slightly—enough to shift the air between you. "I bet you look nice in them."
Michael's breath caught audibly. "That's—you don't have to—"
"I want to. Can I tell you something?"
"Yes. You may."
"I've been thinking about what you might look like up close and in person. What your hands might look like. The way your voice sounds right now, how low it's gotten."
You rolled onto your back, staring at your ceiling. "Is that okay that I am thinking along those lines?"
The silence stretched. Then, so quietly you almost missed it: "Yes." he almost whispered.
Your pulse kicked. "Good. Can you do something for me, Michael?"
"Maybe."
"Make yourself feel good, in this moment"
You heard the sharp intake of breath. "I—I don't—"
“You’ve never touched yourself?” you asked, shocked and incredulous. You found it hard to believe someone so sensual on stage and in recording had never been intimate with himself.
“No, I absolutely have, a lot - I mean, I can’t find a girlfriend the normal way so its hard.” He said back, almost stuttering over his words nervously.
“Well, I am a girl and I want to make you feel good. Even if it is over the phone. I feel compelled to” you said, a blush starting to form on your face.
Michael never replied, but you could hear his breathing quicken
"Okay, move your hand for me. Just put it on your chest. Over your heart. Can you feel how fast it's beating?"
A rustle of fabric, then a soft exhale. "Yes."
"That's because of me. Because I'm talking to you in this way. Which I doubt any other woman has yet?." You let your own hand drift down, fingertips tracing your collarbone.
"Does it feel good? Having someone tell you what to do in a sexual way?"
Another long pause, but this one was weighted differently. He was thinking, not retreating. "I... no one's ever asked me that before or spoke to me so plainly"
"Ask yourself. Right now. Does it?"
His answer came out barely above a whisper: "Yes."
"Okay. I want you to slide your hand down. Slowly. Over your stomach."
Fabric rustled. His breathing changed, became shallower. You could picture him—long, beautiful fingers tracing his own skin, that honey skin tone and his beautiful face flushed in the dim light of his bedroom.
"Are you doing it?"
"I am." The word was almost a sigh.
"Keep going. Until you're touching yourself over your pajamas. Don't go underneath yet."
A strangled sound escaped him—half protest, half something else entirely. You heard him shift, the creak of his mattress, then the distinct rhythm of his breath turning ragged.
"There you go," you murmured. "Feel that? That's for me. You’re doing this for me."
"Y/N—" His voice cracked on the syllables. "This is—I shouldn't—"
"You can stop whenever you want. But you don't want to stop, do you?"
Quiet. A shaky exhale. "No."
"Tell me."
"I don't want to stop."
The admission hung between you, electric and trembling. You slid your own hand lower, fingers dipping beneath your waistband, finding the heat that had been building for the past hour.
"I want you to go under now," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "Take yourself in your hand. Don't stroke yet—just hold. Feel how hard you are for me”
The whimper he let out sent a jolt straight through you. You heard him obey—the subtle sound of silk being pushed aside, his breath hitching as he wrapped his fingers around himself.
"Good," you breathed. "Now I want you to stroke. Slowly. Just the way you like when you're alone in bed, when no one can hear you."
He groaned, and the sound was exquisite—raw and unguarded, nothing like the polished performer the world knew. This was him, stripped bare. "Ahh—"
"Does it feel good?"
"Yes— It feels more dirty doing it with someone on the line" His hand started moving faster, and you could hear it now—the slick, rhythmic sound of him pleasuring himself, punctuated by those desperate little gasps he couldn't seem to control.
"Slower," you commanded. "I didn't say you could go fast."
A frustrated noise, but he obeyed. You could picture his hand moving in long, deliberate strokes—him biting his lip to keep from crying out.
"Y/N, please—" The word was ragged, almost pleading.
"Please what?"
"Tell me—tell me what you're doing. I want to imagine it.”
Your fingers moved inside yourself, your slick warmth clenching around your slim fingers, and your voice came out shakier than you intended.
"I'm touching myself too. Thinking about your hands on me instead of my own."
"Gods—" The profanity startled you both, spilling from his lips like he couldn't hold it back.
"Are you—inside?"
"Mmhm. Two fingers. Wishing it was you, filling me up"
The sound he made was somewhere between a moan and a whine, his restraint crumbling audibly. "Want to feel you—want to be inside you so badly— I’d fill you up"
"Then earn it. Keep stroking. Faster now." you said, your hands moving faster on your heat. “And don’t be quiet, Michael. I want to hear that voice of yours.”
His rhythm picked up immediately, desperate and uneven. You could hear the wet sound of his fist sliding over himself, the slap of it, his breath coming in sharp bursts. "Hahh—ngh—I'm—gonna come on myself if you keep talking to me like that. So- so dirty and honest"
"Not yet," you whined, even though your own body was trembling on the edge.
"Y-you don't come until I say so, Michael."
A full-body shudder seemed to pass through him, audible even over the phone. "Ugh, Please, I can't—you're making me—"
"You can. You will." You pressed deeper, your thumb finding that spot that made your vision white out. "Tell me how badly you want it."
"I want to be inside you so deep—want to hear you say my name when you come—I- god, I—want to fill you up and watch you fall apart for me—" The words tumbled out like he'd been holding them behind a dam, dirty and raw and so at odds with the shy man who'd answered the phone two hours ago.
Your back arched, your fingers working furiously. "Michael—oh—"
"That's it, say my name—let me hear you—"
"Michael—oh—" The orgasm ripped through you without warning, your walls clenching hard around your fingers, your thighs snapping shut as you rode out the waves. You couldn't hold back the moan that spilled from your lips—guttural and uncontrolled and so, so loud in the quiet of your bedroom.
You heard him make a sound like he'd been punched—broken and desperate. "Oh god—d-did you just—did you come? Did you actually just—"
"Mmhm," you managed, still trembling, your voice wrecked. "So hard, Michael. Came so hard for you."
"Oh f-fuck—" The word came out stuttered, reverent, like he'd never said it before in this context and wasn't sure he was allowed. "I've never—no one's ever—that was the most intense thing I've ever heard in my entire life, I—"
He was still stroking, you could hear it—the slick, obscene sound of his fist working his shaft, faster now, more urgent. His breathing had gone completely ragged, punctuated by these tiny whimpering moans he seemed to be trying to swallow.
"Don't stop," you breathed, coming down slowly, your body still pulsing with aftershocks. "Keep touching yourself. I want to hear you finish."
"I've never had anyone listen to me before," he admitted, his voice thin and strained. "When I'm alone I have to be so quiet, my brothers are always in the next room and I—ngh—I always imagine someone wanting to hear me, wanting to know what I sound like when I lose control and I—"
"And what do you sound like, Michael?" You rolled onto your side, pressing the phone tight against your ear. "Let me hear the real you."
A broken gasp. His hand sped up, the wet sounds growing louder, more rhythmic.
"I sound like—hahh—like this. Like I can't breathe. Like I'm losing my mind over someone I've never even met and it's—it's driving me insane—"
"Tell me what you're thinking about. Right now. What's making you so turned on?"
"I'm thinking about—" He broke off with a whine, and you could hear him struggling, his shyness warring with the pleasure coiling tight in his belly. "I'm thinking about your fingers inside you. How wet you must be. That you are a complete stranger. That I am unraveling for.” You could hear him gasping for breath, the phone was so close to his mouth.
“I want to—I want to taste it. I want to put my mouth on you and lick you until you're screaming my name again and again—"
"Michael—"
"No one's ever let me—" His voice cracked, raw and exposed. "I've thought about it so much. Going down on a woman. Having her grab my hair and use my face and I just—oh god, I'm so close, Y/N, I'm so close—"
"Then tell me what else you'd do to me." You slipped your fingers back inside yourself, still slick and sensitive, and the sensation made you gasp.
"Tell me everything. Don't be shy anymore."
A shuddering exhale. "I want to—I want to push into you so slowly. Make you feel every inch."
He was babbling now, the words tumbling out faster than he could filter them. "I want to watch your face when I first enter you, when you feel how hard I am for you. I've never—I've never been inside anyone before and I want it to be you, I want you to be the first pussy I ever feel clenching around my cock and I—"
He stopped abruptly, and you could practically hear him blushing through the phone. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said—that word—I—"
"Don't apologize. We’re in the moment" You were grinding against your own hand now, impossibly turned on again. "Say it again."
"I want to—" He swallowed hard.
"I want to feel your pussy around me. Is that—is that okay to say? It feels so dirty when I say it out loud. Dirtier than when I think it alone in my bed. It makes me even harder, knowing you're hearing me say these words."
"Good. Keep going. What else would you do?"
"I'd—I'd flip you over." His voice dropped lower, gaining confidence even as it shook with need. "Pin you down. Take you from behind so I could watch you—watch your body move every time I thrust into you. Would you like that? Would you let me be a little rough with you?"
"Yes," you moaned. "God, yes."
"I've never been rough before. I've never even had the chance to find out what I like but I think—I think I'd like that. Holding you down. Making you take it. Feeling you get wetter and wetter every time I—every time my hips snap against your ass and I can hear the sound of our skin slapping together—"
"Fuck, Michael—"
"Am I doing this right?" he asked suddenly, his voice turning vulnerable again, that sweet uncertainty creeping back in.
"Am I—am I being sexy enough? I don't know what I'm doing, I've never talked to anyone like this and I—"
"You're perfect," you gasped. "You're so fucking perfect, don't you dare stop."
"Really?" The word came out like a prayer, awed and disbelieving.
"You really think—no one's ever told me I was—I'm always too quiet, too soft, too weird but when you say it like that I almost believe I could be—"
"You could be what? Tell me."
"Good at this." His rhythm faltered, growing erratic.
"Good at making you feel good. I've imagined it so many times, practiced in my head what I'd say if I ever had a woman who wanted me to talk to her while I touched her and ahh—hahh—now that I'm actually doing it I can't stop, the words just keep coming out and they're so filthy but it feels so right when you're listening—"
"Because you were made for this." You pressed your palm against your mound, grinding in tight circles.
"The shy boy who says the filthiest things when the lights go out."
"Oh god—oh god oh god—" His breathing had reached a pitch of desperation, each exhale a miniature moan he couldn't seem to contain.
"I'm gonna—I can't hold it anymore, please, Y/N, please let me come, I'll do anything, I'll say anything you want, just please—"
"Tell me something you've never told anyone."
"I think about—ngh—I think about someone watching me. While I touch myself. I want them to see how desperate I get, how pathetic I look when I'm chasing my release and I can't find it and I'm whimpering and begging and—I want them to see what you've done to me. I want you to see what you've done to me."
"Michael, come for me."
The sound he made, this raw, transcendent keen that seemed to tear itself from somewhere deep in his chest, would stay with you forever. You heard the rhythm of his hand stutter, then seize, then stop entirely as he let out a strangled series of moans, each one higher than the last.
"Oh—oh fuck, I'm—Y/N, I'm coming, a-all all over my stomach, it's so much, you made me come so much, I—ahhh—mmph—" It sounded like the receiver dropped for a moment
"Michael," you whispered, and you came again too, your second orgasm rolling through you softer but no less devastating than the first.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of two people trying to remember how to breathe.
His gasps were ragged and uneven, yours shaky and light, and the silence between you felt sacred somehow.
Then, so quietly you almost missed it: "That was... that was my first time. Doing that with someone."
"Really?"
"I've never trusted anyone enough to let them hear me like that." You could hear him shifting, probably reaching for something to clean himself with. "I can't believe some of the things I said. It felt good to do it though. Did I really call it my—my cock?"
You laughed, warm and genuine. "You did."
"Oh god." A soft thump, like he'd dropped his head back against the pillow. "I've never even said that word out loud before. Not in that context. I’ve heard it in porn films. And… I said I wanted to feel your—your—"
"Pussy," you supplied helpfully.
He made a noise like he was dying. "Please don't say it again. I am going to die of embarrassment when I wake up in the morning and realise how vulnerable I have been with you on the phone tonight.”
"Don't you dare be embarrassed." You rolled onto your stomach, pressing the phone against your ear like you could somehow get closer to him through it.
"Michael, that was beautiful."
"Beautiful?" You heard the skepticism in his voice, the way he couldn't quite believe you meant it. "I sounded like... I don't know. Some kind of animal."
"You sounded like someone who felt good. Someone who let himself feel good for maybe the first time." You traced idle patterns on your sheets, your body still humming. "That's not embarrassing. It's normal to want release Sometimes you just need a good excuse to get it."
He was quiet for a moment, and you could hear him moving—probably pulling his pajamas back into place, wiping his stomach with whatever he'd grabbed. The domestic reality of the aftermath, the part they never showed in movies.
"I can't believe my father's BIGGEST artist just came while thinking about me," you said, a smile in your voice. "The Epic and CBS executives would have a heart attack if they were somehow to know."
"Oh, stop." But you could hear him smiling too now, that shy little laugh escaping him. "You're going to give me a complex. I'm never going to be able to look your father in the eye again."
"He'll just think you're being your usual quiet self. Little does he know his star performer has quite the mouth on him when he wants to."
"Y/N!" The indignation in his voice was undercut entirely by the laugh he couldn't suppress. "You're terrible. You're absolutely terrible and I—"
He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice had softened. "I really liked talking to you. Before the... you know. And after. I like your voice."
"I like yours." You hugged your pillow closer. "Even more now that I know what it sounds like when you fall apart."
A soft groan. "You're not going to let me live this down, are you?"
"Not ever."
You heard him shift again, settling back into his pillows, and the intimacy of the sound struck you—how domestic this was, how comfortable, for two people who had never even seen each other in person.
"When can I see you?" The question slipped out before you could second-guess it.
Michael went still. "You want to see me? After... I mean, you've heard me now. You know I'm not exactly—"
"Michael." You cut him off firmly. "I want to see you. I want to sit across from you and watch your face when you talk. I want to know if you gesture with your hands when you get excited about something. I want to see your Walt Disney World toy train set in person. I want to feel what its like to cuddle up next to you on the couch whilst we watch a scary movie. I want to see what you look like when you blush, because I have a feeling you're blushing right now."
"I am not," he lied, his voice pitching higher in that way that told you he absolutely was.
"Liar."
"Maybe a little." A pause. "I'm free this Saturday. If you wanted to—maybe we could get coffee? Or tea? I don't really drink coffee. It makes me jittery."
"Tea sounds perfect." Your heart was pounding again, but this time with anticipation, not nerves. He’d finally see you in the flesh and not just in picture, or your voice on the other end of the receiver.
"There's a little place in Studio City. Very quiet, very private. No one would bother us." You spoke up after a brief moment of silent thought.
"How do you know I don't want people to bother us?" His tone was teasing now, surprising you both. "I'm a superstar, you know. I have an image to maintain."
"Is that right? Because from what I just heard, superstar, you—"
"If you finish that sentence, I'm hanging up this phone and changing my number and telling your father you're delusional."
You laughed, bright and real and full of something that felt dangerously close to hope. "Fine, fine. I'll be good."
"I sincerely doubt that."
Saturday felt impossibly far away. You had three days to get through, three days of classes and shifts at the hospital and pretending you were a normal person when all you could think about was the boy with the honey voice who'd whispered filthy things in your ear like he'd been waiting his whole life for someone to listen.
"Y/N?" His voice pulled you back to the present.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For calling. For removing me from my mundane and lonely reality. It isn’t all its cracked up to be… being famous." He said it so earnestly, so sweetly, that your chest ached with it.
"I've never felt this comfortable with someone. Usually I'm so worried about saying the wrong thing, or being too weird, or making people feel awkward—"
"You could never make me feel awkward, Michael."
"No?" You could hear the smile in his voice, that tentative hope blooming again. "Not even when I said I wanted to—"
"Okay, goodnight, Michael!" you half yelled, feeling embarrassment gurgle in your belly once more. You didn’t want to rehash just how dirty you had both been.
His laugh was your favorite sound now—bright and breathy and completely unguarded. You wanted to bottle it. You wanted to fall asleep to it every single night.
"Goodnight, Y/N." A pause, weighted with everything neither of you knew how to say yet.
"Dream of me?"
"Only if you dream of me."
"I already know I will." And then, softer: "I think I started the moment you said hello."
The line went dead, and you held the receiver against your chest for a long time, listening to the dial tone, smiling at the ceiling. What on earth did your crazy and direct personality get you into?
It's Jimin again because i found him first and he's cute AS FUCK, i want to squish his cheeks. That Carti song reminds me of winter and shit so merry christmas!
summary ✧˖° you’ve told jungkook a hundred times not to touch anything in your workshop. your clients are — to put it nicely — strange enough without him getting mixed up in their business.
but when a potion you brewed ends up looking a little too much like plain water… well, accidents happen. and really, it’s only fair you help him deal with the side effects.
pairing... jeon jungkook x witch!reader
genre/warnings... bsfs to lovers (?), crack, fluff, swearing, accidental consumption of an aphrodisiac, this is genuinely just the premise of a shitty porno, explicit sexual content; kissing, jk is a NEEDY man, lowkey subby-ish/switch jk, mutual masturbation, oral (m. receiving), fingering (f. receiving), cum eating, rusty ahh writing
word count... 5.4k
note... sooo, i started writing this for kinktober but then never got around to it until this week lolol. hopefully it makes up for my lack of writing over the past 4 months 🙇🏽♀️ likes, reblogs, comments, asks and feedback are very appreciated!! enjoy reading my angels <3
⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ divider creds.
The cauldron hums loudly. You can feel it vibrating faintly through the countertop, the mixture inside giving off a low, syrupy burble that smells awfully like burnt sugar. The air in your apartment is warm from it, but you’re used to it by now.
Shelves crowd the walls, filled with labelled jars that don’t all have honest names. Dried herbs hang upside-down from strings, and there’s wax melted into every possible surface, and a faint shimmer in the air that makes the whole room look a bit dream-like.
You stir clockwise twice, and whisper a few words under your breath, watching as the surface of the potion shifts from deep crimson to a lazy pink. “There we go,” you mutter to yourself with satisfaction. “Finally behaving.”
From the couch behind you comes a loud, bored groan.
“You talk to that thing more than you talk to me,” Jungkook says, his voice muffled by what sounds like a mouthful of chips.
You glance over your shoulder. He’s sprawled across your old couch, one leg hanging off, a crisp bag balanced on his chest. His hair’s a little messy, and there’s an open sketchbook somewhere near his feet that you know he hasn’t touched in an hour.
“Because that ‘thing’ isn’t annoying and doesn’t interrupt me every five seconds,” you say, turning back to the cauldron.
“I’m helping,” he insists, lazily pointing a finger at the bubbling mixture. “What is that one for again? Love spell? Truth serum? Anti-aging for the rich lady downstairs?” His voice drops a tone. "I swear she's older than this building."
“Not telling,” you reply. “Client confidentiality. And she’s not older than the building, she just acts like it.”
Jungkook laughs, the sound soft and genuine. “You’re probably making a love potion or something, selling fake feelings for money.”
“Not fake,” you correct him, arching a brow. “Just chemically encouraged.”
“That’s worse.”
You shrug. “Pays better.”
He throws a chip at you. It lands in the cauldron, dissolving instantly with a hiss. You both freeze.
“That wasn’t important, right?” he says.
You stare at the surface, waiting for any catastrophic reaction. When it stays calm, you exhale. “You’re lucky this brew’s forgiving,” you say, pointing the wooden spoon at him. “If that had been wolf's bane—”
“—I’d be dead,” he finishes, grinning. “Yeah, yeah, you say that every time.”
You roll your eyes and turn back to your work. The potion has settled into a faint shimmer, its colour brightening toward a delicate, rosy pink.
Behind you, Jungkook shifts, the couch creaking. “Hey, you got water or something?”
“On the counter,” you say, not looking up. “The one with the blue cap.”
“Cool.”
You hear him get up, his socks dragging against the carpet on the floor and you cringe at the sound. You don't think twice as he twists the bottle cap open and gulp down the liquid; your attention’s on the delicate timing of the final stir.
Well, at least until the cap hits the counter with a soft click.
“Why’s your water kinda pink?”
You freeze mid-stir. The spoon hangs above the cauldron, dripping a slow ribbon of potion back into the mix. You turn your head slightly, dread settling in the pits of your stomach.
