writing an apocalypse ym fic rn and I had every intention of it being 6k MAX. 6k in and i’ve not even reached the main climax of the story. How to keep stories brief lmk ㅠㅠ
you put on lace for him—only for him—just so he can rip it off like it was never yours to wear.
you thought you could tease, push, provoke.
but he doesn’t play. he owns. and by the time he’s done, you’re bent over every surface he claims you on—marked, used, and right where you belong.
GENRE fluff, smut
WARNING sluty oc, testing jk's patience, jungkook hard dom, seriously hes posessive, obsessive, he spoils oc rotten, his love for oc borders on crazy love and maniac, oc bites jungkook, she's brat, jungkook slaps oc in the face, oops. but oc does like it, they're both madly in love, its crazy, oc's jk cocksleeve, sorry not sorry, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, missionary, doggy, blowjob, eating coochie, making out, jk's big and muscular meanie, jk lowkey has twisted love, possesive-obsessive behaviour
PAIRING bf!dom jk × gf! sluty sub reader
p.s literally rewrote this more times than i refreshed my feed today just to ghost-post it loll. tried a whole new writing style n it kinda felt like my brain got hijacked by some alt timeline me?? highkey unhinged. slay either way. might delete later, idk.
you smooth the lingerie up your thighs slowly, the silk catching on warm skin, soft like a secret. the room is quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and some sexy playlist you forgot to turn off earlier. your phone buzzes somewhere near the sink. ignored.
it’s black. lacy. barely-there. and it fits like it was made to be ruined.
you shift a little in the mirror, tug at the hem, then laugh under your breath when it rides right back up. he’s going to lose his mind. probably won’t even make it to the dinner you’ve laid out on the coffee table. knowing him? he’ll see you, blink once, and suddenly you’re flat on your back with your thigh over his shoulder.
you try not to think about it too hard.
he’s not home yet, but he’s close—you always know when he’s near. like how the air gets thicker, or how your heartbeat just knows to misbehave. you glance at the door. nothing. not yet.
still, you lean into the mirror, tilt your head, finger-comb your hair back, and imagine his voice in your ear already, low and smug: “missed me?”
ugh. annoying.
ugh. so hot.
you pull the straps into place, check yourself one last time, then pad barefoot over to the couch and sprawl out like temptation herself.
his wine’s poured. your legs are bare. your smirk is locked and loaded.
he better walk in soon. because this isn’t just dressing up anymore—this is war paint.
and you don’t plan on losing.
you decide to up the stakes.
the leather couch groans when you rise, its creak chasing after your bare thighs like it wants you to stay where it’s safe, warm, waiting. but you’re already moving—padding across the apartment with a purpose that feels more like a confession.
your shared bedroom is quiet. too quiet.
you open the wardrobe and find it instantly: his shirt. the black one. soft and worn and still clinging to the scent of his cologne, like he never really left. like he’s still wrapped around you, even when he’s miles away.
you press it to your face and inhale.
god. you don’t mean to do it. you’re not trying to look like some deranged girlfriend who sniffs her man’s clothes like a fix—but maybe you are. maybe you’ve crossed that line already. because the truth is cold and needy:
you don’t know who you are without him.
he’s in everything—your decisions, your dreams, your voice when you speak. you call him before you even breathe sometimes. you want him in your bloodstream, tangled in every little thought. he keeps you like a pretty little secret wife, tucked away from the world’s wandering eyes, and you… you’ve never felt safer.
you try not to think about the way he looks these days — shirtless gym selfies that make your brain short-circuit, arms thick enough to cage you in and keep you there. god, those arms. wrapped around your neck, voice low and filthy against your ear, hand already sliding lower to—
no. not now.
you’re supposed to be mad at him.
you came here to remind yourself why.
because in the beginning, it wasn’t like this. back then, he kept you tucked away like some kind of secret — something delicate. forbidden. he was older. way older. it made sense. but still. it stung.
and then things changed. or maybe you changed. maybe you let him too far in. now, it’s not just love — it’s need. it’s dependency. you don’t make a decision without him. don’t feel whole when he’s not around. he provides, protects, keeps you shut away from the world like a little wife with too-soft hands and eyes that only ever look at him.
and it’s terrifying how much you like it.
you were supposed to grow slowly. that was the plan. he said he wanted to know you — really know you — piece by piece. and he meant it. those early days, all trembling kisses and awkward fumbling, felt sacred somehow. you weren’t new to love, but you were new to this. to being understood.
he never needed a map to find the places on your body that made you gasp. he just knew. like he’d studied you in a past life.
and the scariest part? he never took more than you could give.
he could destroy you, and you know that.
but he never does.
and maybe that’s what breaks you most of all — the way he holds back. the way he lets you choose him, over and over again.
because the truth is, he knows you — really knows you. better than you know yourself most days. your moods, your silences, your little tells. he knows the way your fear hides behind stubbornness, the way your body leans into touch even when your mind pretends not to need it. and when he looks at you — really looks — it’s with that steady, unreadable gaze that makes your skin flush, like he’s already seen every version of you and still wants more.
he never rushes. never loses control. even when he’s got you pinned to the nearest wall, breath hot at your ear, hands everywhere like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you — even then, he pauses. presses his lips to your temple, your shoulder, the inside of your wrist like a silent vow. mine, without ever saying it. you grip his shirt, dig your fingers into his hair, and he lets you take what you need — but it’s always on his terms. always just enough to leave you aching for more.
lately though, you’ve started to notice it — the way he watches you more carefully. the way his grip tightens slightly when someone else’s name slips too easily off your tongue. he never says much, just files it away, jaw set like stone. you call it teasing. he calls it not funny.
a few nights ago, his friends texted him about going out. you asked if you could come, half-joking, half-needy, not sure which part of you was talking louder. he didn’t answer right away — just looked at you, head tilted slightly like he was trying to read your thoughts again. then he picked up his phone, told them to change the location. somewhere nicer. somewhere you could go too. he didn’t ask if you wanted to come after that — he just said, you’re coming with me.
that night, you tried to stay close without being obvious about it. the bar was warm, dimly lit, the table crowded with noise and conversation. he sat beside you, engaged, charming in that quiet way of his — voice low, measured, never needing to compete. and still, even when his eyes weren’t on you, his hand never left yours. rested on the table, fingers wrapped around your smaller ones like a reminder. thumb tracing the same line on your wrist over and over again — grounding, possessive, like he needed you to know you weren’t going anywhere.
and when one of his friends laughed a little too hard at something you said, leaned in a little too close — you didn’t even catch it. but he did. and the next moment, his hand was at the back of your neck, warm and slow, thumb pressing just beneath your ear as he leaned in, lips brushing the shell of it.
“careful, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice too low for anyone else to hear, “you smile like that at someone else, and i might forget how polite i’m trying to be.”
you laughed, breath catching in your throat — because he wasn’t joking. and god, you didn’t want him to be.
you spent the rest of the evening trying to be good. behaved. polite. like that would somehow help you keep it together — even though the way his body looked tonight made that damn near impossible. tall and broad, his shirt pulling tight over muscle and years of discipline. he always looked good, but something about tonight… something about him in this setting, surrounded by boys pretending to be men, made you ache.
his age wasn’t just a number — it was a presence. a confidence. a danger. and yet, every now and then, he’d let it slip — that little flicker of doubt behind his eyes when the topic came up. when he’d try to brush it off, half-joking that maybe you needed someone your own age. someone who “got you.” someone who could give you the same kind of freedom you gave him.
those were the nights you’d spend hours talking him down, every word soaked in frustration and love. giving him a thousand reasons why that idea — that stupid, insulting idea — didn’t just miss the mark, it broke your heart. as if you’d ever trade him for someone softer, someone safer, someone who wouldn’t know what to do with a girl like you even if they tried.
you barely noticed when your hand moved. just the smallest shift, palm grazing over the stiff denim stretched tight across his thigh. your fingertips danced along the seam, up, then down, a slow drag of nail and skin and something shameless. his jeans were already clinging too tight, hugging hips and thighs built from years in the gym, and for a second you imagined what it would take to get them off of him. what it would feel like when he finally snapped.
he didn’t even flinch.
no sharp glance. no warning. just cleared his throat once, low and dry, gave a short apology to the friend across from him, and took a slow sip of beer. the only hint he gave was in the tight grip around the bottle, the way his jaw ticked just once before he murmured something about needing the bathroom and stood up without another word.
you stayed behind for a minute — maybe two — trying to act normal, even though your heart was thundering in your chest. and then your phone buzzed.
come to the back exit.
no emoji. no nickname. no warmth. you knew that tone. and it didn’t mean anything good.