“What?”
Jungkook’s standing by the counter, bottle in hand, squinting down at it. “Your water. It’s a bit pink.”
The spoon clatters onto the counter as you spin around. “You drank it?”
He blinks. “Yeah? You said it was water.”
"Why, on God's green earth, would you drink water that is pink?"
“I mean, it’s your kitchen,” he says defensively, voice rising a key to match your own. “Didn’t think you kept poison next to the bread.”
“Oh my god, you absolute—” You cut yourself off, running a hand down your face. The scent of sugar and herbs cling to your skin. “Kook, that wasn’t fucking water. That was a philtre.”
"I have no idea what a philtre is."
After almost a decade of friendship and constant lingering around your house while you cook up different solutions, it astonishes you how little he truly knows about your line of work.
You let out an exasperated sigh.
"It's like— it's basically a drug that induces love, and desire and stuff." The last few words roll off your tongue as a mumble.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not in the mood to joke.”
There’s a heartbeat of silence. “So what now? I’m gonna fall in love with the next person I see?” An incredulous grin spreads across his lips and it makes you want to slap it off.
“Technically, yes,” you say, voice flat. “Except it's not gonna be as strong because you’re not supposed to drink it in that form, you were supposed to dilute it, so now I have to make an entirely new batch, which, by the way, costs time and ingredients that aren’t cheap.” Jungkook lets out a small sigh of relief as you gesture at the cauldron, eyebrows furrowing in annoyance. “I had that one perfectly balanced. Do you even know how hard it is to get powdered rose quartz to dissolve evenly?”
“Tragic,” he says, clearly holding back a laugh.
“Don’t,” you warn.
He raises his hands. “I’m just saying, maybe it’s the universe’s way of testing your product. Quality assurance.”
“Uh-huh,” you mutter, snatching a rag to wipe the counter. “How do you feel?”
“Fine."
“Any dizziness? Warmth? Sudden need to write me a sonnet?”
He snorts. “Do people still write sonnets?”
You shoot him a look. “Jungkook.”
He scratches the back of his neck, thinking about it for a second. “No, nothing. Maybe a little thirsty still, but I think that’s just because you yelled at me.”
You stare at him a moment longer, trying to decide if you’re relieved or suspicious. His face is relaxed, eyes steady, no sign of pink tint in the irises, which is usually the first giveaway.
“Guess I must’ve screwed something up,” you mumble. “That potion was supposed to hit instantly. Subtle, since you didn't do it properly, but instant.”
“Wow, so you’re not just a witch,” he says. “You’re a bad one.”
You grab the nearest spoon and point it at him. “You’re not allowed to mock me while you’re potentially under a spell, understood?”
He smirks. “Oh, so you do want me to be in love with you. Noted.”
“Don’t make me curse you.”
He laughs and props himself up onto one of the few free and clean spaces among your counters.
You go back to stirring the cauldron, trying to remeasure ingredients in your head. The potion isn’t ruined, exactly, but it’s useless now that you can’t replicate the exact ratios. You’ll have to start over. The thought alone makes your jaw clench.
Jungkook hums a tune you don’t recognise. He’s tapping his fingers against the side of his leg, the rhythm lazy.
“You’re way too calm for someone who might’ve just lost their free will,” you mutter.
“Maybe I trust you,” he says.
“Yeah, well, don’t,” you reply. “Clearly I’m not as good at this as I thought.”
He leans his head back on the counters, eyes half-closed. “If you want, I can tell you if I start to feel any romantic inclinations. I’ll keep a journal or something. ‘Day one: still hate her cooking.’”
“Please do. It’ll make great marketing material.”
“‘Day two: uncontrollable urge to compliment her potion skills.’”
You throw a dried lavender stem at him. It bounces off his shoulder and lands in the folds of his hoodie.
He grins again. You hate how he knows exactly how to push you to the edge of your patience. Honestly, you almost admire it — almost.
“Go drink some actual water,” you tell him. “From the tap. No bottles. No jars. Nothing glowing.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He gives you a mock salute before shuffling toward the sink, humming as he goes.
You turn back to your cauldron, watching the potion roll lazily against the edges, the pink surface reflecting soft light across your worktable. You should be focused — you want to be — but your attention keeps drifting to the sound of him moving behind you.
You tell yourself you’re only watching to make sure he doesn’t break anything else.
At first, it’s quiet again. Just the steady burble of the cauldron and the low hum of the air conditioner fighting a losing battle against the heat. You’re weighing dried petals into a small brass bowl when Jungkook starts talking.
It’s not unusual for him to fill the silence, but this time there’s something relentless about it.
“So,” he says, voice a little too quick, “when you make these potions— do you ever test them yourself first? Like quality control? Or do you just trust your math?”
You glance over your shoulder. He’s pacing now, hands moving as he talks, the energy rolling off him in little waves. “Depends on what it is,” you say cautiously. “Why?”
“Just curious,” he says, still moving. “Because that one looked kinda cool, actually. The colour, I mean. Like those galaxy drinks people used to make. Remember those? The ones that were supposed to taste like stardust or whatever?”
“Vaguely.”
“I tried to make one once,” he says, half laughing. “Ended up staining the kitchen counter blue for a month. My mom said it looked like an alien crime scene.”
You arch a brow. “You good over there?”
“Yeah, yeah, just—” He stops pacing, pulls at the collar of his hoodie. “Is it just me or is it really hot in here?”
You blink. “It’s always hot in here.”
“No, but like— really hot.” He fans himself with one hand. “Do you have the heat on? Because if you’re trying to turn this place into a sauna, it’s working.”
“It’s the cauldron,” you say, frowning. “It’s giving off heat.”
Jungkook drags his palm down his face, muttering something under his breath. There’s a flush climbing his neck, and a sheen of sweat beginning to build at his temples.
“Maybe sit down,” you suggest. “You’re looking kind of—”
“I’m fine,” he cuts in quickly, but he doesn’t sound convinced. He moves toward the couch, then changes his mind halfway and walks back the counter instead. His movements are restless, like he can’t quite settle. “I don’t know what’s up, though. My heart’s going a mile a minute. It’s not— it’s not the potion, right? Because you said it didn’t work.”
You set your spoon down carefully. “I thought it didn’t.”
“Well, I’m definitely feeling something.”
You study him, trying to read the signs. There’s no pink hue in his eyes, no glazed look — none of the typical philtre markers. But there’s no denying he’s flushed, his skin warm enough that you can almost feel it from across the room.
“Okay,” you say slowly. “Describe it.”
He gestures vaguely. “Just… hot. My chest feels weird.”
“That’s not how a love potion works,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. “You’re supposed to feel drawn to someone. Emotionally. Not whatever this is.”
“Maybe I am feeling drawn,” he says, almost laughing at the absurdity. “To the fridge. Because I swear I could drink all the water in there right now.”
You snort despite yourself. “Not the bottled ones.”
He gives you a half-hearted glare and drops onto the couch again, running his hands through his hair. “This is insane. Are you sure you didn’t accidentally poison me?”
“I don’t poison people,” you reply automatically. “On purpose.”
He laughs weakly, but the sound edges into a groan. His head tips back against the couch cushion, eyes closed.
You wipe your hands on a towel and cross the room. “Let me see that bottle.”
He gestures vaguely toward the counter. You pick it up and hold it up to the light. The faint blush of colour along the glass doesn't look right. It's not pink, but a deeper, almost reddish-purple.
You stare at the bottle for a long moment, your brow furrowing as the colour shifts under the light, until your face twists, halfway between disbelief and horror.
“Oh, for— Jungkook, you idiot!”
His head snaps up. “What? What’d I do now?”
You lift the bottle, squinting at it. “This isn’t pink, it’s magenta.”
He blinks. “Okay? And that means what exactly?”
You hesitate, your mouth opening and closing once before you manage, “It— uh— it means you didn’t… you didn’t drink a philtre.”
“That’s a good thing, right?” You don’t reply. He tilts his head, wary. “So then what did I drink?”
You clear your throat, your voice coming out a little higher than intended. “An— uh… an aphrodisiac.”
Jungkook's eyes widen for a split second as he processes your words. Then he lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as he shifts on the couch. "Oh," he says. "That actually makes a lot of sense now."
You curse under your breath, the word slipping out sharp and frustrated as you set the bottle down harder than intended. The glass clinks against a jar of dried lavender, echoing in the quiet hum of your kitchen. "Shit, Kook, I'm sorry. I should've labelled everything properly— pink for the love stuff, something else for this mess. I got caught up in the brewing and just fucked up." Guilt coils tight in your stomach.
He waves a hand dismissively, though his movements are a little jerky. "Nah, it's fine. Really. I'll just head home, you know? Deal with it there until it passes, or something."
He stands up from the couch, grabbing his jacket from the armrest, but even as he says it, his voice wavers, lacking the easy confidence he usually pulls off so well. The grey sweats he's wearing — ones he threw on earlier when he crashed at your place after a long day — do nothing to hide the way his body is betraying him. The fabric tents obviously at his crotch, the outline of his hard-on pressing against the soft material, impossible to ignore now that he's on his feet.
You shake your head quickly, stepping forward to block his path without thinking, your hand hovering like you want to grab his arm but aren't sure if you should. "Wait, no. That's not how this works. You can't just go home and jerk off or something. This stuff is potent. I'll amp everything up, make it worse if you try to ignore it or push through alone. Trust me, I had to read about it a lot before making it." Your words tumble out, laced with worry, but your eyes flick down involuntarily, catching the full evidence of his arousal.
Heat rushes to your face, but you force yourself to meet his gaze again, determined not to make this more awkward than it already is.
Jungkook pauses mid-step, his jacket dangling from one hand, and you can see the internal battle playing out on his face — the flush deepening on his cheeks, the way his free hand clenches at his side. He glances toward the door, then back at you, his breathing a touch uneven. 'Then what? You gonna brew me a cure or something?' There's a hint of hope in his voice.
Your mind races to the antidote idea, fingers itching to dive back into your shelves of ingredients. You've got the basics — valerian root for calming, maybe some willow bark to counter the heat — but the exact ratios? The incantation to bind it without side effects? It's fuzzy, half-remembered from an old book you haven't cracked open in months.
Brewing it now would be a gamble, especially with him standing there, looking more uncomfortable by the second. One wrong herb, and you could leave him nauseous or worse, zapped out for days.
Fuck.
You watch him for a beat longer, noting how he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. It's distracting, stirring a mix of concern and something warmer, more complicated, that you've shoved down for years under the safety of friendship.
But this is your fault, and walking away isn't you.
"Jungkook, just sit back down for a second, okay?' Your voice comes out softer than you mean, almost pleading, as you gesture to the couch. He hesitates, eyes searching yours, but he drops the jacket and sinks back onto the cushions, thighs spreading slightly in a way that only accentuates the problem.
The room feels smaller now, the air almost thick enough to cut. You perch on the edge of the coffee table, close enough that your knees nearly brush his, and take a steadying breath.
You have an idea, but it's stupid. So incredibly stupid and unprofessional and everything you know you shouldn't be doing. But really, what else is there you can do besides the obvious solution?
"Look, we're best friends, right? Have been forever. And this is partially my screw-up— I put you in this spot. So, I could help out, if you want. You know, take the edge off. Make it easier until it wears down naturally."
Your heart thuds against your ribs as the offer hands in the air, but you keep your expression steady.
Jungkook stares at you, his dark eyes wide and unblinking, the dilated pupils making them look almost black in the low light. His mouth parts slightly, then closes, and you can practically see the conflict flickering.
"Fuck, ___," he finally breathes, voice rough and low, dragging a hand down his face as if to clear his head. "You're not making this any easier, you know that? Talking like that... shit." He shifts again, wincing as the movement sends a jolt through him, his hand hovering near his lap before dropping away.
But you're not backing down, not when you can see how much he's struggling, the way his chest rises and falls a little faster. "I'm serious," you say quietly, leaning in just a fraction, your hand resting lightly on his knee to ground him. "Obviously, I'm not going to force you to anything. But if it helps, then I want to. For you."
He pauses, the silence stretching taut, his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that makes your pulse skip until finally, he mutters, "Fuck, yeah okay. O-only if you're sure."
Almost as if to prove that you genuinely don't mind, you move forward to press your lips to his.
Immediately, his hands cup your face as his lips press firm against yours. It's hesitant at first, and you can taste the faint salt from the chips, but it deepens quickly. His tongue slips past your lips as a low groan rumbles from his chest. The aphrodisiac might be driving him, but the way he holds you, careful even in his need, feels entirely like him.
Your hands find their way to his shoulders, fingers digging into the soft fabric of his hoodie as you steady yourself. He's trembling slightly under your touch, and coils of guilt in your stomach slowly slip away, replaced by desire.
Jungkook pulls back just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours, eyes half-lidded with need. His hands slide from your face to your arms, gripping lightly as if to anchor himself. You can feel the heat radiating off him, his body pressed close on the couch, that insistent hardness in his sweats brushing against your thigh. It's impossible to ignore, especially as he shifts to seek some sort of friction.
You gently push him back against the cushions. He goes willingly, thighs parting as he leans into the corner of the couch, watching you with wide, expectant eyes. The grey sweats cling to his hips, the bulge there even more pronounced now. A small damp spot has formed at the tip, evidence of how worked up he already is. Your mouth goes dry at the sight, but you swallow it down.
"Let me take care of you, yeah?” you whisper, your hands trailing down his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart beneath your palms. He nods, a soft sigh escaping his lips as your fingers hook into the waistband of his sweats.
You slide the sweats down slowly, inch by inch, revealing the dark trail of hair leading down to his erection. He lifts his hips to help, a whimper slipping out as the cool air hits his skin. His cock springs free, thick and flushed, the head already glistening with pre-cum.
You pause for a second and he shifts restlessly, thighs tensing on either side of your shoulders. "___, please," he breathes, the whine in his voice more pronounced now. His eyes lock on yours, pleading silently as another bead of pre-cum wells at the tip and slides down.
You lean in, hands gripping his hips to hold him steady. You start slow, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of his thigh, feeling the muscle jump under your lips. He gasps, head falling back against the couch, and you trail higher, lips brushing the sensitive skin near his base.
Your tongue darts out, licking a slow stripe up the underside of his cock. He tastes salty, warm, and you savour the way he shivers, swirling your tongue around the tip.
"Oh fuck," Jungkook moans, his voice cracking into a whine as his hips buck involuntarily. One hand snakes it's way into your hair while the other lazily presses over his mouth.
You hum in acknowledgment, the vibration making him shudder, and wrap your lips around the head, sucking gently. Your cheeks hollow as you take him deeper, inch by inch, your tongue pressing flat against the vein running along the bottom. He's thick enough that your jaw stretches, but you relax into it, bobbing your head slowly.
Your saliva builds, slicking him up as you work, and you pull back with a wet pop, only to dive down again, taking more this time. His cock hits the back of your throat, and you swallow around him, the constriction drawing a long, drawn-out whine from his chest.
"Shit, you're so good at this,' he pants, voice high and breathy. You glance up, attempting to meet his gaze, but his eyes are squeezed shut now, brows furrowed in pleasure. The aphrodisiac has him hypersensitive; every swirl of your tongue, every suck, pulls another soft whimper from him. You set a languid rhythm, not rushing, letting the tension build gently.
You move your hand to cup his balls, rolling them gently in your palm, feeling them tighten under your touch. He groans louder. "Please, don't stop— feels too fucking good."
You oblige, hollowing your cheeks again as you take him fully, nose brushing his pubic bone. Your own arousal builds at the desperate noises he makes and you squeeze your thighs together.
You pull off for a breath, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his cock, and stroke him with your hand, twisting at the head.
You know that the potion makes every sensation electric and at least five times more amplified, but seeing it in person is almost fascinating.
Your free hand digs into his thigh as you take him into your mouth again, nails leaving faint marks, grounding him as he starts to thrust shallowly into your mouth, unable to help himself. "Gonna... oh fuck, your tongue," he whines, the words tumbling out between gasps.
The room fills with the sounds of wet slurps and his moans that echo off the walls. You can feel him swelling thicker against your tongue, and your movements grow faster, determined to push him over the edge. His hips stutter upward, chasing the heat of your mouth, and you hum encouragingly.
But just as you sense he's teetering on the brink, Jungkook's voice cuts through, ragged and urgent.
"Wait— no," he gasps, his body tensing sharply under your hands.
You pull off his cock immediately, concern flooding you as you lift your head, saliva-slick lips still tingling from the taste of him. His cock bobs free, flushed and glistening.
You wipe your chin quickly, eyes searching his face — his brows are pinched, eyes wide and glassy with arousal, but there's something pleading in them now, not just need.
"What's wrong?" you ask softly, your voice a little hoarse from the effort.
He swallows hard. "I... I wanna feel you," he murmurs, the words tumbling out in a whine that's equal parts desperation and vulnerability. His gaze locks onto yours, dark and intense, pupils blown wide, making him look utterly wrecked. You'll admit, it's a hell of a pretty sight. "Not just this. Please, ___, let me touch you."
Your heart stutters, the weight of his stare making resistance impossible. How can you say no when he's looking at you like that with that fucked out expression?
"Okay," you whisper, nodding as you shift back on your knees.
Jungkook moves like he's been holding back a storm. His fingers cup your face immediately, palms warm and slightly rough against your cheeks, pulling you into a kiss that has your knees weak. You melt into it, hands bracing on his shoulders for balance, the kiss turning sloppy and heated as your breaths mingle in short, needy pants.
He doesn't let go as you break for air, his grip sliding to your neck, thumb stroking your jaw. "C'mere," he breathes against your lips, voice husky and commanding in its softness. You rise slowly, knees aching from the carpet, and he guides you onto his lap.
Your thighs straddle his as you settle over him. The heat of his bare skin seeps through your clothes, his hard cock pressing insistently against your core through the fabric of your pants. It sends a jolt of pleasure up your spine that you desperetly want to chase. You rock forward instinctively, grinding down just once, and he hisses, hands tightening on your hips.
Your fingers find the hem of his hoodie and tug it upward slowly, savouring the reveal — the way his muscles flex under your touch, the faint sheen of sweat making his skin glow. He lifts his arms to help, the thick fabric peeling off over his head in one fluid motion, leaving him almost fully bare.
His chest is broad and defined, nipples pebbled from the arousal coursing through him. You trace your hands over the planes of it, feeling his heartbeat thunder beneath your palms. Jungkook watches you with hooded eyes, a soft sound escaping as your nails drag lightly down his sides.
You press a kiss his collarbone, tasting the salt of his skin. But he's impatient now, hands roaming up your back under your shirt, bunching the fabric as he tugs at it.
"Off," he says, voice a low plea, and you oblige, pulling your top over your head and tossing it aside. The air hits your bare skin, leaving your breasts exposed to his hungry gaze. His eyes darken further, a flush creeping up his neck as he stares, then reaches up to cup them.
You arch into his touch, a quiet moan slipping out as he rolls your nipples between his fingers, pinching just enough to make you gasp. Jungkook's breath hitches, his cock twitching against you, and he pulls you closer.
His mouth latches onto one breast with a reverence that borders on worship. His lips seal around your nipple, sucking gently at first, tongue flicking in slow, wet circles that send sparks straight to your core. You thread your fingers into his hair, holding him there as he works, pulling deeper until it borders on ache.
He hums before switching to the other side, giving it the same lewd attention. His hips shift beneath you, grinding up in shallow rolls that press his length along your clothed slit. The friction is fucking maddening.
His hands roam lower, gripping your ass to pull you flush before slipping his fingers past the waistband of your pants.
You let out a shaky sigh of pleasure as he slowly circles your clit through your panties. The fabric is already damp, clinging to your folds, and every gentle stroke sends fresh sparks racing through you. Jungkook's breath is hot against your neck, his lips grazing the skin there as he murmurs, "God, you're soaked already. Are you sure you didn't drink some of that shit too?"
"Shut u— oh fuck."
He's your best friend, the guy who's pushed past the limits of your patience constantly over the years, but right now, all you can think about is how badly you want him to push those panties aside and give you more.
And almost as if he can read your mind, he finally hooks his fingers into the edge of your panties. His fingers slide through your wetness with ease. He traces your slit slowly, coating himself in your arousal before dipping one finger inside, stretching you open inch by inch.