you’d been pulling strings all night. testing him. waiting to see when he’d snap. it wasn’t about punishment — not really — it was about pushing. about trying to break that steel trap of control he wore like armor. he’s going to crack, you thought, he has to.
that was the plan. and now it was working.
you smoothed your dress, whispered some excuse to the table, and stood. legs shaky, breath caught halfway between fear and excitement. because if you were right — if tonight really was the night — then you weren’t walking out that door, you were walking straight into the storm you’d spent weeks calling down.
the evening ends with a lesson — one you didn’t expect, but probably needed. because tonight, jungkook doesn’t just touch you like he wants you — he touches you like he loves you. like he’s trying to show you, without saying it out loud, that he never meant to break you — only keep you.
he kisses you like he’s been starving for days. like he’s been waiting too long to taste you again. his hands are everywhere, greedy and warm, dragging you back against the wall for the second — or maybe third — time tonight. you can barely breathe, barely think, because it’s him, and it’s this, and it’s starting to feel like more than just heat.
he kisses like he’s made of contradictions — gentle, almost reverent one second, and then suddenly wild, almost desperate. there’s tension in his jaw, in his shoulders, in the way he pulls at your waist like he doesn’t know how to stop wanting you.
you wait, breath held, eyes on the door — and then you hear them. the keys. the lock turning.
“baby girl,” comes his voice from the hallway. “i’m home.”
his tone is way too light. too clean. no exhaustion. and that alone makes your heart race, because you planned for this. everything has to go right. so you shift on the couch, stretch your legs out slowly, deliberately. you know he’s going to see.
you hear the soft, heavy steps. he’s still in his work suit. of course he is.
he walks into the room—
and freezes.
your breath catches. your eyes lock. his gaze drags over you like a goddamn wildfire, dark and sharp and way too focused. you know that look. you know he’s already guessed what you’re doing, because you can’t even stay sitting. his stare alone makes you rise to your feet like you have to.
“fuck— baby doll,” he breathes. “is that my shirt?”
and then he’s on you.
he’s in your space, on your skin, wrapping his stupidly large hands around your waist and lower, dragging you up against him like he hasn’t seen you in weeks. he inhales you, nose to your throat, and you swear your knees buckle.
his lips crash into yours, biting, sucking, devouring. he holds your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, mouths you so hungrily your teeth knock together, but you don’t care. you can’t care.
your legs wrap around his waist before you even realize you’ve jumped, and his hands slide up your thighs, over your hips, everywhere, fast. his tongue pushes into your mouth with a low, broken groan like he’s tasting something he missed too long — like every sound you make belongs to him.
you don’t even remember how the air got knocked out of your lungs — only that one second he’s kissing you, and the next he’s got you pinned against the wall like he owns the damn space. and maybe he does. maybe he owns you, too. because right now, with the way his hand’s gripping your jaw, tilting your head so you can’t look anywhere but at him — it’s like you don’t exist outside his world.
“you really thought i wouldn’t notice, huh?” he growls, voice low, ragged. his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, slow, then slips into your mouth like he needs to feel the heat of you. “sitting here looking like a fucking fantasy — wearing my shirt, legs wide open like a present you knew i’d unwrap.”
your breath hitches, but you don’t answer. you can’t.
“look at me when i talk to you.”
you do. and it’s like getting hit.
because his eyes — god, his eyes — they’re dark, stormy, furious. not angry at you, no. something worse. something possessive. obsessive. eyes that say mine in a thousand different languages. eyes that say he’ll burn down the world if you ever give this to anyone else.
“do you even get what you do to me?” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours now, breath hot against your lips. “i come home from work, all fucking day thinking of you. your mouth. your skin. that sweet little noise you make when you can’t take it anymore—”
he drags his hand down your body — slow, reverent, like he’s punishing himself just touching you.
“i’m too old for this shit. too old to be this fucking gone over some little brat who can’t even sit still long enough to let me worship her.”
his words hit somewhere low, somewhere dangerous, and you whimper before you can help it — which only makes it worse. better. both.
“yeah,” he breathes, lips brushing yours. “that sound. i dream about it.”
his hand slides beneath the shirt — his shirt — and the growl that escapes his throat is something feral. raw. like your body is a wound and he needs to touch it just to stop the ache in his own chest.