"Fuck," he breathes, adding a second finger without waiting, pumping them in and out with a steady rhythm that has you moaning openly. His thumb finds your clit again, flicking it lightly at first, then pressing down in tight circles that match the thrust of his fingers. The dual sensation is overwhelming, your walls clenching around him as he curls his digits just right, hitting that sensitive spot deep inside that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.
You rock against his hand, chasing the building pressure. His cock presses insistently between your bodies and your hand snakes down, wrapping around him with a small squeeze.
Jungkook hisses through his teeth at the sudden touch, his hips jerking forward into your palm. But his fingers never falter inside you. He drives them deeper, and your hand matches his pace on his cock, twisting slightly on each upstroke, feeling the veins pulse under your fingers as he throbs in your hold. The shared rhythm builds the tension inside both of you, his free hand digging into your hip to steady you both.
The coil in your stomach doesn’t take long to tighten, before snapping like a rubber band. Your pussy clamps down hard on his fingers, spasming as the orgasm rips through you in rolling waves. You cry out, back arching against him, juices flooding over his hand while your grip tightens on his dick.
Jungkook follows seconds later, a deep groan tearing from his throat as his cock swells in your fist. Hot spurts of cum erupt over your fingers and squirting against your stomach. He thrusts into your hand, riding out the pulses until he's spent.
Slowly, his fingers ease into gentle strokes inside you, taking you both down from the high before stopping.
His eyes stay glued to yours as he brings his slick fingers to his mouth and closes his lips around them.
His lashes flutter slightly as he sucks them clean, cheeks hollowing faintly, and the sight sends a slow heat curling through you all over again. When he pulls them free with a small plop, they leave his lips glossy.
His lashes flutter slightly as he sucks them clean, cheeks hollowing faintly, and the sight sends a slow heat curling through you all over again. When he pulls them free with a small plop, they leave his lips glossy.
You don’t even realise you’re leaning in until your mouth brushes his.
The kiss is slow, softer than everything that came before. His lips are still warm, still swollen, and you can taste yourself on his tongue.
You pull back to look at him again. His hair is a mess, messy strands sticking to his forehead, cheeks still flushed, lips pink and bruised. How he still manages to look so good while being wrecked, you have no clue.
A few seconds of silence pass before he finally speaks. "So... I should be fine now right?"
You can't help but laugh. "Yes, probably," you say nodding.
"Probably?"
You hum. "I actually don't know much about it's effects after its— well, intended use. But, hypothetically, if you feel like the effects aren't cooling off, then..." You trail of with a shrug, a small, sly smile spreading across your lips.
"I could just come to you again, yeah?" He presses his lips to yours and smiles into the kiss. "Hypothetically, of course."
SUMMARY. Your older boyfriend Jimin is the epitome of patience—kind, gentle, and endlessly composed, because this is definitely not his first rodeo. But every man has his limits, and patient, loving Jimin has his too. Your first night staying over teaches you what it really means to be touched by a man.
word count. 7.9k
warnings. dom!jimin x sub!reader, age gap, jimin is in early 30’s reader is in early 20s, nasty filthy smut, NSFW, penetration, oral sex, bulging kink, praise, unprotected sex, dacryphilia, light coercion theme but nothing crazy, creampie, jimin has a beautiful cock (canon), jimin is louddd in bed (also canon)
note. another jimin fic!! this was entirely inspired by his recent live, his voice was so soothing and calm, i couldn’t stop letting my mind wander to older bf!jimin im so sorry for the delay in posting, i had some things come up in my personal time and i didn’t have as much time to write. im planning to drop more fics in quick succession so stay tuned!! love you guys so much, and thank you so much for the comments and anonymous messages i appreciate them so much and they encourage me to write more and more. you guys are the best and i hope you enjoy this fic because it a litttlleee different from what i usually write. also all characters in this fic are fictional and do not reflect on any real life person, jimin was simply used as inspiration but this does not reflect on him. pls check warnings before you read.
Jimin was an incredibly patient man, you’d come to realize. He held open doors for you, refilled your wine glass, and cracked open your jars when you cooked. He showed up when you were drunk at the club to drive you home, put up with your millions of questions, and let you tease him about his small hands. That was one of the many pluses of pursuing an older guy, you thought. They were too experienced to be annoyed.
But his patience was now making the pits of your stomach sour and tightening at your throat.
You knew he was a gentleman; he would never push. But you didn’t want to disappoint the somehow incredibly gorgeous man who had fallen into your orbit. When he had requested to stay the night, you’d agreed eagerly, letting a string of quick “yes’s” fall out of your lips on the phone. But you knew what that usually meant, and you weren’t sure how to go about it. It wasn’t like the thought of fucking him was anything less than surreal, but you were the type that spiraled into a spitball of anxiety at even the merest of tasks, getting to this stage with Jimin was eating you alive.
Your gentle-toned, dulcet voice, Jimin, was perched by your side, leaning in as you showed him your Prime Day shopping cart. You liked having him so close; his scent was always a subtle mixture of soap and an earthy, masculine cologne that was probably much more expensive than you realized.
“And I thought about refilling my primer, but this one is on discount, so I might get the more expensive one.” You added, jabbing a finger at the computer screen.
“Hmm..” Jimin hummed, running a tight hand through his hair. How sweet, you thought. He always gave his full consideration to your questions, no matter how insignificant they were. “Seems like a decent idea. But you know they hike prices up before it actually goes on sale.”
“Oh, I didn’t even consider that.” You said quickly, and drew in your bottom lip between your teeth, giving it a contemplative bite. Your eyebrows were scrunched in thought. Jimin chuckled and pinched your cheek.
“Make a decision, kid.” He urged. You grinned in response; the nickname was so overused by him, but you loved it nonetheless.
You scrolled further, adding to your cart, and Jimin rested his head completely on your shoulder. His black frames reflected the blue light of your laptop, and you reached up, running an affectionate hand through his hair. He smiled.
“Ooh, how about we get you a new wallet? I know yours looks fucked.” You chimed, your nose scrunched up in thought.
Jimin chuckled, a honey rumble that vibrated across the skin of your neck. If he noticed the sudden goosebumps rising on your skin, he didn’t comment. “That’s very sweet of you, you don’t have to do that though.”
“But I want to.” You emphasized while typing in the search bar. Jimin was generous with his money, unreasonably so, and you snatched at any opportunity you could take to treat him, even if it was a measly thirty bucks wallet.
A comfortable silence stretched between you two as you got absorbed in your hunt. Your mind was so fogged in concentration, you couldn’t even feel Jimin's heated gaze making its way to your doe features, taking in your pouted expression with an unwarranted hunger.
“You’re always so good to me.” He said. His hot breath gristled at your ear, and you instinctively flinched. Jimin wanted to coo at your innocent reaction, how sweet and malleable you were.
“Well, I like taking care of you.” You rested your head on his, but your eyes didn’t leave your screen.
Jimin felt a bubble of excitement, and the perfect opportunity to leer you in. “Yeah?”
“Mhmmm..” You nodded and rubbed your soft cheek against his ear.
Jimin suddenly shifted his head and sat up slightly, turning his head completely towards you. Suddenly, you became all too aware of how intense his eyes were. A feature you’d noticed before, but felt unusually predatory with his full attention on you. Your throat bobbed, but you couldn’t manage the weight of returning his gaze, so you kept your attention fixated on the laptop.
Your fingers started trembling lightly, and you started clicking on random products. Not bothered by whether they were relevant in any way.
Jimin could sense your unease from miles away, a characteristic of you he’d grown to adore. What a cute girl.
He couldn’t help but want to push at your nerves more, wanting to see when you would relinquish control and give in to his searing eyes. “You wanna take care of me more, kid?”
Your mouth opened and closed like a fish, but you didn’t dare to turn your head, "W-what do you mean, Jimin?”
Jimin hummed in response and took in your rapidly blinking eyes, like you were trying to blink away his undeniable presence. He didn’t say anything, but ran the pads of his fingers in a loose circle across your clothed thigh.
You jolted at the sudden touch, and you swore your hands looked lifeless as they clutched your laptop for dear life. Your knuckles went white, but you didn’t let go. You were silent, as if you moved, Jimin would pounce on you and eat you alive. Or maybe that was what you wanted to happen.
Jimin only felt bolder at your weighted silence. The rational part of him would stop now and realize he was pushing at you far too quickly. And god had kept his rational side afloat for far too long with you, but now he wanted to nudge at your discomfort a bit more. To see how far you’d really let him take things.
He continued his slow, burning circles and smirked lightly at your breath, visibly catching in your throat. “I’m asking..” He paused. You brought a finger up to your mouth to nibble at your cuticle, “For you to look at me.”
You paused, fully, completely. Your laptop hummed uselessly against your lap. Jimin reached a ringed hand out and closed the screen. The darkness of your apartment took over, succumbing to the lack of little illumination your screen was providing. You turned your head slowly to look at him, eyes wide and glassed over in anticipation.
“I-I was looking for wallets for you, though, Ji-” You started, but were shushed by the older man beside you. His fingers kept swirling on your thigh lightly, pressing in only enough to trace the texture of your smooth skin.
You looked at him like a deer caught in headlights, blinking sweetly at him. Jimin wanted to see those same eyes when he finally plunged into your poor pussy.
“Much better.” He cooed, his fingers danced across to the middle of your thigh, starting to pace up and down instead of in spirals. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”
You wanted to die there and then. He had been so patient, so kind to you, and you were making him feel like he was committing a crime by wanting to touch you. In fact, his soft touch was evoking something in you that you didn’t know you could feel.
“No!” You said far too quickly, “No, no, of course you’re not.”
Jimin only sighed at your response and let his fingers crawl to your inner thigh. You froze further, and your bottom lip started to quiver. You wanted to fill the tension starting to build between you two, “You’re always so patient with me, Jimin.”
He nodded, “That I am..” His thumb brushed further up, but still not near your most sensitive area. You wanted to swallow in your awkward demeanor so bad, and you tried to slowly build the courage to do something.
“Then don’t you think I deserve you by now?”
You gaped at him, his supple voice ringing in the shell of your ear, “Deserve.. Me?”
He chuckled to himself at your dumbfounded expression and tapped a finger on your chin, “Deserve you.” He let you sit in the nervous, tense string of energy building between you, watching your fingers mess with a string on the couch. You were trying to find something to say, obviously.
He tilted his head, leaning back, and continued, keeping his hand on your thigh. “I’ve been patient with you, you know,” he said. “Followed your pace, even when you start those little games, trying me, then pulling away like you didn’t mean to.”
Your eyes widened. “I’m not playing any games!” you said quickly.
He tilted his head, “Yeah?”
“I’m not! I promise I’m not. I’m just..” You blinked rapidly, scratching at the couch. Jimin’s fingers ran down your leg, prompting you to continue. You gnawed at your lip, “Nervous...” You finished.
“Nervous,” he repeated, almost to himself. “Yeah, I figured.”
“I’ve been careful with you, though, haven’t I?” he said finally. His voice was quiet, but it carried an authority that made your stomach flip. “Haven’t pushed. Haven’t asked for more than you could give.”
You nodded, small and hesitant.
“And I could be more persistent,” He continued, “I really could.”
You swallowed.
“I just want to make you feel good, you don’t trust me yet, do you, kid?” He squeezed your thigh expectantly.
“I do, Jimin, I swear I do.” You put your hand on top of his weighted one. Eager to please, Jimin thought. So willing.
“Then let me do that, baby. Let me touch you.” He reached over and ran the back of his knuckle over your cheek. You shut your eyes and breathed out, thinking, head running a mile a minute.
“Okay.” You said simply nodding, your heart thudded against your chest with force.
Jimin felt his cock twitch in his pants, but steadied himself. “Good, so stop holding your breath every time I get close.”
You let out a rush of air and finally turned your head completely towards him, eyes sparkling. He traced a shape into your thigh before running his hand up to the curve of your ass, fixated on your cautious soft expressions. You eyed his hands curiously, but made no move to flinch away.
He squeezed, and you gasped.
“Come here.” He patted his lap, signaling for you to get on his lap. You paused before gripping onto the couch and shifting your body up before swinging a leg over his seated body. Your body was stiff and awkward, but Jimin couldn't care less. You were letting him in; he’d pushed just the right amount, and he knew you were gonna warm up further. His courage was soaring.
“Good girl.” That drew a soft smile from you, and you blushed, looking up at him shyly through your lashes. Jimin’s greed took over, and he pressed his hand into the small of your back to push you deeper into him. Your noses brushed together.
“Jimin-” You started, but he cut you off by connecting your lips. The kiss started off peckish and soft, like every other time you guys had kissed before. But he couldn’t be satisfied with a soft tease anymore.
You felt the change before you could name it — the way his breath deepened, how his hand at your waist stopped holding and started restraining. The air between you grew heavier, the kind that hummed with something pent.
Soon enough, Jimin’s hands were spanning the expanse of your bare back under your shirt, as his lips bruised yours. His tongue roamed freely in your mouth, as if exploring every oral crevice. You were still perched on his lap sweetly, legs on either side of his beautiful frame, and your greedy, eager hands wandered the front of his shirtless body, tracing over every inch of pale skin presented to you. Your fingers danced across the tatted words on his ribs and then up his sternum, tracing over the protruding bones. Jimin sucked and nibbled at your lower lip, watching amused as the color shifted from a lovely peach to a passionate, juicy red.
Most of all, he watched your eyes dance back and forth under your eyelids, and the slight clench between your brows as your senses were overwhelmed by the older man. You were trying to take in everything all at once, the feeling of his warm, bare skin pressed against your clothed one, the lactonic smell of his freshly washed hair brushing your forehead, and the way his plump, round lips decorated the width of your mouth with cloy kisses. Jimin wanted more of his sweet girl, no, needed more of his sweet girl. Who was so eager to please him in any form.
He let your bunny kisses continue for a little bit, letting your hands press at various parts of him before he gripped your wrists lightly. You stilled, like you did something wrong, and your eyes fluttered open.
“Tell me one more time you’re okay with this.” He insisted.
You nodded quickly, “Yes, I am, I promise.” You didn’t want to stop, the feeling of his tender skin still under your fingertips.
Jimin’s eyes trailed across your face, your bruised pout, and the dewy flush travelling down your cheekbones; he bore into your eyes to search for any signs of uncertainty, but only received your widely dilated pupils.
“Okay.” His grip on your wrists tightened, but not enough to bruise, and you blinked up at him. “You wanna make me feel good, baby?”
His hand started pushing one of yours down his sinuous torso, and you gasped out, catching on. “Y-yes.. But I’m not too good-”
“I’ll guide you, sweetheart.” He released one of your wrists, still guiding the other down at a minuscule pace. His other ringed hand went to the waistband of his grey sweatpants and tugged lightly, revealing the black band of his boxers. Your eyes were trained on his movements, hypnotized.
He kept pushing your hand down his body until your fingers brushed at the very beginnings of his dark, happy trail. He had to suppress a moan, feeling your delicate touch was lighting sparks under his skin. God, he’d been looking forward to this more than he imagined.
He watched your thumb brush at the waistband of his boxers, and he started speaking, but was cut off by your mellow voice, “Can I, Jimin?” Of course, you asked for his permission, he thought. You were so good to him.
“Of course you can, baby.” Your hand disappeared beneath his sweatpants, and you gave a light experimental squeeze to his clothed cock. Jimin’s hands were still steady on your wrist, and he groaned out, cursing under his breath.
Your gaze snapped up at the addictive sound, and you gave another light squeeze; his cock jumped underneath the thin cloth, and you started to feel a sticky substance leak from the pulsing thick tissue. Jimin bucked his hips up at your hand instinctively, and you felt his precum leak through and stick to your palm.
You let out a small noise of appreciation, removing your hand. Jimin watched as you brought up your hand to your mouth and licked at the precum stuck to your palm, “Salty.” He almost came right there and then, your innocent but charged gesture messed with his mind further.
“Shit.” He cursed, and a vein in his forehead twitched. He guided your hand back into his pants, this time under his sticky boxers. Your blush deepened as you made contact with his thick cock, and you wrapped your hand around it. God, he was thick; your hand could barely wrap around him. He moved your wrist back and forth, making you give him slow, deliberate pumps. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down.
“Jimin..” You said softly, circling your thumb on his plump tip.
“Doing so good, sweetheart, fuck..” He started, shifting your hand faster, and a lewd schlick schlick schlick filled the room along with his deep, hot panting.
He twisted your wrist so you pumped him at an angle and bit down on his lower lip, suffocating his sounds. His moans were so unbelievably sweet, you noted, his sighs and breathy moans dripping out of your ears like sugary sap.
Without his guidance, you sped your hand up, and Jimin loosened his grip, letting you pump him with a tight grip. His cock twitched occasionally in your palm, and his precum started to drip down his member, making a sappy mess in his boxers that neither of you cared for. You felt drunk watching Jimin croon his head back into the couch as you pleasured him, his mouth open in a round “o” shape, revealing his two cute crooked front teeth that you loved.
You swore you were more turned on than him; the wetness of his velvet cock mirrored the warmth pooling between your own legs. All you could think about was making the older man finish.
Jimin bucked his hips a final time before his cum spurted out of his cock, thick white heat coating your smaller hand, his boxers and sweatpants now branded with his release. Jimin’s chest heaved as he brought his head back, narrowing his eyes at your awed expression. You gasped at the sensation of his hot release and watched your hand as you took off his pants. Your fingers were sticky and webbed.
Jimin caught his breath, “You wanna give it a taste for me?”
“Yes..” You said hushed, and brought a finger to your mouth, sucking it like a lollipop.
Jimin cursed, “Fuck.. Good girl.”
Your tongue wrapped around your second finger, liking the salty musky taste.
“You like how I taste?” He brought a loving hand and stroked the back of your head.
“Yes, tastes so good, Jimin.” You murmured as you licked the last of his release off your own hand, “Did I do good?”
“So good, such a good job, sweetheart.” He cooed.
You were floating, bubbly with a weird kind of pride, high off the look in his eyes and how you’d made him sound. The glow took up most of the oxygen in your lungs, dizzy and sweet.
He smiled, lazy and slow, chest still heaving up and down. “Come here.” He beckoned with a flick of his index finger, and you crawled up to nuzzle your nose against his, relishing the silk-heat of his skin. He pulled you against him, so close you could feel his heartbeat, bruising and quick. His hand drifted under your shirt again and quickly found the clasp of your bra. Your breath caught in your throat as Jimin’s fingers messed with the metal hooks before releasing them.
“Gonna get this off of you, baby.” He voiced and reached up, removing the beige straps from your shoulders. “Hands up.”
You raised your arms over your head, and Jimin eased off your oversized shirt.
You let out a shy inhale as your round breasts were bared to him, your nipples pebbled in the cool air-conditioned air of your apartment. Goosebumps rose across your arms as his gaze fell upon you.
“God… you’re gorgeous.” He cupped one breast with a hand and squeezed lightly, savoring the weight of it in the palm of his hand. His mouth salivated, and he wanted nothing more than to feel the bud in his mouth. He bent down, bringing his other hand to cup the other one before wrapping his whole mouth around the swell of your breast. He sucked gingerly before zoning in on your nipple. His tongue flicked at it in short up and down motions, and he tugged at it with his teeth, an action that caused your already overwhelmed nerves to light on fire. You squirmed in his lap, hands fixed on his broad shoulders for purchase.
Jimin glanced up, watching you sway in pleasure on top of him, and offered your other swollen breast similar treatment. He ran his tongue the pebbled span of your areola before sucking passionately at your erect nipple.
You sighed and played with his hair, curving your head down to rest on his. Jimin’s mouth was so hot on your already heated, flushed skin, and it felt like he was leaving a trail of crimson kisses all over your chest. You were getting impatient. His mouth on your tits could only satisfy a fraction of your mind, the rest chanting more, more, more, more, more.
You got carried away and gave an impatient tug at his hair, and Jimin broke free from your spit-slick nipple to look up at you once more, grinning ear to ear. “Getting impatient, huh?”
You nodded eagerly, “More, I want more.”
Jimin pressed an open-mouth kiss in the valley of your breasts and hummed in agreement, “I want more too, baby.”
He broke away from your skin to shuffle to the couch, tossing pillows roughly onto the floor and pushing the soft blanket away that covered the two of you just minutes before. He shuffled, before shifting his hips and lying your bare back onto the couch, before climbing over you. His silver chain dangled over you like a loose thread of moonlight, hitting your chin as he shifted.
The new angle of Jimin had a familiar warmth creep back between your legs, and you pressed your still clothed thighs together. He looked so good on top of you, like he was caging you into his delicious prison.
You arched up onto him, searching for something to relieve you from the slickness that was sticking to your thighs.
Jimin reached down and connected your lips for the thousandth time. You pressed your soft breasts into his toned chest, hands gripping at his shoulders in the newfound angle.
“You wanted more, didn’t you, baby?” He reminded, pulling away from your lips with a string of spit. You let out a soft whimper at the loss of his hot mouth, and Jimin pressed his half-hard, clothed cock on your upper thigh.
“Speak.” He demanded.
“Yes.. more..” You said with a pink, glossy pout.
“Let’s get you out of these, then.” His hand trailed down the edge of your shorts. “Be good and lift your hips for me.”
You hesitated, a mix of excitement and anxiety swirling in your gut. But the way he looked at you, with that predatory hunger, made it hard to refuse. You slowly complied, raising your hips, and he took that opportunity to hook his fingers into the waistband.
With a swift motion, he pulled your shorts down. Jimin was immediately in awe. Your panties were a delicate shade of pastel pink with the cutest satin bow perched right at your pubic bone. The panties were thin enough to peek at your folds, the fabric clinging to you, soaked with your slick. The cool air heightened the already wet, warm feeling between your legs. You gasped softly, and your soft plush thighs started to close, but Jimin’s hand stopped them quickly.
“Come on, sweetheart..” He coaxed, “Don’t close up on me now.” His fingers trailed gently in the middle of your clothed pussy, checking how wet you were. He groaned out, god, you were soaked already. Jimin wanted nothing more than to bury his cock deep in you already and see what you really looked like under the pretty material.
“Jimin.. ” You whined out at the sudden sensation, and Jimin sighed in response, letting the pads of his fingers press gently where your clothed clit would be. He twirled a circle shape, watching you jolt and slither underneath him at the light stimulation. He knew you would be reactive; he could tell just from how jumpy you were before, but this was nothing like he had imagined. He leaned down and flicked the pretty bow with the tip of his tongue, and your tummy tightened at the warm air of his breath.
Jimin took the opportunity to glide off your panties slowly down your legs till they pooled at your ankles. You crossed your legs, denying him the sight of your glossy pussy, and averted your gaze shyly.
“Don’t hide from me,” he murmured, his voice smooth and commanding. “You know I want to see you.” His palm pressed against your inner thigh firmly, and he pushed your legs open. His hips stuttered against your thigh, taken aback at the delicious sight of your tiny, slick pussy, so flushed and swollen already without him even touching it. His mouth watered; he couldn’t believe this was all his.
“Fuck.” He cursed and stopped his delicate dance on your inner thigh to run a finger up your slit, collecting your arousal. Your hips jumped, and you buried your head into the side of the couch, but Jimin was too entranced to notice. He brought his finger to his lips, tasting your arousal, and sighed at the sugared taste.
“So fucking sweet..” He breathed out. He pushed himself down, belly flat between your legs till he was nose level to your pussy and gripped both of your thighs, scooting you down and slapped the side of your thigh, “Put your legs on me.” He commanded, and you complied, exhilarated by the rough edge of his voice. Your knees bent, and you placed your ankles on his shoulders. You were wide open for him to see and devour.
You swallowed hard, the sensation of vulnerability mixed with excitement coursing through you. Jimin leaned in closer, his breath fanning over your slick core, teasingly close yet tantalizingly out of reach. “Breathe for me, baby.” His voice was measured despite the insanity coursing through him. You obeyed, of course, letting out an exhale. “And watch me, okay?”
You nodded, and Jimin dove in. His tongue started lapping thick stripes on your pussy lips, before he dove his tongue pointedly between your lips. He licked and savored the honeyed sap, letting it stick to his chin, his nose, and all over his mouth. He ate you like he was starving, and you were his death row meal. His mouth didn’t stop for a second, and he decorated your little pussy with open-mouth kisses.
Underneath him, you thrashed, arching up into the air and then wiggling your hips as much as you could under his unyielding, stone-like hands. Jimin grunted and softly pinched your thigh, urging you to stay in place so he could continue his attack. His tongue poked around in search of your clit, and when he finally located it, he nudged at the swollen nub. Your hands sprang to his hair, and you dug your fingers into his scalp, which Jimin relished. He nudged at your clit further before finally wrapping his lips around the button and giving it a passionate suck.
“Oh my god!” You cried out, and Jimin hummed in amusement, lapping and sucking at it with vigor. He slowly let go of one of your thighs and brought his fingers to your pussy. He broke free and looked up at you completely, letting his fingers start to play with your folds. The sounds coming from between your legs were obscene, a syrupy noise that echoed in your living room as his fingers ran up and down and then hovered lightly on your clit. His eyes were trained on you, angled and narrowed as he watched you curl back into the couch, hair fanning out over your jiggling breasts.
“Didn’t I tell you to look at me?” His voice was soft, not to draw you out of the glorious hum of pleasure you were absorbed in.
You brought your head up and fixed your gaze on his. Slowly, delicately, Jimin entered his index finger into you and curled it just enough. He hissed at the feeling of your plush walls, massaging his digit, even the light intrusion inducing a reaction from your body.
Your mouth fell open into an O shape, but your gaze didn’t move from his. Jimin wanted to kiss you more than ever. Your cheeks were so red, your eyebrows were pushed together and upwards, and your lips were bruised beyond belief. You looked so fucked out, which was funny because he hadn’t even had the chance to fuck you yet.
“That’s it..” He cooed, “You’re feeling so good, aren’t you?”
“Yes, yes, yes, yes, I am. “ You whined, high-pitched and desperate. He pumped his finger in and out, watching your pussy drool out onto the couch. His thumb of his other hand nudged at your clit, rubbing gentle circles and pressing into it. Jimin added another thick finger, and your cunt squelched in response. He picked up his pace, stuffing you as much as he could so his silver rings kissed your sticky lips. You were practically singing from pleasure, his fingers massaging spots in you you could never reach.
He curled his fingers and increased his pace once more. The squelches of your pussy deafened your whines, and you brought your hand to grace over Jimin’s wrist. Not to stop, just to feel.
“My sweet girl, you feel so tight around my fingers.” He affirmed. His fingers started to get rougher, now jolting your body up and down with each jab, and he leaned down and started lapping at your bud once more.
“So good! So good!” You chanted, “Feels so good!”
The rough texture of his tongue twisting on your cunt and his intense fingers had the coil in your belly tighten and tighten even further. You gripped onto his wrist harder, and Jimin let you, but didn’t stop.
“I know, baby. Shit, I know, come on. Cum for me.” He murmured. God, your pussy was sweet. He was almost mad at you; you held this from him for so long that he had to push so much to finally get you to relent.
“I’m gonna, fuck, I’m gonna-” You couldn’t finish your sentence, head so warped. Suddenly, it was like your orgasm seized you. You clamped your thighs around his head as the coil snapped. Your vision swirled, and your body trembled as you came. Jimin didn’t ease despite how caught up you were. His fingers stayed in you, curling and uncurling as your walls spasmed like a heartbeat. His nose stayed nudged in your folds, and your juices leaked out pathetically, making a mess on your couch.
When you finally calmed, your head dropped back onto the couch, eyes fluttering open and closed to regain yourself. Jimin eased his fingers out, and you flinched at the loss, and he turned his head, kissing at your inner thigh before suckling at a tender spot. You were quiet for a moment before you sighed out his name, and he nipped at you gently.
“Came so hard, didn’t you?” He said getting out from in between your legs and pushing his body up to be face to face with you.
You nodded slowly.
“Told you I’d make you feel good, right?” Jimin smiled.
“Mhmm.” You reached up and wrapped your arms around his neck. “You did.”
“You wanna keep going?” He brushed a strand of hair from your adorable face, and you nodded again. You had a taste of what it meant to be with him; you couldn’t stop now.
“Words, sweetheart.” He emphasized.
“I wanna keep going, Jimin..” You paused and swallowed hard, “I want you to fuck me.”
Jimin’s jaw almost dropped. His sweet younger girlfriend, who was so shy just a while ago, was letting the filthiest sentences drop from her mouth. “You want me to fuck you?”
“Yes, please, want to fill you me.” You begged again.
A beat of silence from Jimin had you thinking maybe you were sounding too desperate or too insistent, and a flush started to creep up your neck. You were gonna shy away, once more, but Jimin cut you off.
“Tell me how badly.” He pressed one hand at the side of your face, steadying you. His eyes were in dark slivers, bearing down at you with vehemence.
Some jolt of courage possessed you, and you grabbed the hand on your face and lowered it. You kept lowering it till it went right on top of your sloppy, dripping cunt, “This badly.”
Jimin cursed loudly, and he pushed two fingers back into your eager hole, which stretched to accommodate him almost immediately. He pulled his fingers back out and analyzed the saccharine gloss on his fingers. “Still so wet..”
“Mhmm,” You said, “I'm still wet.”
“And only my dick can satisfy you, can’t it?” He hissed. He brought his slick, soaked fingers to your lips, and you parted your mouth. He dove his fingers into your mouth, and your fingers swirled around them, taking in your taste. Drool pooled out of the side of your mouth.
“God, you don’t know what you do to me, Y/N.” His voice sounded restrained in a way you hadn’t heard before.
“Please, Jimin.” You pleaded again, voice mushy from his fingers taking over your mouth, “Need you.”
“I’ll give you what you want, princess.” He said, finally, before sitting back. His hands made quick work of his sweatpants and sullied boxers, and he yanked them off, letting his pink cock spring free, already hard.
You licked your lips at the sight; his cock was blushing pink, the tip a glorious bruised purple. His length was average, but his cock was thicker than any you had seen before, the base decorated with neatly trimmed dark hair. His tip was kissed with his already leaking precum, a translucent white beading out of him.
“It’s so pretty.” You said in a hushed tone, and Jimin cracked a kind but devious smile.
“Yeah? You like my cock?” He gave it a couple of full strokes, and it stood prouder and harder than it had before.
“Yeah.. It’s so thick, though...” You trailed off and reached your hand out to his cock. Jimin let out a guttural groan as your fingers pressed at his sensitive tip, collecting the precum. His cock jumped lightly, and you bit your lip at the sight.
“I-I’ll make it fit.” He promised, voice breaking as you ran your ghostly fingers down the shaft, tracing a protruding vein.
“Be gentle.” You asked softly, before drawing your hand back and scooting on the couch to make space for him again.
“I’ll be so gentle with you, darling.” He said hoarsely as he climbed on top of you again, positioning his hands by either side of your head. Although he wasn’t sure if he could keep his control when he was actually inside you. His chain bounced over you again, and you licked your lips at the feeling of the cool metal tracing shapes under your chin.
Jimin grabbed his cock head and pushed at your thighs once more, giving a silent command for you to spread your legs. You bit your lips, eager but melting with nervousness. You didn’t know how he was going to fit; you could barely wrap your hand around him earlier.
Jimin ran his plush cockhead over your puffy folds, nudging around to collect your sap. Your hands played with your nipples, squeezing gently at your full breasts in anticipation. When Jimin was satisfied, he traced at your entrance, not pushing but circling. He felt so warm against you, so warm and velvety that it made your hole flutter in delight.
“You ready?” He asked, his voice gentle but threaded with restraint. His thumb circled lazily at your hip, grounding you.
“I’m ready.” You whispered.
“Tell me if it’s too much, baby.” He brushed a strand of hair from your cheek, his gaze so intensely focused on you that it left you breathless.
You sucked in air, bracing as he pushed forward, the blunt head of his cock nudging at your entrance before stretching you open, slow and unyielding. It burned, a delicious ache that had your fingers clawing at his shoulders.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Jimin groaned, voice rough at your ear, pausing. He paused when you gasped, his hips rolling just the tiniest bit deeper but not enough to overwhelm. “You can take it, darling. I know you can.” His cock was buried halfway in you, and you were already overwhelmed by the feeling of stretching to accommodate him. Your nails dug into his shoulder blades, and your eyes screwed closed.
“Gonna move now, okay?” He whispered, barely keeping it together.
“O-okay.” You whimpered, and even as your body trembled, you found yourself wanting nothing more than to be filled by him.
Jimin pushed the rest of his stocky length into you, finally stilling when his balls slapped against your ass lightly. You cried out when you were stuffed completely, hands trembling as you grabbed at him, the couch, anything to bring yourself back.
Jimin was.. A complete mess. The once control that he prided on was reaching its limits; he was buried so deep in you that he swore he was in your ribs. But he couldn’t move, too afraid that if he shifted, he’d cum instantly. Your pussy was sucking him in so deep that even if he wanted to, he couldn’t pull out. Your gluey walls suckling and pushing him in like a suction. Jimin trembled above you, and he took deep breaths to focus.
“Jimin..” You said his name so sweetly, he moaned.
“W-What.. Shit.. what is it, baby?”
“Move, please.” You said voice cracking.
Jimin cursed loudly, “You drive me crazy.”, but obliged. He gripped your hips and pushed his hips back, leaving your soppy pussy halfway before pushing back in. You whined out, the stretch feeling like you were being speared open. His cock was so fucking thick, you couldn’t think. He was tearing you in half, and you loved it.
Jimin panted and repeated the motion, pulling out halfway before experimenting with a rougher thrust. Your boobs jolted, and you captured your lower lip between your teeth, “Yes!” You whined, “Just like that, just like that.”
Jimin’s pupils dilated at your dulcet noise, “Y-Yeah, just like that?” He gave you another half, rough thrust, and wrapped a hand around one bouncing perky breast, squeezing it hard.
You whined again, “Ngh! Yes!”.
Jimin didn’t need to hear more; he pulled out before pushing in roughly, a loud squelch echoing through the room, and then he started a rhythm. Rough, brutish, slow thrusts that had your cunt gushing in delight. Your pussy didn’t relent a second, clenched so tight you could feel every vein of his cock rubbing your gummy walls.
You were euphoric, Jimin’s cock was angled just right, curving to hit a spongy, tender spot in you that you had never felt before. His cock head was nudging you at a bestial intensity, despite his slow pace. Every thrust, every stroke felt deliberate and planned like he was trying to devour you whole. Your hands were fixed on his shoulders, and tears started forming in your eyes at the feverish pleasure.
On top of that, Jimin was not a quiet man. His moans were breathy and almost melodic, like he was singing with every inch he impaled into you. His gaze was concentrated on your syrupy cunt, the way it was swallowing him whole and still begging for more. A creamy white ring decorated the base of his cock, from his precum and your arousal mixing.
He picked up his pace, thrusts smooth and long so you could feel all of him each time he shoved in you.
“Oh! Oh shit!” You squealed out as he fucked you, “S- so big!”
He moved with purpose, each motion a test of control, his breath warming your face. Tears started pooling out of your eyes, running down the sides of your blooming face.
“You're sucking me in, s-sweetheart.” He hissed and started giving you full thrusts, his balls slapping against your ass each time. Tears streamed down your face, and Jimin almost laughed, “Such a crybaby.”
His teeth gritted as his hips snapped into you, the force so intense the couch creaked. You were shaking wildly underneath him, not able to do much but hold on as your pussy engorged around him. He moaned, feeling your slick arousal start trailing its way down to his balls.
“Jimin! My god!” You bounced wildly under him.
Suddenly, his eyes settled on something that had his cock twitch inside you. Your lower belly was bulging with his cock, forming a little tight bump each time he sheathed you. “N-no fucking way.” He said, sweat beading at his hairline. “W-would you look at that.. “
Your bleary eyes could barely focus on what he was looking at, but you felt it. His hand pressed on your lower belly as he drove into you, and he pushed down. You yelped at the sudden sharp surge in pleasure and gripped onto his wrists.
“C-can barely fucking fit me, baby, y-you’re stuffed.” He choked out. He pressed down again, and your eyes rolled back in your head, and you drooled onto the couch.
“Hck, fuck fuck fuck fuck..” You chanted as his plump cock molded you.
Jimin was arguably in a worse state than you, hair stuck to his forehead, lips parted, and sweat dripping down his face. He could barely speak; he could only dig deeper and deeper into you, addicted to your body’s reactions and the warm, wet drool of your cunt. He bought a hand up, pinching your nipples, and you arched into his touch.
You felt a familiar heat accumulating in the pit of your stomach, and somehow your trembling fingers travelled between your legs to mess with your swollen, weeping cunt. You shook as you started circling your fingerpad of your peeking, tender clit, trying to chase your high.
“W-wanna cum that badly, don’t you?” His fingers replaced yours quickly, and he rubbed at your clit with the same intensity he was pistoning against you. Your hands clawed at his.
“W-wait, wait, it’s too much! J-Jimin, it’s too much!” You babbled stupidly, but Jimin didn’t care.
“Nothing is too much for you, baby, you can take it.” He pinched at your pink nub, abusing it.
You couldn’t say anything, too fucked out to even care how he was using you. You could only receive his rabid touch. A harsh rosy flush rose on Jimin’s chest as he thrusted into you, harder, faster, deeper, than he had ever before. No woman had made him so out of control, so pussy drunk that all he cared about was staying with you. He ground his hips deeper, letting his cock head kiss your cervix, and his eyes rolled back at the plump sensation.
“S-shit, I think I’m close too.” He murmured, more to himself, and kept grinding his cock in circles, refusing to pull out. His fingers continued their assault on your clit, rubbing shapes and designs he knew would send you over the edge.
Your eyes kept opening and closing, and Jimin almost felt bad, almost, that you could barely keep up with him. But he knew you were enjoying this even more than he was; no one else could ever bring you to this point.
He shifted his hips, angling his cock, and started his deep, solid thrusts again, not pulling out enough to leave your warmth. He bought his head dance and wrapped his lips around a rosy nipple, suckling and biting to taste and feel all of you at once. The soft feeling of your chubby breast pushed against his face was exhilarating.
You panted at the multitude of feelings, and then suddenly felt a strange sensation, like you were about to burst at the seams.
“J-Jim-” You got cut off at the sudden splash of your juices on his bare abdomen, and hot white pleasure blinded your vision. Your voice shattered as you let out a high-pitched, broken moan, unable to contain yourself.
Jimin was in awe. There was no way you had squirted all over his cock the first time he’d fucked you, but he didn’t pause to admire; he couldn’t, he was too greedy. He kept up his thrusts, gripping onto you as he did so.
“F-fucking squirted all o-over me, dirty girl.” He moaned.
“I- Oh shit!” You tried to start your sentence, an apology maybe for the mess you made, but couldn’t, succumbing to his unrelenting pace, driving you to the edge again. You were right there, once again, right at the teetering edge of a harsh orgasm.
You clenched, hard, stilling him. Jimin bottomed out and trembled as he tried to shift, but instead came. He cried out loudly, and his hot cum spurted out, right inside you, filling you up to the brim.
You whined at the warm full feeling, and your orgasm crashed over you, this one weaker but sending shivers down your spine. Your thighs trembled, and your tear-stained cheeks streaked with more fresh tears as you came.
A second passed, but he didn’t have the strength to pull out just yet, but he watched you with heavy, clouded eyes. His beautiful little girlfriend, leaking with his cum.
Finally, he pulled out, and you both flinched at the loss of tender warmth, and he collapsed next to you.
The silence that followed was deafening. He stayed there for a long moment, breathing against your shoulder, heartbeat wild.. Then his voice—hoarse, raw—broke the quiet.
“Did I hurt you?”
You shook your head, still catching your breath, and his gaze burned in the side of your cheek. You met his stare, slowly, and for a heartbeat, the room went still. His eyes were soft and warm, large and doe-like, so unlike him just seconds ago.
He traced his thumb along your cheekbone, wiping away the dampness there. “You did so well.”
Your chest tightened. “Did I?”