“next time you wear my clothes, you better be ready to explain to me who the fuck you belong to.”
you barely get the words out. “you.”
he kisses you again, but it’s not just a kiss. it’s a warning. a promise. a threat wrapped in devotion.
“damn right it’s me.”
his hands are everywhere. gripping your ass, palming your thighs, slapping and squeezing like he can’t decide if he wants to ruin you or worship you. and maybe it’s both. maybe it has to be both. because every time he touches you, it’s like something in your brain shuts off — and all that’s left is him. his hands, his body, his voice in your ear, low and filthy.
you want to climb him. scratch down his back, wrap your legs around his waist, ride him into whatever twisted little fantasy your mind’s been chewing on since you first saw him. because if he’s walking sex — and fuck, he is — then you’re ready to lie down and let him move you however he wants. bend, break, bite — it doesn’t matter. you’ll take it.
but he doesn't rush. no — he’s slow with you. dangerously slow. still kissing you like he’s starved, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you — but his hands don’t stop. they roam. mapping your body like it’s a goddamn battlefield and he’s staking a claim on every inch. his voice, deep and vulgar, fills your ear with filth. stuff that makes your thighs press together. stuff that makes your heart clench and your stomach drop. and it only makes it worse.
one second you’re pressed against the wall, trying to breathe through the heat — the next, he’s got your leg in one hand and your thigh in the other, lowering you slow onto the couch like you’re breakable porcelain — or something he’s about to snap in half.
and then he stops.
everything goes quiet. like time fucking halts.
his eyes — god, his eyes — they burn down your body like they’ve got teeth. hungry. full of heat so sharp it makes your skin tingle. he settles between your legs, big hands gripping your thighs, forcing them wider, like it’s nothing. like you’re his to open. his fingers press into the soft skin, slow and possessive, and you can’t stop the gasp that leaves your throat.
you bite your lip when he shifts forward, thick, solid, those powerfully built thighs wedging between yours like a warning and a promise all at once.
he leans down, voice dark and unhurried, lips brushing your ear.
“spread wider, baby. i’m not here to play.”
and you will — you do — because when it comes to him, there’s nothing you won’t give. nothing you won’t let him take.
his mouth crashes back to yours — no more softness, no more slow. he’s done pretending. his fingers tangle in your hair, rough and deliberate, yanking just enough to sting, just enough to make you whimper into the kiss.
you moan when he does it, because fuck — he’s never kissed you like this before. so hungry. so fucking dominant. but still in control. he always is. and that’s what makes it worse. better. unbearable.
“that what you wanted, bunny?” he mutters against your lips, breath hot, voice low like smoke in your lungs. “my needy little girl playing innocent, laying here dripping in my shirt like you didn’t plan this from the fucking start?”
his hand slips lower — past your stomach, past the waistband — and finds you.
wet. throbbing. aching for him.
his fingers pause there, like he’s savoring it.
he groans, deep in his chest — a dark, vulgar sound that shoots straight through your spine.
“fuckin’ hell.”
he drags two fingers through your slick and then pulls them back up just to watch the mess. “and this—this is you pretending to be shy? dirty little thing.”
your hips jerk up, chasing his touch, and that’s all it takes — he shoves his hand back between your thighs and stays there this time, teasing your clit with cruel precision, like he knows how to keep you just on the edge.
“yeah. yeah, that’s it. that’s what you wanted, huh?” he growls, mouth at your jaw now, biting hard enough to mark. “fuckin’ soaking for me like a bitch in heat.”
your eyes roll back. he presses harder.
“come on, babygirl. take it. you wanted my hands? you wanted this cock so bad you played dress-up and laid yourself out like a fuckin’ meal?”
you nod. you can't speak. he grins — slow, dangerous, proud.
“good,” he hisses, rubbing tighter, faster. “then shut up and come for me.”
and you do. just like that. because you always do when it’s him.
he doesn’t even give you a chance to recover. not a breath, not a beat. one second you're gasping under his touch, and the next—he’s grabbing your jaw, tilting your face up like you're something breakable he wants to break. not out of cruelty. out of need.
"mine," he growls, mouth brushing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “say it.”
you nod, but it’s not enough. his hand tightens, not painfully — just enough to make you focus, make you listen. like his voice isn’t already buried in your spine.
“fucking say it, bunny.”
"yours," you whisper, lips trembling. "i'm yours."
he smiles at that — but not soft. it’s the smile of a man right on the edge of insanity, like the confirmation just gave him permission to lose control. you feel it in the way he pushes you down — not hard, but with a strength that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.
he settles between your legs again, hands spreading your thighs like he’s opening a book he's read a thousand times and still can’t get enough of.