He sighed, voice low, steady. “Sweetheart. You did so good.” His fingers slipped down to your neck, tracing your pulse. “You let go. You trusted me.”
He paused, eyes flicking between your lips and your face, like he was trying to memorize every inch. “That’s all I ever wanted from you.” His eyes were like melted chocolate, dripping and swirling you in as they stayed on you steadily. You felt a bubble form in your throat.
“Jimin,” you whispered, hesitant, still dazed from how different he suddenly felt.
“Hmm?” He hummed
“I really like you.” You confessed, your pulse fluttered.
His mouth curved at the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner. “Yeah?” he said, his voice dipping lower, rich and teasing in that way of his. “I like you even more, baby.”
“You do?”
“Of course I do,” he said, a breathy laugh escaping his chest. “How could I not? You’re so easy to like.”
“Even though I’m not as experienced?” You inquired gently.
He shook his head lightly, eyes never leaving yours. “That doesn’t matter,” he whispered, voice warm but firm. “Never does.”
Your lips parted, but you couldn’t find your voice.
“You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a while.” He placed his hand over yours.
“Really?” You felt elated, the dull throb between your legs feeling like nothing compared to the flowery feeling blooming in your chest.
“Really.” He sealed it with a kiss, unhurriedly and slowly, lingering just long enough to steal your breath when he finally pulled back.
“Get some rest now,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t a command, not really. Jimin couldn’t be demanding of you, but you obeyed anyway, eyes fluttering shut as his hand found its place on you again.
While you started dozing off against him, Jimin thought back on his words.
No, you weren’t just the best thing that had happened to him in a while.
You were the best thing that had ever happened to him.
you were just renting your usual blockbuster from the stupidly hot guy at the video store, when it turns out you’ve been handed a tape you really shouldn’t be watching. are you an intruder, or did he give it to you on purpose?
⌗ pairings. jeon jungkook x female reader
⌗ word count. 17k
⌗ warnings and tags. pwp, don juankook (lol, jk is a ladiesman), voyeurism, penetrative sex, smitten!oc, kinda smitten!jk, weird love confession, cunnilingus, penetrative sex, unprotected sex (wrap it up guys), oc goes limp with overstimulation lol, jk is kinda all over the places — neither dom or sub, oral pleasure (m!receiving), cum swallowing, cum eating, sloppy aftercare.
notes ! okay this is a bit overdue buttttt at least i finished it, hey! i’m so beyond amazed by my lovely girl ana’s ‘special delivery’, so i’m hoping this won’t disappoint LMAO! anyways, this is crazy. buckle up guys.
banner by @voyter obviouslyyyy
Having a stupid, all-consuming crush is something that defines girlhood. Shoving everything of importance out of your way in order to see, or spend time with set crush is really the only fair option as a young girl.
However, when the crush has lasted for almost a decade, and you still have yet to make any further progress… it borders on obsession. And it’s incredibly embarrassing.
You see, there’s this video store in town, this tiny, kind of grungy shop that contains every single piece of media imaginable. Old and dusty traveling magazines that no one bothers reading, records and CD’s you spend months saving up for… and what is seemingly a collection of every single movie ever made.
And behind the counter of that blockbuster shop, there sits a boy you’ve been pining after since the sixth grade.
Jeon Jungkook. A boy so painfully attractive and charming that he has simply ruined every other man for you, ever. And so incredibly out of reach that you feel like he’s more of a distant dream rather than a real human being.
The first spark of attraction appeared a few weeks after your twelfth birthday. You saw him through your window, which overviews the park. And there he was, the sixteen-year-old Jungkook, lighting up a cigarette near the entrance, watching patiently over the narrow path as a girl with dark hair approached him.
At your ripe age, this was the most erotic thing you’d ever seen. The way his hand snaked underneath her coat when she hugged him. How he seemingly whispered something in her ear, grinning back at her when she retracted.
A few days later, you found out who the girl was. Tina Agnello’s cousin, who was in town for the week. You had overheard Tina talk about it during lunch break, sitting a few tables down from yours, and you almost choked on your yoghurt.
“Isn’t fourteen a bit young for a sixteen-year-old?” you huffed, mostly to yourself. But your friend picked it up, frowning at you.
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing.”
It shouldn’t really have surprised you that Jungkook grew up to be the town’s Don Juan.
He became sort of a community ride… a town bike, if you’d like. At first, you maybe thought there was something incredibly wrong with him, like some serious mental problems. Because why else would he be pounding around town?
But at fifteen, when you stumbled into the new video store in town, trying to escape the rain that had started pouring down outside, you unexpectedly fell head first into a real-life interaction with him. And weirdly enough, he seemed perfectly normal. Disgustingly charming, that is, but normal.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Jungkook’s voice wasn’t all that deep, but it was soft, curling low in your stomach.
You stood leaning against the glass door, your wet hair clinging to your temples, droplets falling onto the floor. “What?”
He pointed towards the street behind you, “The rain.”
Maybe it was your brain short-cutting, but you didn’t understand what he meant… like at all. Your brows furrowed, and you repeated your question. “What?”
“It’s this thing I do to spark sales. Trap the costumers inside.”
“You make it rain?”
He chuckled at his own joke, incredibly stupid, but also numbingly cute, “Yeah, I find rain-dances to be very affective.”
It made you kind of mad that this guy had a captivating personality on top of his unfair looks. It would’ve honestly been better if he was just a dumb, stupid idiot, sleeping around town. But he made you laugh… and made you buy unnecessarily amounts of items from his store.
Was he a good salesman? No… not necessarily. But he was so damn flirty that you thought he might marry you if you watched the Star Trek chronicles.
And now, at your grown age of twenty fucking years old, your bookshelf is short of books and filled to the brim with Jungkook’s movie recommendations. It might be embarrassing, but it has become a weekly ritual. Every Saturday, you stop by his shop, return last week’s watch and pick up a new one.
“Now, how was it?” he leans forward, bracing his elbows on the counter. His eyes smize at you, trying to read the expression on your face.
You almost can’t answer because of how close he is. Even though you’ve known each other for five years, he still has this weird hold on you, and you have to clear your throat before you speak. “I liked that the bad guy’s name was Lord Humungus.”
He presses his lips together, his lip ring getting caught in the motion, and his eyebrows rise high on his forehead. “Yeah?” he nods, teasingly, and you want to go home and puke and cry. “That’s all… or…?”
The chuckle he lets out brushes against your face… yeah, he’s that close, and your brain short-circuits. Your eyes dart down to your hands, where the VHS tape dangles from your fingers, and you slide it across the counter. “It was better than the first one.”
“I told you it worked as a stand-alone, you didn’t have to bore yourself with the first,” he smirks, the smile tugging on only one side of his lips, bearing just a bit of his bunny-teeth.
You shrug, “I like to make up my own opinions, thanks.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
It might be a bizarre way to describe it, but his voice is laced with sex. Constantly. Like there’s always some hidden innuendo behind his words. And with the way he’s leaning forward, his biceps straining through the fabric of his navy uniform-tee, your mind runs laps, completely fogging and erasing every word you try uttering. So you just roll your eyes, trying to act casual.
“Sorry if I don’t love macho-car-movies,” you scoff, letting your hands slip away from the counter only to tremble nervously at your sides. It’s like your whole body is vibrating just by being near him, and this isn’t anything new. It’s always been like that. He’s just that charming.
Jungkook hums, nodding slowly before narrowing his eyes, a wondering look appearing on his face. Just to not seem like a lost sheep, you copy his facial expression and glower right back at him.
“Mhm,” he bites down on the inside of his cheek, his eyes skimming over your face before traveling lower. You have to compose yourself, shifting a bit in your stance, trying not to burst into flames. Jungkook takes his time before he speaks, finally locking with your eyes again. “You’d watch anything I tell you to, right?”
Holy mother of god. Of course you nod. Because you’re an idiot, and you’re certain your voice is going to crack halfway through your answer. And when Jungkook smirks at your obvious flustered state of being, your pulse spikes. His tongue flicks over the metal in his mouth, inherently seductive, even if it isn’t intended to be, and you think you might have to go cry in the backroom.
Then, without a word, he backs off from the counter and turns to the shelf behind him. He skims over the many cassettes in front of him, searching for something without speaking. You swallow behind him, finally freed from his captivating gaze, forced to stare at the way his back muscles move in waves underneath his tee while he stretches tall before the shelf.
His tattooed arm reaches out for a tape high above him, but it hesitates before it once again falls back to his side, “It’s here somewhere…”
You try waiting patiently for him to find whatever movie he’s looking for, but you can’t help yourself. Your gaze drifts, drops actually, and lands on his butt… unfortunately. It’s tightly hidden underneath his dark-washed jeans, accompanied by a pair of strong thighs. Such a nice and perky butt. Your head tilts a bit, taking in the view, if you’d like, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth.
It’s a shame that this is the exact moment Jungkook gives up on his search and turns abruptly. Your eyes widen, and you flinch, hoping he didn’t just see the way you were drooling over the chiseled shape of his ass.
But instead of commenting on your awkwardness, he drops to the ground, crouching down on the floor to inspect the hallow counter which contains several more blockbusters.
He grunts and groans while his fingers flick through the options, never landing on his target.
“Digging for gold?” you tease, boldly leaning over the counter to look at him. He doesn’t even meet your gaze, he just keeps searching, his eyebrows curled together in a knot on his forehead.
“Give me a second.”
You hear him pulling out a large cardboard box, watching over as his muscles tense as he drags it forward. And with a grunt, he lifts it, getting up on his feet and dropping it onto the counter. As you peek over the edge of it, you see it’s filled to the brim with identical black CD-covers, just with different scribblings on the side.
Jungkook’s slender fingers brush over the covers, flipping through the countless pieces until he finally grabs ahold of one. The one with the title Memento poorly written in white marker on the edge.
“Ah, there you are.” He pulls out the piece from the pool of covers while letting out a sigh of relief. “Thought I’d lost her.”
You lift your chin, looking over at Jungkook who is seemingly lost in his own little world that only contains him and this very neutral tape. “Memento?”
“It’s fucking great.” His eyes dart up, meeting yours, and you almost chuckle at the way they light up. It’s such a cute thing for a guy to have a hobby, to be in love with something. That is of course if you look past the excruciating mansplaining that follows. “A man with short term memory loss—so the entire movie is shot backwards. From end to beginning. You learn the plot with him, it’s insane. He uses these post-it notes to keep track of time, place and faces. Revolutionary, I’ve neve—”
“Shush,” you rip the cover from his hands, cutting off his monologue. You know just how long he can go on if he’d like. There have been times where you’d wondered if he might be on the spectrum, given the fact that he’s constantly restless, and a complete nerd when he wants to, but you don’t like to dwell on that. It’s cute, and it obviously works for him, so you let him act a bit strange. “Let me find out for myself.”
“Mhm, brat.”
You nearly gush at the new nickname, your nostrils flaring as you breathe in deeply. Your hands fall to your sides, and you unconsciously sway a bit in your stance, not really sure if you want to end the interaction here, or if you want to stay, maybe fling yourself over the counter, straddle this man like a horse. The ladder might not be the best idea, so you start searching for coins that are buried deep in the tiny back pocket of your jeans, eager to get the hell out of this place.
“4.99?” you ask, as if you don’t already know the price. You’re here every week, so it really is etched in your memory. But so is everything he tells you.
Jungkook smirks, his gum-drop eyes narrowing, “On the house. Since Mad Max wasn’t really your thing.”
“Don’t be stupid, I’ll pay.”
“Keep your money, peach, I don’t want it.”
Ugh, you hate when he calls you that. Peach. It sounds like some awful pet name that your dad would call you. So you’d really like for him to stop, but the one time you asked him to, it seemingly just fueled him. So you pray that one day he might see you as someone other than this little girl who buys stuff from him without second guessing his opinion. Maybe he’ll one day see you as a woman. Yesss that would be good. And you already know what it is he loves to do with women. Half the moms in town has slept with him.
Jesus your mind is wandering. You scrunch your nose, trying to act affronted by his arrogance, when really your mind is running through every woman in town who has gotten the taste of him. The jealousy blooming inside you is like a kid’s rage when they’re not allowed candy on a weekday. Why can’t you also have nice things?
“Fine, but I’ll repay you if I love it.”
“Deal,” he nods, his large hand reaching out before him, gesturing for you to shake it, “And don’t worry, peach. You’ll love it.”
Your entire apartment smells of butter and salt as you wait for the microwave’s timer to drop. There’s not a lot you know about this movie, but popcorn is always a good idea, so you’re hoping it won’t be too disturbing, ruining your appetite.
The CD is waiting for you inside the player, all you need to do is pad over your floor, sink down into the couch cushions and press play on your remote.
You’ve already brushed off all other plans for the night, your friends scolding you for throwing your life away only to watch some mediocre movie to please Jungkook. “You’re a source of income, you buy everything from him.”
Hah, bet they’ll be sorry when they hear you actually got this one for free. Mhm. Or maybe not. It’s been five years… it’s the least he could do.
The timer dings. Yey, showtime. You open the microwave door, the warm and salty smell travels through the air and settles deep within you. You grab the paper bag, tearing it open with a quick tug. Now you’re ready.
The cushions give in the moment your body meets the couch, and you immediately melt with them, sinking further and further down. You grab onto the soft, pink blanket that’s thrown carelessly over the armrest, and pull it over your body, letting yourself get incredibly comfortable. Although this ritual, watching a movie every Saturday, cozying up in your living room, is supposedly ‘me time’… you know deep inside you do this for him. Your friends are right, you do want his approval. So you’re hoping you’ll like this. Let’s watch, shall we?
You stretch your arm out, reaching for the remote control, and you press play.
The screen stays black for a moment. No music, no production mark. Weird. You wait for a moment, resting your head back on the soft cushion behind you. Still nothing plays. Mhm, maybe he gave you an empty disk? Or maybe your TV is broken?
You’re about to press play again, wondering if you maybe hit a wrong button the first time… when your whole body freezes.
The tape starts rolling, but it’s not Memento. Or, it possibly can’t be. That would be too bizarre. Because what plays on the screen is an amateur video… of Jungkook. Seemingly at home, staring straight into the camera, so close that his face blocks all surroundings. All you see is the concentration on his face as he fumbles with the record button, his eyes wide and searching.
You chuckle. Cute, he misplaced the CD. But what’s not so cute is when Jungkook moves out of frame.
Ho-ly-shit.
Your jaw actually drops, your mouth hanging wide open as you take in what’s playing on the television before you. Jesus fucking christ. When Jungkook is out of sight, you realize the camera is placed in his bedroom, and the sight has you gasping for air, your hand flying to cover your mouth. Because on his bed, there lies a girl… in only her underwear.
“Am I in the frame?” she asks gently, looking up at Jungkook who is still out of sight, her eyes doe-like and glistening. Pure seduction.
“Mhm,” Jungkook hums, and finally he moves forward, ushering for her to move further down the bed to make room for him by her side. And you think you might actually cry when he’s back on camera.
Walking into frame, the sight of him has your eyes widening, the hand covering your mouth slowly dragging down your chin. Leaving you gaping.
Jungkook is completely naked. Butt-ass-naked. On camera. And fully erect, that is. He walks over to the bed, eyes locked with the girls’, his large hands hanging by his side.
It’s not a modest sight. He looks absolutely insane. His shoulders broad, arms straining with veins and muscle, while his torso is rather lean, a small waist accompanied by a set of washboard abs. But that’s not really what steals your breath away. Because as he’s completely naked, your eyes immediately go to his abdomen. His hips are beautifully defined, his thighs chiseled and muscular, and his cock. Well, that’s just unfair.
He’s huge when erect, thick and heavy, the tip of him a beautiful, deep red, and as he moves closer, you see the leaking precum that drips from him, running down his veiny shaft.
You immediately pause the video, too stunned to do anything else, but that doesn’t really help as the still-frame of Jungkook’s heavy cock and deep, lust filled eyes continues to show on screen. So you turn the whole television off instead.
The screen flatlines, and you’re left frozen on the couch.
What on gods green earth did you just watch. And why the fuck did Jungkook give this to you. It has to be a mistake. He couldn’t possibly know he gave you this? It’s just a horrible fail, he misplaced the CD. Put it in the wrong cover. What the hell, you don’t even know how to make this sound reasonable.
Your eyebrows have almost reached your hairline, and your mouth still hangs wide open. The popcorn by your side remains untouched. Because you just simply can’t bring yourself to indulge in a snack right now, as you think you might vomit. Not because you’re disgusted… it’s the other way around actually. What you just saw has you feeling dizzy, a low, curling sensation building low in your stomach… and that’s what you find disturbing.
He probably never intended for anyone to ever see this, and here you are, on a Saturday, all snuggled up on your couch, watching his homemade porno.
You can’t be doing this. Let’s stop here. Here, but no further. You inhale deeply, straightening your posture as your torso lifts slowly from the couch, resting your elbows on your knees. The curling pleasure in your stomach has turned into a deep and horrific realization that this is such an invasion of privacy that you should probably be locked up for good. Even though you never intended to watch this, you still did, and you feel evil.
The black screen stares back at you. Your pulse thunders in your eardrums, you can practically hear your heart leaping out of your chest. As you reach for the remote, optioning to press ‘retract disk’, you stop. Something inside you stills. An evil thought forms.
This is like the marshmallow test. A kid with an unlimited access to a big bowl of marshmallows, which is in your case a recording of Jungkook finding his own release. Okay. Dilemma. Do you stop here, tell him about the mistake, return the tape immediately. You should. You definitely should.
Or do you continue? He won’t know just how much of it you saw…
You’ll obviously return it. Apologize. You check the small watch standing on the coffee table. It reads 7:32. The shop closes at eight. Okay. You have plenty of time. You just need to see what you’re dealing with here. Right?
You’re evil. But it’s impossible, it’s like having a gold mine before you, no one to stop you, not a single person in sight telling you for the love of god, woman, get a grip.
Your fingers curl around the remote… before you ultimately press ON — play — fast forward.
The screen turns back on, the recording forwards in quick frames, and you shut one eye as if that blocks out your shame and guilt. You land on a still that seems inviting. The girl, on all fours, Jungkook propped up behind her.
His hand comes up to his mouth. He sucks in his cheeks before spitting out a glob of saliva, moving his glistening fingers to the girl’s heat, which is perched in the air before him. Jungkook looks down at the view, gliding his fingers through her folds, immediately having her cry out with pleasure.
“Sshhh, baby, not yet. Want you crying on my dick.”
You shudder at the sound of his voice through the crispy speaker, his tone teasing with a hint of frustration. Your lips press together as you watch him line himself up, the girl’s face crinkling before it falls forward, burying her head in the pillow.
He thrust inside her with a grunt, his mouth falling open with a strained moan as he’s balls deep inside her. She whines a muted scream into the pillow, her fists clenching around the sheets. He’s probably too big for her.
Jungkook chuckles at her pleasure-filled misery, starting out with deep and slow grinds before pounding into her. The sounds are wile, having you turn down the volume with embarrassment, afraid your neighbors might tune in. Your jaw is practically on the floor as you watch Jungkook’s facial expressions. He’s smiling. His eyebrows curl together on his forehead as he plunges forward, retreating shallowly just to snap his hips against her ass once again.
Jesus. You press your legs together, trying to fight the obvious burn in your abdomen. Suddenly, your breath catches.
Jungkook looks up from the view of his cock driving into the girl’s heat… and his eyes lock with yours. Well, not yours, but he stares back at the camera, his nostrils flaring as he breathes in and out.
This just got increasingly more embarrassing. You’re indulging in something that feels very illegal here, so can he please look away? As if he’s watching you through the screen, your throat tightens. You can’t bring yourself to look away, it’s like a car crash. You can’t not stare at it. Your eyes flick from his face, to the way the muscles of his torso tighten with every snap of his hips. His palms run over the curve of her ass before it comes down to smack hard, causing her to tip her head back with a yelp. She’s so lost in pleasure that she can’t even talk.
But he does… and your brain-activity cuts short.
“Feel dirty?”
Huh? You still at his words.
He speaks again, grunts actually, “Filthy girl, wishing this was you.”
Oh my god. He’s talking to the viewer. He’s looking directly at the camera and speaking to you. Or whoever’s watching this. This was intended to be seen. Oh my god. Insert viewer porn.
You’re very certain this wasn’t for you to see, but someone was in mind when making this. Jungkook’s fingers curl around her hips as he drives harder and harder and harder into her cunt, the sound of skin on skin almost blocking out his next words.
“Wish it was my dick instead of your tiny, little fingers?” he growls, wincing as the girl wrapped around him clenches, milking him as he pounds into her. His words are stolen from him for just a second, before he bites down on his lips, continuing. “Still want you to cum for me, baby, want you to cum all over yourself.”
Help, you’ve probably fast-forwarded a bit too far into the tape, you didn’t know you were supposed to be touching yourself. Yeah, you won’t be doing that. It would just feel all too wrong.
You shift a bit in your seat, breath hitching as you feel how sensitive you’ve grown to any form of friction that brushes against your body. Jesus, you should turn this off, it has gotten really strange. Jungkook keeps looking directly at the camera, and although his eyes show nothing but need and desire, you kind of feel as though you’re being judged.
His moves turn frantic, and you realize the girl bent before him climaxes, screaming out, calling out his name in a row of desperate whines. This just fuels him to keep going, now forgetting all about the camera, his eyes darting down to her ass while his cock disappears inside her again and again and again.
He’s about to come. Your eyes widen as you see his face turn flushed, the sounds he releases being nothing short of grunted whimpers, desperate to find his own release. It’s fucking overwhelming, watching as the girl goes limp before him, listening to the sinful yet beautiful noises he’s producing.
Again you repeat here, but no further.
The remote has been resting in your soft grip ever since you turned the TV back on, and with a subtle press of your thumb — the screen goes black.
Okay. What you just saw might’ve just ruined your relationship on every level. You just electrocuted your tiny and insignificant bond, hoping it might spark something inside you. It did… but that only makes everything worse. And, sorry, are we just brushing over the fact that he’s making porn on his free time?
You’re quite overwhelmed, every forming thought being overpowered by another, more horrific one. But what you wish the strongest, is for this to just be a mistake. For you to be the idiot in this situation, sitting through about ten minutes of Jungkook’s sextape. Not for him to gift you this… knowing what’s on the disk, knowing you’re going home to watch him get his dick wet. That’s a whole other layer to this very weird scene that you don’t really want to take into consideration right now.
All you know is that his shop closes in about twenty minutes, and you can’t let this tape marinade in your video player. You’re going to have to return it, and that is tonight.
You feel like you’re about to melt with the snow that creaks underneath your boots. The CD-cover is buried in the pocket of your coat, burning its way into the fabric like some constant reminder of what an awful human being you are.
You’ve already thought over the conversation. You are to tell him about the mix-up, apologize, and sadly never show your face again. The two of you have had a good run, but it’s over now. There’s no way in hell you’ll be able to ‘casually’ rent a dvd from him every week when all you can picture is his face when he’s about to… jesus, let’s not even go there.
Why did you do it — why, why, why, you stupid meatball of a woman. Why did you have to let your curiosity get the best of you?
You can see him through the windows of the store as you cross the street. He’s alone (thank god), so it’ll be less humiliating for you to admit the horrible mishap. Your breath leaves in a fog as you exhale, your mouth shaping itself in an ‘o’ as you reach the glass door. You inspect Jungkook, who stands behind the counter with a pen perched between his fingertips as he notes down whatever on a piece of paper.
Let’s do this. It won’t be that awful. You’re a grown woman, you can own up to your mistakes.
“I’m sorry!”
Jesus. The apology sort of just tumbles out of you as you push the door open, mingling with the overhead bell that notifies your arrival. You’re not sure if yelling out that you’re sorry is the best way to start this conversation, but it’s too late to take it back now. Even though you want nothing more than to grab the exclaim by its neck and shove it back down your throat.
Jungkook’s gaze lifts along with his eyebrows, staring over at you as you stand covered in snow at his doorstep. It hits you that this is sort of similar to your first official meet, you drenched in bad weather at the door, Jungkook unbothered and dry behind the cashier. Oh how you miss those times, when you were just a girl with a stupid crush, blissfully unaware. Nostalgia will be the death of you.
As you haven’t really gotten to the next part of your apology, Jungkook clears his throat, his eyebrows forming in a confused knot high on his forehead, “You’re sorry?”
“I’m sorry!” you repeat, fully entering his shop, hurrying over to Jungkook while leaving sad and wet little footprints behind you. It seems to amuse him that you’re completely out of breath and quite frankly horrified, as he tongues his cheek watching the way you rush over to him. You tuck a few loose strands of hair behind your ears, ignoring the way your cheeks flush when fully exposed — even though it’s probably due to your mortification, you can brush it off as you going red by the cold.
You stop a few steps before the counter, chest heaving underneath your coat, and now that you’re here… you’ve forgotten your prepared monologue. What the hell, you know the basics of it. Let’s just give it a try.
“Euh—uh…” you stutter, now realizing you have no idea how to actually tell him this while looking him dead in the eyes. Hello, Jungkook, yes, it is true — I did in fact watch you pound away at some girl I don’t know. Yes, I could have turned it off, yes I realize that now. No, I don’t have any manners.
Jungkook frowns before you. Maybe he’s wondering if you slipped on ice on your way over, if you maybe cracked your skull open and that small bits and pieces of your consciousness is slowly seeping out of you. He crosses his arms loosely and leans over the counter, resting on his forearms. “Ah, I see,” he teases, grinning at the way your mouth hangs open.
This is getting more embarrassing by the minute. You try snapping out of it, putting one hand out in front of you, a flat palm. Okay here it goes.
“You gave me the wrong tape.”
Your shoulders slump the moment the words leave you, finally ridding you of the heavy burden. All you hope is that he might not ask about the tape, that he’ll take it back, maybe watch over it in private, realize his mistake and then not wonder why you’re not returning to his shop.
Because you quite frankly can’t ever set foot in here after what you just watched, not when all you can picture is the way his eyebrows crease when the girl wrapped around him pulsates, spasms, sucking him dry. Fuck, it was beautiful, but oh so inappropriate. So wildly inappropriate. You can’t ever see him the same way. Not that he was some virgin Mary before this, you’ve always known what kind of guy he was. But knowing he makes his own pornos just makes it absolutely impossible for you to keep your cool around him.
Jungkook bites down on his bottom lip, letting your words sink in. The piercing catches between his teeth, making a small clicking sound that cuts right through the unbearable silence that fills his shop. Pursing his lips, examining you, he prepares to speak. “Mhm, did I?”
“Yeah,” you say, taking another step forward. You fish out the CD-cover buried in your pocket, handing it to Jungkook once you’re close enough to reach him. He doesn’t grab for it, so instead you place it down on the counter, trying not to look at it. It’s just this little black, plastic item — something that has managed to ruin your life (or so it seems like). “I just—I’m sorry. I wanted to return it as fast as I could.”
He stares at you for a moment before reaching for the tape, fingers curling around the plastic then picking it up. You’re kind of weirded out by this. He doesn’t ask any questions, nor does the contains of the tape you watched seem to matter to him. Instead, his eyes skim over the cover’s back for a second, before he puts it down again and shoves it out of sight.
“That’s too bad, huh?” His eyes meet yours again, and you almost faint. There’s this sparkle in them, a flash of glisten that disappears the moment he blinks. His eyebrows raise just a tad on his forehead, giving him just a teeny tiny pleading look. Alright, this has to be intentional — he knows what effect he has on women.
You can’t deal with him anymore. It was fine before, when it was just a stupid crush. But it’s slowly turning into something else, something shameful. You want him so bad that you could cry, because there is no way in hell he would ever lay a hand on a girl like you. And now you’ve seen all of him — every admirable inch of him. There’s no way you can keep him in your life without going insane.
Your lips curl into a thin line, and just as you’re about to speak, Jungkook cuts you off.
“Is there anything I could do for you?”
Quite frankly, no. You just need to be left alone, honestly. Curl up underneath your covers and die of embarrassment and lust. So you shake your head, trying to get out of this shop as quickly as possible. You don’t want the actual movie you rented, you just wanted to return the faulted one and flee the crime scene.
“No-no,” you say, waving a hand in front of you. “There really isn’t. Again, I’m sorry.”
You haven’t told him what the CD contains, but he’ll find out eventually. And there is absolutely no way that you’ll be here when that time comes. You have to get out of here. This didn’t really go as planned, you apparently don’t have enough courage to own up to your mistake. But you’ve returned the tape nonetheless, so your mission is complete.
You give Jungkook an almost believable smile, and prepare to walk off. Your feet are about to send you off, and you turn away from Jungkook, setting out on your journey to the door — when you feel a tug on your coat.
Jungkook has wrapped his fingers in the soft fabric, tugging on your back, keeping you from leaving. Reaching for you over the counter.
Neither of you speak for a moment, you just still the moment you feel resistance. Your chest heaves, you have no idea what’s going on, why he’s holding you back. It’s almost like all the air in your lungs in ripped from you, and when you hear his voice, your knees almost buckle.
“Are you sure there’s nothing you want me to do?”
You can’t see his face, but his voice is enough to send you over the edge. It’s a low purr, but you also detect some worry. He can’t possibly be that sorry for lending you the wrong tape. It would at least make him great with costumers, but it can’t just be that. Oh god. He can’t possibly know… can he?
“W-what?” you ask, still not turning to face him. You just stare straight ahead at the snow that falls outside the window, the glass door. And Jungkook’s hand stays knotted in your coat, making it impossible for you to move.
“Come on…” he rasps, tugging you closer. Your feet stumble backwards, but you still don’t turn, honestly just because you don’t dare to. Looking him in his beautiful eyes right now might make you jump over that counter and fling your arms over his shoulders. So you stand still, your lower back meeting the edge of the counter. And after a while, after you’ve gotten used to the way Jungkook’s breath keeps brushing against the back of your head, he speaks again. “I know you like me.”
Mary mother of christ. There it is. He knows. Of course he knows — how could you be so stupid? You’ve been pining after him for almost a decade. How could he not know?
Goosebumps bloom on the back of your neck and your breathing turns shallow. This can really only mean one thing.
He didn’t give you the wrong tape.
You slip from his hand, turning abruptly, looking at him with wide and frightened eyes. For some reason, you can’t control your breathing. Your chest moves in heaves, and every sentence you try forming in your head dies on its way out. His nostrils flare before you, and as if you’re not having a hard enough time breathing, Jungkook’s eyes roam over your body, taking in your state of shock.
“Wha—what?” you repeat, still not sure any of this is real. Because how can it be. It’s straight out of a very weird and long porno. Fitting, given the tape he’s gifted you.
“Look—I’m sorry about the video,” he starts, running stressed fingers through his hair. You’ve never seen him like this, it’s out of character for him to not be teasing or mocking you. But he’s allowed to be nervous, as he has just confirmed to renting you a porno of himself. That has to be some sort of felony. When he’s done messing up his hair, he places his hands flat on the counter, chuckling at his own words. “I just—I don’t know. Thought you needed a push.”
“Needed a push?” You stick your neck out, baffled and not really sure if you just heard right. Was this an attempt to seduce you? In what messed up world would that work? “I’m sure you could’ve thought of some other way to wring the truth out of me.”
Jungkook shrugs, keeping his eyed glued to yours. “Sure. But I wanted you to see what I could do to you.”
Your pulse drops, and it almost feels as if someone has spilled a bucket of ice water down your neck. Oh my god, this has to be some kind of joke. Maybe he’s recording this too, and that he might just be a very messed up guy. Because never in your twenty years of living would you have thought that Jeon Jungkook could ever come onto you. Especially not like this.
For some reason, you can’t speak. But your face gets embarrassingly warm, your cheeks heating up and doing absolutely nothing to hide just how flustered you are. You try cooling it off, letting your knuckles meet the warm skin, not even caring how stupid it looks.
“Also,” Jungkook tilts his head, smiling at you. You immediately avoid his eyes, looking down at his hands instead, the thick, silver ring that’s wrapped around his left thumb. He notices, bending a bit down trying to search for your eyes. “It’s fun making you blush like this.”
“You’re—” you start, blushing even more when he points it out. Trying to recover some kind of bravery, you jerk your neck, flaring your nostrils. “This is insane behavior.”
“Romeo killed himself for Juliet—I would argue I’m not insane enough.”
You instantly frown, very taken aback by this absurd analogy. “Are you seriously comparing you giving me porn—your own porn—to Romeo and Juliet?”
“Yeah,” he says dead serious while straightening his posture. His eyes sparkle in your direction, and you gulp as you keep getting lost in them. He has apparently lost his damn mind… but it seems it might be because of you. That can’t be right.
“I'm sorry—but are we just brushing over the fact that you make your own porn?” Your eyebrows crease so bad it's actually hurting, but you can't for the life of you understand what on earth is going on.
Jungkook scratches the back of his head. “It was—it's something I do for fun—sometimes!” he tries explaining, tumbling over his own words. “I'd never do that to you—I just thought giving you the tape might open your eyes. Show you what I bring to the table.”
What a crazy mindset. Also, you already know what he brings to the table — every girl in town knows. He could’ve just told you ‘hey, I like you’ and it probably wouldn’t have been as strange.
As you part your lips, preparing to speak, your words are ripped from you. Because the moment your words are about to leave you, Jungkook decides to move. He takes a step back from the counter, eyes never leaving you, and starts making his way around, fingertips tracing the flat surface. The veins on his forearm strain against his skin as he moves, as his arm stretches, follows where he goes. And in a matter of no time, he manages to snake around the counter and take his first steps towards you.
There’s nothing else for you to do but tumble backwards, not knowing if its all because you’re trying to keep your distance from him or if it’s your brain subconsciously keeping you from making a stupid decision — keeping you from flinging yourself over Jungkook’s neck.
“I swear I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he stresses, slowly walking towards you. “And I know it was a crazy gesture—but the thing is… I kinda am crazy about you.”
You stop in your tracks, letting him close up on you. Your throat clogs as you hear his confession, a row of words you’ve only encountered in your dreams. Maybe you’re dumb and naive, but you’ve been so insatiably in love with him for these past years that the thought of him maybe feeling the same way has your vision blurring.
What snaps you back to reality is the tape, the way he spoke. How he carries himself, the fact that every girl in town has gotten a taste of him. He must be calculated. This isn’t a love confession — this is a damn ploy.
“That’s not funny,” you say, nostrils flaring.
He’s close enough to touch you now, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stops before you, eyes skimming over your flushed face, moving from one eye to the other before settling on your lips for way too long. He takes a deep breath, one that has his shoulders lifting with the large intake. “I’m not trying to be funny, peach.”
That fucking nickname. Just this once, you wish he might’ve been able to drop it… just this once.
His fingers twitch with restraint at his sides, and his tongue brushes past his lips as his eyes are still fixed on your mouth. “If you think I’m just saying all this to win you over—do you really think I’d wait this long?”
“Uh, n-no,” you stutter, and your voice comes out more strained than you hoped, almost like every word you’re trying to say hurts in your throat.
One second passes, and without noticing at first, you see Jungkook’s hand lift. His palm comes to cup your cheek, his ring-covered thumb brushing against your warm skin. Your breathing comes out ragged, and your eyes flick over his face like a deer-caught-in-headlights. Trying to ease you, Jungkook brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, caressing your skin along the way.
“That tape was just a snivel of what I’d do to you if you let me.”
Oh god, maybe you’re in over your head here. You know you want this, that you want nothing less, but as you’ve established — Jungkook is crazy. And this might just be Jungkook’s brilliant way with words, but every single nerve in your body is tuned to him, and you find yourself glued to the floor, unable and not wanting to move.
Just dive in without thinking. Allow yourself this indulgence. You never do anything fun, you never take any fucking risks. So just take the leap.
You tip your chin up, better meeting his eyes, taking in a deep breath. “Then what’s stopping you?”
A small, devilish smile tugs on Jungkook’s lips, before they surge forward, colliding with yours without giving you a second to breathe. The metal in his mouth brushes against your bottom lip, the strength of his kiss urging for you to open your mouth for him, bare him your tongue.
You do so without thinking, inviting him in, letting the wet muscle of his tongue roll against yours in an addictive dance, while his hand shoves your face harder against his. You’re on your tippy-toes now, stretching as far as possible to reach his mouth. He chuckles against your kiss, but not for long, not when he hears how your breathing has slowed and a small moan escapes you. Because it unfurls something in him, and soon enough his free hand moves to your waist, pulling you closer to him.
He groans at the feel of your thick coat against his chest, probably eager to rip it the fuck off, but trying to keep his cool nonetheless. It doesn’t work all that well. “Is it that cold out?”
His words aren’t teasing this time, he actually seems more furious. So you immediately find it funny, smiling still when he keeps kissing your stretched lips. “What, you don’t like my coat?”
“Hate it, actually,” he purrs, nudging your face away with his forehead just so he can latch onto your neck. You shiver the moment his lips meet your jugular, the wetness of them sending sparks all the way to your fingertips. He licks and sucks as if to mark you, while the hand on your waist takes on a new road, coming to fiddle with the top button of your coat.
You giggle as the button resists, catching in the soft fabric, refusing to give in. As Jungkook hears this, he retracts from your neck, straightening his posture to look at you with narrow eyes.
“Oh, we’re laughing, are we?” He tilts his head, giving you just a teeny tiny smile that’s almost unnoticeable. His lips have gone slightly red, a bit swollen, giving him a disheveled look that’s enough for you to lose your damn mind. You pout, looking up at him with wide and unknowing eyes, trying to lure his lips back to yours, but instead you feel his hand move from your button. “Laugh, again—I dare you.”
In one easy motion both his hands grab ahold of the back of your thighs underneath the long coat, and without struggle he manages to lift you, wrapping you around his waist. Your breath hitches, the fabric of your coat rides up, and you instinctively fold your knees around his torso, steading yourself. And as the small breath of air leaves you, Jungkook swallows it with another kiss.
It's like you’re nothing in his arms with the way he so easily handles you. He manages to turn, walk further into the store, still lavishing you in openmouthed and wet kisses. Your arms have wrapped around his neck, and soon enough your fingers are tangled in his silky hair, brushing through the strands that form the rough mullet. Until you remember something crucial.
“W-waitwaitwait—” you hiss against his lips, retracting to look him in the eyes. They haven’t gone heavy lidded like you’re used to when lathering boys in kisses, Jungkook’s eyes have actually doubled in size, it seems. He stares back at you with two black, glistening voids, wondering why you’re cutting his pleasure short. You raise your eyebrows, because the door remains unlocked. And you’re not so sure if you’re all that keen on going at it with Jungkook while someone could just simply walk in without restraint. “The door?”
Jungkook chuckles as he keeps moving both your bodies across the room, walking past shelves, different sections, until he stops for a second. “There’s another door here, peach.”
And just like that, almost like it magically appeared with his words, he pushes open a door — already slightly ajar — with the tip of his boot, a door which seems to lead to the backroom. It’s filled with boxes, shelves. It’s just a mess, honestly. And without any further words, Jungkook turns the lock and walks to one of the shorter CD-shelves, propping you up on it.
Your feet barely dangle above the floor, and you immediately miss the feel of his lips once he leaves you. Needy as you are, you reach for his shirt, trying to pull him back, but he stops you right away.
“I’m gonna need that coat on the floor before anything else.”
Fuck.
You were honestly hoping it wouldn’t come to this. Maybe that he would let you sleep with him fully dressed.
It’s not because you’re self-conscious in any way, you’re actually quite proud of your figure. No, this is way worse. Because underneath your coat lies a dark secret: Your horrible sense of style when it comes to lounging around at home.
To be honest, you thought you’d spend the night all alone. Well, it’s movie night, so you usually do spend it alone, on your couch, with soda stains on your chest. But you set out on a quest tonight — honestly just to return the tape and never see Jungkook again. You didn’t think he’d be undressing you by the end of the meet, so you didn’t bother to change your clothes… which now you realize was a grand mistake.
You look up at Jungkook with wide and pleading eyes, “May the coat stay on?”