“gonna have you like this first,” he mutters, low and rough, kissing your stomach, your inner thigh. “just like this. laid out and open. so i can see every fucking twitch you make when i ruin you.”
you reach for him. desperate. shaking. and he groans — that sound he only makes when he’s really gone — grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head with one hand, his other gripping your hip like a warning.
“stay,” he snaps. “you don’t get to ride me yet. i get to have you the way i want you first.”
missionary — but nothing about it is soft.
he leans over you, chest heavy against yours, breath uneven, kissing you like he’s trying to pour himself into your mouth. his thrusts are slow, deep, controlled. like he’s deliberately torturing both of you. and every time you arch or cry out, he leans down and bites. your neck. your shoulder. your collarbone.
"you were made for this," he grits out. "for me. this fucking body—" he thrusts harder, lips at your ear, “—this mouth, these hips, these fucking sounds—i own them.”
and then he flips you. sudden. rough. his hand splayed across your lower back, pressing you into the cushions.
“you want it rough?” his voice is lower now, dangerous. almost tender in the way a storm calms right before it destroys everything.
“you get it rough.”
doggy — but it’s not just the angle, it’s the power. the way he grabs your hips, the way he curses under his breath like he’s in pain from how much he wants you. the way he pauses just long enough to run his palm down your back and whisper—
“still my girl, even like this? even when i fuck the thoughts out of your pretty little head?”
you nod again, breathless, but it’s not enough.
“say it.”
"still yours," you breathe, voice broken, wrecked. “always yours.”
he groans like he’s about to fall apart, forehead resting on your shoulder, hands trembling as he grabs your waist and holds you tighter.
“then i’m never letting you go,” he whispers, so raw it hurts. “never. i’ll lose my fucking mind before i watch anyone else touch what’s mine.”
you make the mistake of laughing.
just a little. breathless. high-pitched. bratty.
right after he pulls you back by the hips and shoves deep enough to make your spine curve like a bow — you laugh. and it’s not because you’re not wrecked — you are. it’s because you know he is, too.
"what’s so funny?" his voice drops an octave — like gravel dragging over ice.
you turn your head over your shoulder just enough to flash a smile, all teeth and sin.
“you sound like you missed me or something.”
he stills behind you.
and that silence—
fuck. you feel it.
his hand slides up your back, slow, then to your neck, then to your cheek—
and then he slaps you.
not hard enough to hurt. just hard enough to remind you.
your head snaps to the side and the sting blooms sweet across your skin. your mouth opens — breath caught between a gasp and a moan. he leans in close, chest to your back, palm still warm on your jaw.
"don’t get cute with me, bunny,” he growls, biting your earlobe between his teeth. “you want to act like a little fucking brat, i’ll treat you like one.”
you shiver. not in fear. in something else. something dirtier. your nails dig into the cushions. your teeth clench.
and when he pulls your head back by your hair, baring your throat — you turn just enough to bite his wrist.
hard.
not enough to really hurt him. just enough to test him. because you want it. you want him to snap.
his hand finds your throat again — squeezing, not choking — just enough pressure to make your eyes flutter.
and he does.
his laugh is low. sharp. dangerous.
“that how you want it, baby?” he hisses, dragging you up by your hair until your back’s against his chest. one arm locks around your waist, the other grabs your thigh, forces it open. “you want rough? you want to act like a feral little thing?”
his hand finds your throat again — squeezing, not choking — just enough pressure to make your eyes flutter.
“go ahead. fight me. fucking try.”
and you do.
you squirm. grind. push your hips back like you’re challenging him. and he takes it. loves it.
because even when you try to claw back control, he’s already won. he always does.
he shoves you forward again, flat against the cushions, then spreads your legs wider with his knee.
“don’t fucking move.”
his voice is calm now. terrifyingly calm.
like he’s already decided what he’s going to do with you. to you. and all you can do is take it.
he bends over your back, one hand snaking under your stomach to press you into the couch, the other dragging your face toward him so he can kiss you again — filthy, deep, teeth clashing.
his lips swollen from it. yours already bruised.
“you don’t get to win, baby,” he mutters, thrusting slow and deep, right against that place inside you that makes your whole body twitch. “you want to fight, go ahead. i’ll still fuck you stupid every single time.”
you moan something broken, and he smiles again — meaner this time.