He just frowns in response before taking matters into own hands, lunging forward and shutting you up with a kiss so harsh your lips might bruise. Jungkook sucks down on your bottom lip, causing you to let out a soft moan in his mouth as he distracts you from the way he’s roughly tearing open your coat, not caring if the buttons rip at the seams. Suddenly, the coat hangs open, and with a begrudging lift of your hips, you let him slip it off your frame.
Your hands come up to cup his neck, the hair that grows long there, forcing him to not look down. But he does anyways… and stops completely.
His hands rest by your waist, and his eyes roam over your body, eyebrows creasing with something that might read as disgust, or maybe just utter confusion.
“What the hell are you wearing?” he scoffs, skimming over your outfit. Rightfully so, because what the hell are you wearing?
It’s embarrassing, but it’s comfortable. And you don’t care if you stain it. You tread it over your body the minute you get home, you always make sure to wash it before going to bed just so you’ll be able to wear it again the day after. We are of course speaking of your Snoopy-suit.
Weird name, yes, but there’s no other way to describe it. Because it is a Snoopy-suit. A white sweater with tiny nightgown-Snoopy-figurines all over, everywhere, no inch left uncovered — with a pair of matching sweatpants. The text on your chest reads ‘Sleepy Snoops’. We won’t even get into what’s written on your ass.
You part your lips, but no sound comes out, which has Jungkook frowning ugly in front of you. With minimal strength, you shove at his chest. It does little, as he comes right back again, leaning forward while his palms rest on either side of you down on the shelf’s surface. The veins in his forearms pop as he rests his weight on them.
“Wha—well I didn’t think I’d be stripping when I got here!” You try defending yourself, but realize it still doesn’t answer Jungkook’s question. Because you quite frankly have no idea what it is that you’re wearing. Thankfully, Jungkook latches onto your words instead of keeping his attention glued to your outfit.
“You so did,” he chuckles, planting a soft kiss on your temple.
You keep trying to defend yourself while his kisses continue. “I didn’t!”
“Yeah-yeah, okay—I can’t have you wearing that, though.” He starts by letting one hand brush over your thighs, a move that immediately sends shivers down your spine and all the way to your cervix. Jesus, he must be a sorcerer. The hand keeps moving, fingers brushing underneath the hem of your sweater, lifting it slowly while still kissing you, lips moving down your neck, biting down on your skin as his fingers meets your stomach.
Eager to strip out of this god-awful outfit, you help him, reaching for the hem of your sweatshirt and giving it a quick tug. Jungkook’s hand replaces yours, and he lifts the fabric off your body, over your head, over your lifted arms, until it falls completely off and is thrown forgotten to the floor alongside your coat.
The moment you’re bared to him, he chuckles against your skin, pleased to know you’re not wearing a bra. His hand which is not holding onto your waist comes to cup one of your soft breasts, rolling it in his palm where it fits so perfectly.
You mewl underneath his touch, back arching instinctively as he keeps kneading your breast with his warm palm. He steps in between your parted knees, the hand on your waist pulling you further into him, and the moment you meet his hips, you let out a breathy moan.
He’s straining against his jeans, a bulge so big it still surprises you, even though you’ve already seen all of him. You’ve seen every vein, every inch — just not up close. And the anticipation is killing you.
“Take the sweatpants off,” he breathes against your neck, now starting to move lower, kissing your collarbone, your chest, before his lips meet the gentle curve of your breast — the one not trapped in his palm.
In a hurried motion, your fingers find your waistband, and you rip the soft fabric off, lifting your hips and wiggling out of the pants, kicking off your boots along with the legs of your sweats. Thankfully, your panties aren’t atrocious as well, just a simple, white lace that you’re hoping to be rid of soon enough.
Jungkook grinds into you the second you lose the pants, breathing roughly against your skin when he feels your bare figure hug his frame the moment his hips roll forwards. His mouth moves lower, and after giving your already hard nipple a soft lick, he closes his mouth around it to suck down on it. The hand on your breast gives your skin a deep knead before brushing lower, letting his fingers play with the waistband of your panties, snapping the band against your hip.
“Kook—please,” you moan, eyes rolling to the back of your head when Jungkook’s tongue starts circling your nipple, flicking over the nub, coating it in his spit. “Don’t hold back with me.”
He groans against you, running the tip of his tongue back and forth over your hard nipple, “Couldn’t even if I wanted to.”
His fingers move from the waistband, and in a motion so sudden his palm cups your wetness, squeezing tight, feeling how you’re dripping through the lace fabric. Your breath hitches, and your head lolls back as the friction of his hand cupped so tightly against your clothed cunt. Chasing his touch, your hips buck forward, a move which steals a hummed laughter from him.
Your completely soaked through. There’s no inch of lace left untouched by your wetness, and the fabric clings to you like a second skin. You’re so wet it almost embarrassing, and every squeeze Jungkook’s large palm bestows upon you has you gasping for air.
He sucks down on your nipple, releasing it with a slick pop. “Fuck, you’re soaked through,” he almost whispers, his breath against your breast sending sparks through your body.
“Mm-hm,” you hum in agreement, a needy sound you try repressing as you bite down on your bottom lip. But it doesn’t work that well, especially not when Jungkook runs a single finger all the way from your core to your clit, which both are spasming underneath the drenched lace. Your forehead drops to Jungkook’s shoulder for some kind of support, but suddenly the surface is removed. Because Jungkook has taken on a new path.
Tracing your bare torso in wet kisses, he makes his way down, both hands now coming to tug on the waistband of your panties, ripping it of in one go with the help of a compliant lift of your hips.
“Have been dreaming of this,” he purrs, “… for so fucking long.”
His palms slowly spread your knees apart, thumbs pressing into the supple skin of your inner thigs, and you feel it like a pulse in your core. You almost can’t think straight, seeing him on his knees between your legs. Although he might be teasing — you actually have been dreaming of this. And now that it’s finally happening, every nerve in your body feels ignited.
As you let out a small whimper, Jungkook’s eyes flick up, catching yours from between your legs, and you swear your lungs collapse when he smirks, so slight it’s nearly imperceptible.
Still keeping eye contact, his knuckles brush the slick that’s already coating your folds. Your eyebrows crease at the touch, and your mouth falls open without letting any sound release, just a row of desperate breaths. He lets his fingers stretch, the pads of them trailing down your slit, feeling the way your juices cling to him. It’s a sight he can’t keep away from.
His eyes dart down, now fixed on the sight of you bare and dripping. The way your clit pulsates, begging and needing to be touched. “Fuck,” he breathes. “Look at you.”
You’re too wet to be embarrassed, to fucking wrecked from the anticipation to be coy or smart. All you want is to audibly beg for him, but you still have some pride you’re hoping to keep intact. You’ll fuck him in the backroom of his shop, alright — but you’re not begging. Well, not yet, at least.
There’s apparently no need for you to beg this time, as the next thing you feel is Jungkook’s mouth pressing a kiss on your parted lips, right to your clit.
You immediately jolt forwards, the feel of his lips so unreal that stars start dancing in your vision. But he holds you back with his palms, and with a low rumble, he darts his tongue out, dragging an experimental lick through your folds. He parts them with ease, his tongue flat and broad, starting from the bottom and gliding all the way up to your clit. Your thighs shudder, but he still doesn’t let you move. His arms snake around your legs, pinning you down and locking you open for him.
“You taste so fucking good,” he purrs in between licks, the tip of his tongue circling your clit, flicking over it once or twice to feel the way your twitch in his grip. You throw your head back, a moan ripping from your throat as his sucks your clit into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it with obscene precision. The suction is gentle, at first, just enough to have your back arching and your fingers flying into his soft hair.
You feel the piercing in his lip move as he shifts, the cool of it slipping through your folds when he sucks down harder, tearing uncontrollable whines from you. Easing you after the harsh suction, he presses his tongue flat against your clit and rolls it, slow and so incredibly fucking skilled.
“Oh fuck—fuck, Jungkook—”
He only groans in response, the vibration of it traveling through your entire body. When he shifts his mouth again, you think you might black out. He locks eyes with you, his black marbles staring back up at you as a sly smile appears on his face. His tongue rapidly flicks up and down your clit, and just when he sees your eyes roll to the back of your head, he delves down wrap his lips around the nub, sucking tightly at it.
You can’t see shit. You don’t know if it’s your eyes who have retreated to your skull, or if it’s your vision blurring due to the intense pleasure — whatever it is, it’s too damn good to care about right now. And with the way he chuckles against your cunt, you bet your ass he’s watching your every reaction.
Because he loves it, he drinks it in. Every moan, every twitch of your hips, every grip of your fingers in his hair — he can’t get enough of it. Especially when he retracts, licking a fat stripe over your pulsating clit, and you let out a breathy whine, desperate for the orgasm he just teased you with.
Unapologetic and lost in deep pleasure, you look back down at him, eyebrows lifting and eyes widening. “I loved the tape you gave me,” you breathe, tugging gently on his hair.
“Yeah?” He smiles against your wetness, locking eyes with you as his licks turn slow and torturous. His lips have gone all shiny, his chin too, probably, although you can’t see it.
A smile tugs on your lips, and you nod, slowly starting to roll your hips against him, following the movement of his tongue. “Yeah,” you purr, your eyes fluttering shut every time Jungkook’s flat tongue moves over the most sensitive spot of your clit. “Loved seeing you. Your arms, your thighs, your dick.”
Your words come out breathy and seductive, egging him on. It works immediately, as he seals his lips around your clit, sucking down while his tongue messily laps over the nub. His spit and your slick mix together in a thick liquid that coats both him and your thighs, running down to the slit that parts your cheeks.
“Anything else?” He lets up from his sucking as his tongue explores you more deeply, slipping down to your entrance, circling it before slowly pushing inside.
Your entire body jerks. “Ah—yes!”
He starts shamelessly fucking you with his tongue in low, deep strokes, his nose pressed against your clit, his grip on your thighs tightening as you writhe against his face.
“I wished it was me—so bad Kook.” The words roll of your tongue, and you ramble mindlessly as his tongue curls inside you, his nose rubbing tightly over your clit. “Wished you’d fuck me just like that—fuck me until I can’t walk.”
He loves the sound of your breathy praise, loves the way you keep spasming whenever he hits the sweet-spot buried deep inside you. He knows exactly what it is you need. So he pulls his tongue out, licks his way back up and circles your clit again — but this time, his fingers join in.
You’re so wet and pliant you almost don’t notice them at first, but when he goes deeper, your eyes widen. There’s two of them, thick and lock, who push inside you so smoothly that your mouth drops open, a broken sound escaping you before you can stop it. His mouth doesn’t let up during the intrusion, his tongue flicks fast over your clit as his fingers curl inside you, exactly where you crave pleasure the most. Your walls pulsate around his digits the moment he teases the spot.
“Ah—fuck, right there—oh my god—” you pant, eyelids fluttering shut as he keeps stroking in rhythmic pulses, his mouth never leaving your clit. The combination is unbearable, and your hips involuntarily rock into his touch. You tug on his hair, pull him closer, and you feel the pleasure in your stomach starting to knot together. “Oh my god, Kook—I’m so close—”
Jungkook flicks his tongue faster, circles your clit tighter, until your vision wipes out, until your legs are shaking around his shoulders, your orgasm building so fiercely you can almost taste blood.
No one has ever known their way around your body this way, and you thank god for his previous experience, because with the way he’s working you over right now — there’s nothing else for you to do. His long fingers keep curling inside you, not even caring about the fact that your juices run down his palm, his wrist, coating his forearm. He instead hums in appreciation against your clit, wrapping his lips around it, his lip ring slipping inside your glistening folds, and he sucks down viscously on your clit like a starved animal.
“Fuck—Kook, I’m cu—” is all you’re able to get out before your orgasm hits you. Your legs quiver, your whole body breaks open against his mouth, your head lolls back and you cry out. You grind against his face because you simply can’t not, because you need him deeper, everywhere, you’re actually losing your mind in this orgasm. And Jungkook eats it up, literally. He moans into your climax, tongue lapping ever drop of arousal, fingers starting to pump in and out of you, meeting every grind of your hip.
Even when your thighs begin to twitch in overstimulation, he doesn’t stop. He slows, of course, but he stays, licking lazy strokes over your cunt as if he’s cleaning up his mess. And under his touch, your body is melting. You actually feel boneless, a trembling mess — who has also seemingly made a mess out of the boy between your legs.
His hair is a mess from your hands, his lips have gone red, swollen and shiny, and his chest heaves like he’s the one who just came. And when he feels you starting to tug harder on his hair, trying to pry him off your body, he lets up, giving a final peck to your clit. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hands, eyes never leaving yours. It doesn’t really help, his lips are still a wet mess, a mess he doesn’t seem to bother. His tongue darts out again, brushing over his lower lip, savoring the taste of you.
“Voila,” he jokes, bracing his hands on his thighs as his posture straightens.
You don’t even care that he’s being a cocky asshole now, all you want is for him to rid himself of those god damn clothes. It’s all you can think of when your vision comes back — how he’s still covered. How the tight tee he’s wearing hides his glorious figure from you, how his pants cage in the length and width of his. A cock so big your mouth is already watering.
Your voice comes out softer and a bit more embarrassing than you expect, “C-can you… take it off?”
Jungkook tilts his head, eyebrows lifting, being a little shit. “Take what off?”
You bite down on your bottom lip, eyes darting toward his still clothed body, toward the heavy bulge that’s straining visibly through the dark denim. Jungkook grins viciously when he notices your lingering and hopeful grin.
“Everything?” he asks, still in that oblivious and teasing tone that weirdly enough turns you on so much that a new wave of arousal seeps from you. You instinctively press your knees together, suddenly a bit self-conscious about being the only one butt-naked here. So you nod, shyly, letting him know you do want him to take everything off.
His hands move immediately, but his breath hitches and his mouth opens in a wide gape. Of course, teasing you. “Such a forward young girl,” he says as if he’s affronted by your demand. You just roll your eyes at him, even though you’re screaming internally.
He rises to his feet, towering over you with a frame so broad you gulp, his shoulders squared, hair falling into his eyes as he glances down at you with hunger. Eyes never leaving you, his fingers start moving to the hem of his tee. And it’s torture, the way he peels it off, revealing himself inch by inch. The fabric clings to his back as he pulls it over his head and tosses it aside.
Jesus fucking christ, it’s even better up close. A camera can’t possibly do such a man justice, the way he looks as if he’s sculpted by the gods. Sharp collarbones, thick chest, deep dips between every line of muscle, and somehow a lean waist. Unfair is what it is. And his inked up left arm is just too stunning, the way the tattoos curl around his biceps, his veins. Unfair.
Your gaze traces his torso, licking your lips subconsciously.
“Like what you see?” he asks, extremely cocky.
“Shush,” you say as you shake your head, hoping to might snap out of the weird horned up trance he has you in by just removing his tee.
He chuckles, dragging one hand down over his own stomach, flexing his abs. “Not something I usually show the customers. You’re getting some real special treatment here, peach.”
“I somehow don’t believe that,” you frown, trying your hardest not to laugh when he grunts, flexing even harder. He might be ridiculously hot, but he still can’t escape the idiocy that comes with being a boy.
His mouth opens, gape widens, and his eyebrows crease. “Are you slut-shaming me?”
“I so am.” You brace your hands on either side of your body, leaning backwards, stretching subtly before him. Gloating in the way he’s undressing before you. Because next go his boots. He tows them off one at a time and they land somewhere far off in the small room. Then go the jeans.
The second the belt is out from its loops, your stomach flips. He pops the button, drags the zipper down, and your mouth dries when he peels them off. The denim clings to his thighs, and you see now just how thick they are. His legs are strong, dense with muscle, strength that only comes from real, physical work — carrying boxes, lifting crates, whatnot. He can maybe add ‘carrying you around’ to that list, if he wants, of course.
Now, there’s only one barrier left between you and every inch of him. His black boxer-briefs. And what’s underneath them is already impossible to ignore.
He’s hard, so hard, straining against the fabric, the outline of his cock bulging beneath the waistband. Long and thick, his girth alone has your core clenching in anticipation. You saw him in the self-tape, of course, you know he’s big already. But knowing he’ll bestow the length upon you feels like you’re maybe in way over your head. The tip of him presses against the cotton, and there’s a darkened spot where he’s already leaking.
Jungkook giggles (weirdly enough) at the way you swallow hard before him, and jerks his head to the side. “Three—two—one.”
He actually counts down the big reveal, hooking his thumbs under the waistband and dragging the fabric down.
Your jaw almost reaches the floor.
Jungkook springs free flushed, veiny and think in a way that’s almost greedy. The head of him is swollen and red, glistening and leaking at the tip, and you feel drool trying to make its way down your chin. You shut your mouth immediately, but you take a big breath in through your nose. He’s absolutely, obesely big. This can’t be good for neither you or him.
Upon seeing you so baffled, he chuckles low in his chest, stroking himself once from base to tip — just for you to watch, and for him to see your reaction. “You said you didn’t want me to hold back, right?”
Your thighs squeeze together and part your lips, “Uhm.” God you’re an idiot. Uhm? Well, your reaction is kind of fair, you didn’t expect him to be this absurdly big. But maybe you’ll grow accustomed to him, to his size. You pray to god that you will, because you’re not backing out now. “Right—right. I’m ready.”
He lets out a chuckle and steps in close, close enough that your knees part for him again, close enough that his cologne and body scent wraps around you like a second skin. He leans forward until his hands land on either side of you, palms flat against the shelf.
You’re caged in. His arms bracket you completely, veins standing out along his forearms, sleeve tattoo stretching and flexing as his weight settles in. There’s nowhere for you to go — not that there’s anywhere else in the world you’d like to be right now. You could absurdly enough die happily in this position, naked underneath the eyes of equally naked Jungkook. His face is inches away from yours, breath warm, eyes glistening as they flick between your eyes, mouth, chest.
“Need another countdown?” he asks as he leans in, softly kissing the sensitive spot behind your ear.
You shudder, eyes fluttering shut. But still — please don’t count down. It was weird enough the first time. “Rather not,” you giggle, wiggling away from his kisses as they start to tingle. This only eggs Jungkook on more, resulting in him blowing air behind your ear, biting down on your skin, humming in appreciation as you try shoving him away. “Stop Kook, it tickles—oh—”
Oh. It was a distraction.
Because suddenly you feel him… all of him, pressing heavy against you. He shifts his hip as he feels you still completely, and drags the length of him upwards, through your folds, coating himself in your slick.
“Shiit, you’re so soft.” Jungkook’s voice is no more than a whisper, speaking directly into your ear before biting down on your earlobe. One of his hands come to rest on your thigh, squeezing the supple flesh there, as his other hand moves between you to grab himself — guiding himself as he drag his cock upwards to circle your clit with his heavy tip.
You gasp, and your head falls to Jungkook’s shoulder. It’s obscene how sensitive you are, how easily your body reacts to him. You’re still slick from his mouth, and the slide of him against your soaked cunt has you toes curling instantly.
Jungkook groans under his breath, retracting from your neck to watch how you drip all over him, how his cock slips so easily through you, how the head of him catches at your clit and makes you tremble. “Fuck—looks so pretty.” The thick length of him glides through you from bottom to top, the head pressing against your clit, guiding his leaking tip just right, flicking it up and down your spasming nub that crowns your mound in torturous drags.
“Oh—” your breath stutters and your hips jolt forward, hands snaking around his frame to drag your long fingernails down his back, hard enough to make him hiss. As your head falls back, Jungkook lets the hand on your thigh move to your neck, and he presses your mouth against his. His tongue slides into your mouth, and you melt into it immediately, lips parting, moaning softly when you feel his cock glide through you yet again.
He doesn’t push inside you, he just drags himself through your slick over and over again. Each pass is wonderful, the head of his cock nudges your clit, circles it, presses into it to hear how you whine into his mouth. The size of him is impossible to ignore. He’s so heavy, so thick, that you’re starting to worry about how on earth he’s going to fit inside you.
You lift your arms and tug at his hair, fingers curling into his soft strands. “You f-feel—ah—so good.”
Upon hearing your praise, he chuckles softly and kisses you harder, pushing to tighter against his lips. His tongue strokes slow, his open mouth steals every sound you make, swallowing your moans while his cock continues its relentless pass through your folds.