“that’s what i thought.”
and when he leans in again — pressing his forehead to yours, breathing hard, his hand sliding up your body like he’s trying to carve the shape of you into his memory — he whispers it like a secret, like a curse:
“mine. no matter how much you bite. no matter how much you run. you’re mine.”
and you don’t argue.
you never do.
he pulls you back down on top of him like he owns your body — because fuck, at this point, he does.
your thighs straddle his hips, and his eyes rake up your body like he’s staring at his final fucking meal. not one he’s about to eat — one he’s about to devour. he leans back on the couch, broad chest rising slow, and slaps your ass once — sharp and loud.
"since you're so mouthy tonight," he mutters, eyes hooded and dark, “you can fucking ride it.”
you smirk, cocky for half a second.
he lets you. lets you think you’ve got power here.
but the moment you grind down onto him — slow, teasing — his hands shoot to your waist and snap you into place.
“don’t fucking play, baby,” he grits out, voice dangerous and deep. “you wanna act like a brat, you better take this cock like you earned it.”
you do.
you roll your hips, trying to push his buttons. trying to test him. but the way he watches you — like he’s five seconds from dragging you under him again — makes it hard to hold eye contact.
his hands grip your thighs, guiding you. controlling you, even from underneath.
you lean forward, press your palms to his chest, and bite his shoulder — hard enough to leave a mark.
and it’s like lighting a match.
his hand shoots up, grabs your throat, pulls you closer until your lips are inches from his.
"but after this — you're turning around, and i’m putting you in your fucking place."
and he means it.
you ride him until your legs shake, until your thighs burn and your hands clutch his chest like a lifeline. and the whole time, he talks you through it — slow, commanding, voice dragging along your skin like hot metal.
“look at you. fuckin’ perfect like this. flushed and needy and mine.”
you lean back, give him the full view — his hands flying up to your waist to hold you open, watching the way you move on him like he’s hypnotized.
but he doesn’t stay still for long.
the moment you so much as stutter — hips faltering from overstimulation — he moves.
grabs your hips. lifts you off. flips you without warning.
you’re facing away from him now — knees on either side of his thighs, palms flat on the couch — and his hands are already pulling you down onto him again, slow and deep.
reverse cowgirl. but not gentle.
he’s under you, but somehow still in control.
still setting the rhythm. still slapping your ass when you move too slow. still gripping your thighs, your hips, your waist like he’ll never let go.
"look at you," he grits, voice all gravel and lust. “can’t even keep it together for two minutes.”
he leans up, chest to your back now, mouth at your ear.
“but you’re still taking it. because you love it. you love being mine. being used like this. don’t you?”
you can’t speak. only nod. only cry out.
and he smiles. god, he smiles like you just confessed your sins to him and he’s about to make you pay.
“that’s right, bunny,” he breathes, lips dragging down your neck. “mine. no matter what way i fuck you.”
you’re gone.
limbs shaking, lips swollen, voice hoarse from how many times he’s already pulled you apart and made you beg. and still — he’s not fucking done.
he’s breathing hard, chest slick with sweat, body caging yours like he’s trying to burn you into the couch. he looks down at you like you’re art. like you’re bleeding gold. like he doesn’t know whether to worship you or destroy you.
“look at you,” he mutters, low and guttural. “all fucked out. can’t even move, can you?”
you try to answer. can’t. your mouth opens, but nothing comes.
he smirks — dark and slow — and leans in to kiss your cheek, your jaw, your neck. soft, almost sweet… until he bites.
“too bad,” he breathes against your skin. “’cause i’m still hard for you, baby. still starvin’. and you’re not done until i say you are.”
he moves lower. slides down your body like he owns every inch of it — because he does.
“legs up,” he growls.
you try. they barely lift. he chuckles, deep in his throat — half amused, half fucking feral — and guides them up himself, pushing your thighs to your chest like he’s unfolding his favorite meal.
“that’s it,” he whispers, eyes dragging over the mess between your legs. “look at this pussy. so fucked and sloppy — just how i like it.”
you whimper — overstimulated, brain foggy — but he doesn’t stop. doesn’t even slow down.
he spreads you open with both hands, just stares for a second. moaning under his breath like he’s high on the sight of you.
“look how she leaks for me,” he says, voice rough. “can’t believe this is mine. you’re mine. every fuckin’ inch.”
he dives in like he’s starving.
tongue heavy and slow, licking through your slick like he’s trying to memorize the taste. like he wants to ruin his mouth on you. he groans into you — deep and desperate — and your back arches before you can stop it.
you cry out — thighs trembling, hands flying to his hair — but he doesn’t stop.
he moans against your cunt like he’s in heaven. like he could die between your thighs and thank you for the privilege.
“fuckin’ addicted,” he growls, breath hot. “could eat you all night. you don’t even know how good you taste, do you? sweet little pussy, soaked for me.”
he doesn’t let up — mouth messy, relentless — dragging his tongue over every swollen inch, sucking your clit slow just to hear you sob.
your whole body jolts — spent, overstimmed — but his arms are locked around your thighs, holding you open like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.
“one more,” he whispers. “gimme one more, baby. i know you can. be good f’me. let me have it.”
you break.
again.
and he smiles.
pulls back just enough to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand, eyes glassy and wild.
his cock’s hard again — already — leaking at the tip and flushed dark. massive against his stomach. way too big for how soft you feel now, how used.
but he doesn’t hesitate.
he lifts you like nothing. like you're weightless. like you’re his little doll — wrecked and trembling in his arms.
“c’mere,” he mutters, voice thick. “ride it slow. nice and deep. let me feel this pretty pussy stretch around me again.”
you don’t even know if you can take it — but he’s not asking.
he guides you down onto him like it’s religion, groaning through clenched teeth as your walls squeeze around him.
“there she is,” he growls, jaw tight. “always fuckin’ takes me. even when she’s crying. even when she’s full. perfect little cocksleeve, aren’t you?”
you gasp, face buried in his neck, legs trembling on either side of his hips.
and still — he holds you close, one hand on your lower back, one wrapped around your throat like he needs to feel your pulse.
“mine,” he breathes. “every fuckin’ inch of you.”
he’s sitting back against the headboard now, legs spread wide like he’s expecting worship — and maybe he is. maybe he always is, when it comes to you.
his cock’s still flushed, hard, slick from how deep he’s been inside you all night. and he’s watching you — glassy-eyed, jaw tight, one hand lazily stroking himself while you kneel between his thighs like you were made for it.
you’re shaking — still wrecked, still ruined — but your eyes don’t leave his.
“go on, baby,” he says, voice low and rough. “show me what that pretty mouth was made for.”
you lean in slow, tongue flicking out to taste him — and his whole body jerks. the groan that rips from his chest is guttural, like it’s been clawing its way out of him all night.
he cups the back of your head, not forcing, just holding — fingers curling into your hair like he owns it.
"just like that. good girl.”
you hollow your cheeks. take him deeper. your spit’s already dripping down your chin, onto your chest — a mess, and he’s loving it.
he watches you through half-lidded eyes, pupils blown wide, like you’re the most obscene, most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“fuck, baby,” he growls, hips twitching up against your mouth. “you take it so good. so deep. little throat was made for me.”
you moan around him — can’t help it — and it makes him hiss, head falling back against the wall.
“oh, fucking hell, that noise—” he grits out, his other hand clutching the sheets like he’s about to lose his goddamn mind.
you try to keep going slow, controlled — but he’s done letting you.
his grip tightens.
and suddenly he’s moving his hips — slow at first, then deeper, harder — fucking up into your mouth like he owns your airway, like you don’t even need to breathe, just take.
“look at you,” he snarls. “fuckin’ drooling, tears runnin’ down your face — and still so hungry for it. you love this, huh? love when i use you like this.”
your eyes roll back, the mix of stimulation, the heat of him, the weight, the filth of his words — it’s overwhelming.
but you don’t stop.
your hands are on his thighs now, nails digging into muscle, holding on for dear life as he fucks your mouth with steady, brutal control.
and the whole time — he’s still talking.
“so tiny,” he mutters, staring down at you like he’s in a trance. “so fuckin’ small, and still takin’ it all. you’re my perfect fuckin’ toy, aren’t you?”
you gag once, and he groans — not in pity, not in concern — but in lust.
he pulls you back just enough for you to gasp in air, your lips red and spit-slick, eyes blurry with tears — and he’s cupping your face, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip like you’re the most precious, filthy little thing he’s ever touched.
“you good, baby?”
you nod — dazed, soaked, voice gone.
and he smirks, leaning in close, voice low and reverent.