You’re soaking him, his cock slipping as it reaches your clit again, involuntarily flicking over your clit as you're so wet his cock can't even keep a straight path. You feel yourself pulsing around nothing, clenching with the hope that he’ll soon fill you, that he’ll soon give you exactly what you want. And as you start growing impatient, tugging harder on his hair — Jungkook starts to play with you.
He nudges your clit side to side, the hand wrapped around his own length guiding his cock precisely where you’re spasming. New waves of arousal leak from you, mixing with the pearls of precum that continues to run down Jungkook’s shaft. With a gasp, you break from the kiss, feeling your legs starting to shake and the coiling pleasure low in your belly building by the second. “N-no more—”
“Fuuck, but—” he breathes out a low growl, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Feel how hard I am for you, peach.”
His hips roll forward, his own hand making sure he slips perfectly though your folds. He flattens the length of him against your slick heat, and when you feel him twitch, when you feel just how close he is himself, a sharp pulse travels straight through your core. Your hands slide down his back, nails digging into his skin, your whole body arching up into him. You can’t take it anymore — he has teased you for long enough. All you want is for him to fill you so good, to actually split you in half, all you want is for him to make you cry in overwhelming pleasure.
“I could probably cum like this,” Jungkook rasps, still resting against your shoulder. You feel his eyes flutter shut, his eyelashes tingling against your skin. He lets out a deep breath, and actually whines when he presses one last, heavy glide through your folds. As he reaches your clit again, he lingers there, circling thrice until your nails scrape harshly along his back, until your back arches and all you’re able to do is moan his name. He chuckles, although there’s absolutely nothing funny right now, “I bet you could too.”
Well, apparently you’re not allowed to, as his hands find your hips in a sudden motion. Before you can fully catch your breath, let out one last moan, he’s lifting you off the bench, pressing your body flush to him. All the while his cock is still nuzzled between your folds.
The change of scenery has you gasping for air, arms flinging over his shoulders and legs wrapping tightly around his slender waist. You try balancing yourself, although there seems to be no need as Jungkook doesn’t falter. It doesn’t look like the lift strains him, he doesn’t even blink. He just holds you like you weigh nothing, easily hopping with you in his arms, making you whimper as his cock once again presses against your clit.
“I don’t know if it’s you that’s light as fuck—or if I’m just stupidly strong,” Jungkook laughs, and there’s a grin tucked into the corner of his mouth, a grin you kind of want to wipe right off his face, no matter how much you want him right now.
He turns with you cradled against him, your bare chest pressed to his, and he walks the two of you a few feet across the backroom, his bare feet making duck-like waddling sounds against the concrete floor. As sensual as this is supposed to be, you giggle, kissing his cheek for the first time. And oh my god. They’re so incredibly soft. They swell up when he smiles, grinning as you continue pressing tiny pecks all over both his cheeks.
“I’m about to fuck you dense and you’re babying me?”
You continue smothering him in kisses, not caring if his words actually kind of frighten you… because how much denser could you possibly become after this? The thought doesn’t stick for long, as you’re suddenly being pinned back against one of the tall VHS-shelves. It’s cold against your spine, and you gasp as the wood presses harshly against your skin.
And yet again — you’re caged in. Oh no… you’re trapped beneath Jeon Jungkook, his body flush against you, the hard line of his cock now pressed hot between your legs… oh no, how awful.
You’re still dripping for him, and you swear you can feel your slick smear across his skin as he shifts. Because he leans in, his mouth immediately latching onto your neck again. And as his mouth works you over, he slowly puts you down, without any tremble in his arms, without any struggle whatsoever, until your bare feet meet the floor.
At this height, you have to get on your tip-toes if you want Jungkook to continue his kisses down your neck — so you do. You lift your heels off the floor and invite his mouth, his mouth which softly presses just beneath your ear. He drags his lips down the line of your throat until you’re tilting your head back to give him more. But then his mouth opens, and he starts sucking, tongue and teeth coming into play as he bruises the skin above your collarbone.
You inhale a soft gasp or moan, you have no idea, and you subconsciously arch your back off the shelf, your hips nudging against his abdomen.
He groans against your skin, and shifts his grip, suddenly losing all the strength he has used to hold himself back. His tattooed arm slides under your thigh, lifting one leg up and hooking it over his forearm. The stretch of it opens you up for him completely, your core exposed, flushed and needy. He reaches between your bodies with his other hand, wraps his fingers around the base of his cock, and lines himself up.
“Ah—Kook.” Your stomach flips, and your nails drag against his shoulders.
The head of him is nestled right at your entrance, obscenely thick, already slick from both the teasing from earlier and the precum that leaks from him. Just the feel of him has your walls fluttering for him, begging shamelessly. “Split me open.”
He groans against your neck, a guttural sound that comes from hearing you plead so submissively, wanting him to tear you apart with the width and length of his cock. Lifting his mouth from you skin, he looks down at where his cock presses into you, circling your swollen entrance with a sick grin on his face. The deep red of him disappears so beautifully inside you, causing your head to loll back in pleasure-pain. As his tip retracts from you again, your walls clench around nothing, and you breathe out his name, making Jungkook look up at you, lock his eyes with yours.
“Hold onto me,” is all he says, before slowly pushing into you — agonizingly slow.
Your breath stills in your lungs the moment the thick crown of his cock starts to breach you, stretching your entrance around him. The pressure is immediate, he’s so big that your muscles clench without permission, trying to accommodate him. But you arch your back further off the shelf, shoving yourself further onto his cock as he’s still not even halfway through yet.
“Fuuck,” he grits with his jaw clenched, eyebrows knotted, eyes locked on where your bodies melt togheter. “You’re so tight—jesus.” He only sinks in an inch more, and still, your breath hitches like it’s being pulled from the base of your spine. You might’ve asked for him to split you open, but now that he actually might, your vision blurs and your mouth falls open.
His hand slips from your thigh to your hip, and he uses the hold to pull you down, just a little, just enough to sink another inch into you — then he holds you there. He pants like a madman, almost going cross-eyed from the unbelievable tightness of your heat, the way you already clench and pulsate around his cock, so un-accustomed to the width of him.
“Shit—okay, ready?” he asks, eyes flicking up to meet yours. They’ve gone completely dark now, swallowed by his black pupils, and there’s a strange, pleading look to him. You’ve never seen this in him, the way his eyebrows crease high on his forehead, the way he nods at you for permission. It sends a wave of pleasure through you, and your walls start fluttering uncontrollably around him, causing his head to tip back, his lips to part as soft gasps leave him.
You bite down on your bottom lip, nodding back at him. “R-ready when you are.”
The second your breathy confirmation slips past your lips, he exhales something between a moan and a curse and begins pushing in again, torturous inch by inch. The drag of his cock through your walls has your mouth falling open, head thumping softly against the shelf behind you. Because you finally feel every part of him, every thick ridge, every beautiful vein as he opens you in a way that’s probably going to ruin you forever.
Your eyes squeeze shut when he sinks deeper, but Jungkook’s threaded voice pulls them open again. “Eyes on me,” he pants, cupping your jaw his hand, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone as he holds your face. “Wanna see your pretty face when I’m bottomed out.”
Who the hell would say no to that? Probably someone who haven’t laid their eyes on Jungkook and his eyes which are so big you could easily get lost in them, even though you’ve spent years mapping them out.
So you watch him closely, watch the strain in his expression as he slowly feeds you more of his cock, his brows tights and his lips parted. You feel the tremble in his thigh, the flex of his arm beneath your leg, how even he is fighting to stay in control. He’s all flushed muscle and restraint, every inch of his body working to not wreck you… yet. He’ll get to it, don’t you worry.
But as of now, he keeps sinking deeper into you — and it feels fucking endless, the stretch so incredibly slow and agonizing that you might decent into madness soon. By the time he’s nearly fully inside you, your legs start shaking, your nails carving half-moons into his inked shoulder. “K-kook—” you pant, the snug fit of him starting to ache inside you. “You have to move.”
It surprises you when he moans loudly, shuddering against you while holding eye contact — something so extremely attractive that you almost come undone right then and there. He pants wildly, groaning as he tries entering you fully. “Almost there,” he whines, eyes glued to yours.
And then finally, finally, his hips press flush to yours. He bottoms completely out, something that has the two of you moaning out loudly in the small backroom.
His head falls to your shoulder, and you feel his sweat drip down from his forehead and onto your collarbone. You moan out yet again at the fullness, the way he presses impossibly deep, stealing all the air from your lungs. He stays still, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust, letting your walls pulse and quiver around him as he breathes heavily into the crook of your neck.
“Fucking fuck,” he mutters against your skin. His next words have him sounding like he’s in disbelief. “I’m actually gonna split you in half.”
You nod as your head lolls back, feeling stretched to the edge of your limits, but somehow you’re burning for him, needing more from him. Because he doesn’t move yet, he savors the way your body molds around him, his nose nudging your neck as his lips brushes over your skin with shaky exhales. And he prepares himself to pull out.
When he does, it’s only an inch, but he thrusts right back in with a quiet growl, grinding his hips into yours — his abdomen rubbing beautifully against your clit. You whimper, back arching as the motion drags along your inner walls. And just like this, the head of him nudges at the sweet spot buried deep inside you, causing your moans to die in your throat and your core to clench around his cock.
“Found it on the first fucking try,” he chuckles, biting down on the soft skin of your shoulder when your spasming tries milking him for every drop he’s got. “Shit, just like that.”
You’re barely able to find your voice as he’s pressed heavily against your g-spot. “K-kook—more please—”
He needs no more encouragement, because as the words leave you, Jungkook starts setting a rhythm. It starts out slow, letting you feel all his girth with every stroke. His cock drags out of you almost completely before sliding back in, every inch punching a moan out of both your lungs. You’re equally lost in pleasure, him panting against your neck, you melting with the shelf.
His arm trembles beneath your thigh, and as he breathes out a quick breath, he decides to pick up the pace.
“Yes, r-right there—oh my god,” you ramble mindlessly as his thrusts grow sharper. You can hear the wet, obscene sounds of him fucking into you, your slick coating him, dripping down both your thighs. The shelf behind you shakes with every thrust, VHS tapes toppling onto the floor, forgotten as the two of you moan uncontrollably with pleasure.
You’re a fucking mess — crying out over his shoulder, your body bouncing with every stroke, and he’s right there with you, his voice raw in your ear. “It’s good we didn’t do this earlier,” he grunts, his nose scrunching with every rapid thrust. “I’d be doing this all day—and you’d be fucking limp by now.”
The hand on your hip snakes between your bodies, and somehow he finds your clit even without looking. Two of his fingers press against you, working tight circles against the swollen bundle of nerves, slick from your arousal, his mouth brushing the edge of your jaw as his cock drives rapidly inside you. It’s almost animalistic, the way he’s handling you, the sounds he produces, the sounds of his hips slamming into you and the wetness that coats his dick. You’re being taken apart in degrees.
You can fucking feel him in your ribs, if that’s even possible, the weight of him in your belly — and all of it is spiraling higher and higher with every pass of his fingers over your clit. It doesn’t help that you feel your tits pressing so tightly against his plump and delicious chest, that you feel him kissing your throat, open-mouthed and desperate, licking and sucking on your skin. You’re being stimulated at every end, and it feels like you’re about to light on fire.
“Yes—yes—yes—god yes—” The words coming out of you just fall off your tongue as your mind is clouded, thinking about nothing but the feel of his cock against your g-spot and his fingers rubbing your clit. You’ve been teased for so long that you’ve entered a strange, delirious state, not even caring about how desperate and needy you sound. “Fuck me just like that, Jungkook—ah—oh god—”
You cry out, choking on your words as his cock slams into you, the unbearable length of him punching into the spot that makes your vision go white.
“Shit—you’re gonna cum,” Jungkook grits out against your collarbone, almost as if it’s a revelation. His hand on your clit moves in sloppy motions, because he’s simply just trying to push you over the edge, pinching the swollen bundle of nerves between two fingers, rubbing lazily over it. “Holy f-fuuck, yeah—fucking soak me.”
It’s like you’ve entered the gates of heaven, or something in the likes of it — because you never knew such pleasure could ever exist. His cock hits your sweet spot so perfectly with every erratic thrust, his fingers working you open like your release is the only thing Jungkook wants right now… which it kind of is.
So who are you to hold back?
The coiling pleasure in your stomach is almost overbearing now, and you can’t seem to produce any words, just sound, just breathy moans that Jungkook immediately swallow with a deep kiss. When he rolls his tongue into your mouth, you almost choke, unprepared for the sensation. You taste the sweat that’s dripping from his upper lip, and somehow it’s enough to send you over the edge.
“Oh my god—I’m cumming—oh my god, Jungkook—don’t stop—”
You clench and pulsate viciously around his cock, gasping for air as the euphoria of your orgasm takes ahold of you and causes your vision to wipe out. Your hands move to his hair, tugging on the dark and sweaty strands as he continues to fuck himself into you again and again and again. It’s absolutely unbearable, right as your orgasm hits you, you somehow lose your consciousness. Your thighs start trembling uncontrollably, the shake so extreme that the leg which is not help up in his arms actually gives out, completely overpowered by his size and speed.
“Oh fuck—” Jungkook immediately hooks your limp leg over his arm, holding onto your ass, trying to keep you upright. He repositions, lifting you with a tiny hop, his arms wrapping around you, one right around your waist, the other in between your shoulder blades, pressing your dead body flush against him. His cock is still buried deep inside you, and his thrusts slow down, reaching deeper and deeper inside you as your body lies weightless in his arms. Your head has fallen to his shoulders, your fingers are tangled and unmoving in his hair, and all you’re able to do is breathe against him. “Are you—are you good?” Jungkook asks, pressing a reassuring kiss to your shoulder.
“Y-yes—I just—” your voice comes out shaky, but you try clearing your head. And that is for the sole purpose of holding out, keeping him inside you with a deep need to feel him cum — to feel the thick ropes coating your walls and clinging to you, seeping out of you once he pulls out. “—I need your cum.”
Jungkook chuckles, biting down on your skin. He starts caressing the skin between your shoulder blades with the pad of his middle finger, just as lazy strokes as the ones of his cock. Although lazy, you still feel the burn of him, wincing every time he goes too deep, or even deep at all.
“You’ll get my cum, alright,” he purrs, nudging your head to face his, stealing a kiss from your swollen lips. “Can you stand?”
You only shake your head.
“Alright, then—” He smiles against the next kiss, not even closing his eyes. “Get on your knees. Wanna cum in that pretty mouth.”
Oh my god — roundabout. You might be a bit sad that he won’t paint your walls with his cum, but the thought of tasting him on your tongue almost gives your body new life. It takes a second for your muscles to respond, but he’s already helping you get down, his hands guiding your legs and knees on the floor. The loss of his cock is a sharp ache, well, a deep sting actually, but it’s replaced by something else entirely when you’re all the way down on the floor, looking up at his tall, bare and sweat-covered frame.
His cock stands proud before you, glistening with your slick, twitching in the open air. He fists himself once, twice, brushing his thumb over the tip, spreading both your and his arousal over his length. You can tell he’s close, incredibly so, as he’s swollen, leaking constantly — something that has your mouth watering.
“Open up,” he demands with a gentle voice, moving closer to you.
You do just as he says, mouth parting obediently, tongue falling out slightly to meet him. He brushes the tip along your tongue first, letting your taste the mix of both of you. And as you want him to break, as you’re so desperate for his cum, you stick your tongue out furthermore, circling the head of him, flicking over the slit gently, teasing before your lips wrap around him.
“Ohhfuuck, just like that,” he moans hoarsely, and his hands go to your head, cradling it while his eyebrows knot high on his forehead. He tastes of you, of himself — it’s strange and addictive. But he hasn’t exactly shrunken in the past minute, so just getting him down your throat is a task so hard tears immediately brim your eyes. A sight which apparently has Jungkook losing his mind.
“Fuck—are you crying on my dick?” he asks in disbelief, moaning uncontrollably when you hollow your cheeks to take him in deeper. You slide your lips down his shaft, hands wrapping around what won’t fit — because he is quite frankly that big. Jungkook’s whole body shudders. “You look so fucking beautiful.”
You try hiding the fact that you flush immediately at his words, and let one of your hands tug on his balls, playing gently with them as you suck him as deep as his cock can go. It’s a straining task, and you unfortunately gag when you take him in too deep, moaning around him — the vibrations traveling straight through Jungkook’s spine.
He looks down at you with wild eyes, sweat clinging to his temples, and as you cradle one of his balls, you feel it tense. He’s stupidly close.
His hips jerk forward without warning, letting you know just how close to the edge he really is. The sound he makes is so beautiful, so sinful, that you kind of wish you were recording this — so you could pocket his moan, keep it with you wherever you go. His eyes never leave you, and he’s sweating and panting like what you’re doing to him actually makes him lose his mind.
“F-fuck, peach—your mouth—shit,” Jungkook pants, his voice torn open and uneven, one hand slipping down from your cheek as you suck him deeper. “You’ve got some fucking mouth—ah—”
Your eyes are brimming with tears now, real ones, from the sheer stretch and effort of taking him. Your jaw aches, throat tight around the thick girth of him, your lips puffy and soaked. But you don’t stop — not even when it hurts your throat so bad that the unshed tears finally fall down your cheeks. Because you need to feel him cum.
And judging by the frantic way his hips twitch against your mouth, the way his hand tightens in your hair — you believe he might be close to losing it. And you’re right by that.
“Shit—shit—I’m gonna cum—fuck, baby, I’m—”
Both your hands move to the back of his thighs, digging your nails gently into his flesh, shoving your head all the way down his cock, not caring that your throat hurts so bad you could scream. Because when you look up at him, when you see his eyes roll to the back of his head, see the way sweat runs down his temple, down his plump chest, there’s no stopping you.
His entire body shudders. “I’m cumming—baby, I’m cumming—holy fuck—”
With a deep, desperate moan, he spills into your mouth, thick and hot ropes of cum that hit the back of your throat before you can blink. You moan around him, swallowing as fast as you can, not wasting a single drop.
Jungkook doesn’t stop twitching. He pulses again and again, his free hand trembling on your jaw as he now watches you gulp down on his cum, watches as both his release and your spit seeps from the corners of your mouth and down your chin. He watches in complete awe. Would you look at that? You’ve got the Jeon Jungkook, your fucking childhood crush, your fucking real time crush, wrapped around your finger. Or wrapped around your tongue, would maybe be better wording here.
“Fucking look at you,” he moans, voice unhinged. “How are you real?”
You keep going, soft sucks to his oversensitive tip, tongue tracing along the underside of his shaft where a veins throbs beneath the skin. You want him clean, completely. So you don’t stop until there’s nothing left, until his cock is wet with only your spit, your tongue dragging slowly along every vein.
He shudders, twitches again, and suddenly retracts from you, leaving your throat sore and hurting. “Stop—stop,” he pants franticly, suddenly getting down on his knees before you, almost meeting your height. Without further notice, he wraps both hands around your waist, pulling you flush to him, closing the distance with a sloppy kiss. “Fuck—you’ll be the death of me.”
You’ve never had a guy do this — kiss the mouth that just swallowed ropes own his own cum. His tongue rolls into your mouth, not even caring about the bitter aftertaste of his release, moaning against you as you press your tits against his sweaty chest.
So there you are, on the floor of the backroom, VHS tapes scattered across the floor alongside all your clothes, making out heavily as if you haven’t just ruined each other completely.
“Think you can walk outta here?” Jungkook laughs against your lips, not even letting you answer before his tongue breaches your mouth again.
You gasp for air, running your fingernails down his chest, leaving white marks all over him that will certainly turn red in a moment. “Probably not.”
“Too bad then,” he breathes, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your neck, eating you up. “I’ll have to carry you everywhere now. What a drag,” he teases, not leaving as much as an inch of your skin untouched by his lips.
“Oh no,” you mock, trembling in his arms as his kisses find the sensitive spot of your neck.
“Can I ask you something weird?” he breathes against your collarbone, licking and sucking on your skin as he waits for your answer. You only nod above him, eyes shutting close as he lavishes you in wet kisses. His next words come out low, almost unnoticeable, but your eyes widen the moment you hear them.
“Do you think it’s possible to fall in love with someone over a blowjob?”