“good. because i’m nowhere near done with you.”
you’re still in the bed.
messy sheets. ruined pillows. the smell of sweat and sex clinging to the air like a storm that hasn’t passed yet.
he’s over you — not fucking you anymore, just on you. arms around your waist, chest pressed to your back, face buried in your neck like he’s trying to crawl under your skin and live there.
his hand drags up your thigh. slow. lazy. possessive.
you shiver, still so sensitive, and he smiles — kisses the back of your neck, warm and a little smug.
“can’t stop twitchin’, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough and soft all at once. “did i fuck you that good?”
you hum. can’t speak yet. too gone. too warm.
he grins — teeth against your shoulder — and pulls you closer, like that’s even possible. like he hasn’t already fucked himself into your bones.
you don’t know how long it’s been when he finally gets up — but it’s him that moves first. not you.
he leans over the bed, bare chest lit in gold from the city skyline pouring through his windows, and grabs his phone.
you hear him mutter something — low and clipped — and then a moment later, the front door buzzes.
“got you food,” he says, climbing back in beside you like a goddamn jungle cat. “and champagne. the good shit. not that cheap shit you pretend to like when you’re trying to act independent.”
you shoot him a glare.
he laughs — full and filthy — and grabs your jaw, kisses you hard.
“you’re mine,” he murmurs, voice going dark again. “don’t need to act like you’ve got shit handled when i’m right here.”
he kisses you again — slower this time. tongue dragging over yours like he’s savoring it. like he doesn’t care about air, or time, or anything that isn’t your mouth.
his hand’s still on your jaw. the other’s dragging down your side, palming your ass, pulling you closer like he’s trying to remind you exactly where you belong.
“look at you,” he whispers. “fuckin’ flushed. all soft and sweet now. can’t even argue with me when you’ve got my cum still dripping outta you.”
you whine — weakly — and he laughs again, low and dangerous.
but when the food arrives, he goes soft again. but not in the way most people do.
he feeds you — literally. rips off pieces of steak with his fingers and feeds them to you like you’re his spoiled little plaything.
wipes your mouth with a napkin. pours you champagne like it’s water. keeps your legs across his lap the whole time.
when you try to get up, he grabs you by the waist and yanks you back down.
“sit. you’re done. i’m handling you now.”
like always.
when he finally gets you to the shower, you’re all hazy and flushed — barely even awake — and he still looks feral.
still hard.
still wanting.
but he doesn’t touch you. not yet.
he kneels in front of you while the water heats, hands on your hips, forehead pressed to your stomach like he’s grounding himself.
“don’t know what you’ve done to me,” he mutters. “swear to god, baby, i’ve never been this fucking gone over anyone.”
he kisses your stomach. your thighs. your knees.
then he stands — big, broad, dominant — and steps behind you, guiding you under the stream like you’re delicate. like you might break without him.
he soaps you up himself. gentle hands, but still controlling. still his.
he scrubs between your thighs, under your arms, behind your ears — murmuring under his breath the whole time.
“so fuckin’ soft,” he mutters. “look at you. can’t even keep your eyes open. my pretty little thing. i fucked you dumb, huh?”
you nod — brain-melted and glowing.
and he smiles. all teeth and love and filth.
his hand slides between your legs again, not touching — just holding you open while the water runs over your skin.
“you’re mine, baby,” he says, kissing your shoulder. “head to fuckin’ toe.”
and you know he means it.
you press your cheek to his chest. let him wrap his arms around you like a shield. like a wall.
you’re safe here. you’re his.
and he’s still not done loving you — even when he’s quiet.
showed up far too early for my uni induction day and i have NO clue where im supposed to be so im sat clueless on a bench watching namjoon edits hoping someone will find it alluring
starboy — jeon jungkook , series (completed) repost !!
summary: everyone assumes you two can't stand each other, but is that really true?
genre: smau + written , crack + fluff , frenemies to lovers
pairing: popular classmate!jk x class president!oc
warnings: uni au, english majors, yapping , nerds, mentions of sexual activities (sometimes) ,, that's pretty much it lmao,, js want them to be my silly nerdy characters!!! <3
originally started: 14 nov 2024 & ended: 31 dec 2024
out clubbing with my friends tonight and all i could think about was how much i’d rather be in bed watching bts compilations. had a drink in namjoons honor tho. hbd my king🫡🫡🫡
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