HIII im Belle, short for Isabella (i’m 19<3) isfp and don’t have preferred pronouns i’m okay with any Xb
Everything I write is pure fiction written for the enjoyment of fans using celebrities and characters as face claims. just fun and entertainment
REQUESTS ARE CLOSED
RULES 18+
What I will write:
I primarily write Rory Culkin content on this blog at this point though previously having been an even peters account. i try my best to answer all requests that i get, unless they go against things that i write. minors dni. assume its all nsfw
what i won't write:
incest, pedophilia (age gaps where one is a minor), scat play, watersports, race play, omegaverse, age play, puppy play
Evan Peters / AHS
Jimmy Darling A-Z
I've been here long before you.
Pretend pt1.
Pretend final part
"And I, You."
Scripted PART 1
Juliet.
Scotty Doesn't Know
Lemons
Prom?
Dear Tate,
Lip Ring
Dating Peter Maximoff
First Job/ Alex
Best Friends With The Evans PT.1
Best Friends With The Evans PT.2
Digested-Human Art blurb
Peter on Halloween
Rory Monohan NSFW Alphabet
First Kiss/ Peter Maximoff
Fantasy/ Kyle spencer
Hentai/ Tate Langdon
Dating Ralph Bohner
Confession/ Kit Walker
Quiet - Evan Peters
Rotten Apple (Kit Walker)
Rory Culkin
Clyde (Electrick Children)
Honey To The Bee
Meet Cute (mini-series) master list
Chris Kenton (Twelve)
Dating Chris Kenton
Gabriel (Gabriel)
Love Is A Gentle Thing (Gabriel 2014)
Dating Gabriel (NSFW)
Charlie Walker (Scream 4)
Friends For Now?
7 Minutes (Charlie Walker)
Movie Date (Charlie Walker)
School Dance (Charlie Walker) NSFW
Scott Bartlett (lymelife)
we'll Never Have Sex (Scott Bartlett)
First Date - Scott Bartlett
Marcus (Swarm)
Marcus HCs (swarm)
Mike (5lbs of Pressure)
Turn Me On (Mike 5lbs Of Pressure)
Possum (Welcome to Willits)
Puff Puff Pass (Possum)
MISC
Otis Milburn (link broken </3)
Eddie Munson
Glenn Rhee
Colin Shea
Min Yoongi Masterlist
G Dragon Masterlist
KPop Masterlist
saw this fanart on instagram and someone in the comments asked if it was a reference to a fanfic from 2022 on wattpad, they couldnt remember the name and now i wanna read that shit so please if anyone can help me!!! PLEASEEEE SEND IN YOUR HELP ASAP!! also probably meant to be at a jackson wang party of course with jackson being in the back of the first pic.
i’ve decided to give any requests that are collecting dust in my inbox to one of my friends who has a much smaller blog and you guys should check them out @stobitproductions
hi hi! i saw ur last post about looking for a fic similar to boyfriend hotline and its elite chat boy by @kookingtae !! i have this creator tagged on the bfh masterlist as well since it was what inspired it !! idk if i’m too late or not but yeah i hope u enjoy both fics! 🫶
hey everyone i desperately need to find a fic please someone help me it’s a fic very similar to boyfriend hotline they’re texts between jungkook and the reader where jungkook is a service provider and they sext i was on like part five and accidentally exited out of tumblr
they get super hot and have phone sex i can’t find it anywhere i just remember that it’s from 2021
Summary: On a field trip to Belize, two rival entomology students are forced to share more than just research notes when a booking mistake leaves them with only one bed. Between missed GPS signals, late-night confessions, and tangled sheets, they discover the line between competition and connection is thinner than they thought.
Pairing: classmates/group partners to lovers, Jungkook x reader
Themes: smut, fluff, angst, awkward reader, Jungkook being super reassuring, silly twist at the end
Word count: 9.2k
Jungkook had the highest grades in the class.
Well… not quite.
You were just above him by a fraction of a percent.
And if the way his jaw clenched whenever graded reports were handed back meant anything, he knew it.
That wasn’t the only reason things were tense between you, but it certainly didn’t help. Now here you were, two top students in your university's entomology program, jetlagged and sitting stiffly on opposite sides of a modest hotel room in Belize, pretending this arrangement was perfectly fine.
It wasn’t.
The air was thick with humidity and something unspoken — not quite rivalry, not quite resentment, not quite… something else. You weren’t sure what to call it.
The trip had been Professor Choi’s idea. Fieldwork in the tropics, hands-on specimen collection, rainforest immersion — all very career-making opportunities for young researchers. You’d been thrilled at first until you saw the room assignments taped to the inside of the shuttle windows and saw his name printed under yours.
Room 204:
Y/N
Jungkook
You both blinked at the list in silence. Said nothing. Said too much in that nothing.
And now here you were.
He sat at the desk by the window, scrolling through the trip itinerary on his laptop, one hand curled loosely around a reusable water bottle. You were on the bed, cross-legged with your own notebook balanced in your lap, pretending to revise tomorrow’s field notes but mostly just watching him from the corner of your eye.
He looked tired. His dark hair was still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends, and a faint flush lingered on his cheeks from the heat. The collar of his sleep shirt was askew.
You turned your gaze back to your page.
The silence stretched, uncomfortable. It wasn’t the kind of silence that grows out of familiarity — the easy, lived-in quiet that people share. This was sharp around the edges, brittle and full of unsaid things.
Jungkook cleared his throat. “You need the desk at all, or…?”
You glanced up. “No, you’re good.”
He nodded, then shifted in his chair. The legs scraped softly against the tile floor.
You were both trying to be polite — textbook academic composure. But it was like trying to build a bridge over a minefield. You were rivals, but not enemies. You were acquaintances, but not quite friends. And there’d always been something a little charged in the way he looked at you. As if he wasn’t sure if he wanted to outpace you or understand you. Maybe both.
You leaned back on your elbows, exhaling softly. “You packed the pinning kits, right?”
Jungkook glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah. Two of them. Yours is in the side pouch.”
“Thanks.” Not dry, not too much emotion.
Silence again.
He turned in his chair slightly, thumb tapping idly at the rim of his bottle. “You think we’ll get lucky with the beetle counts tomorrow?”
You smiled faintly at the ceiling. “If the rain holds off, maybe.”
More silence.
The distant hum of cicadas buzzed beyond the windows.
You closed your notebook slowly. “This is weird, right?”
He blinked. “What is?”
You motioned vaguely between you. “This. Us. Rooming.”
Jungkook laughed under his breath, almost sheepish. “Yeah. A little.”
You tilted your head toward him. “You’re not gonna kill me in my sleep to bump your GPA up or anything?”
He grinned, finally — teeth flashing, his earlier stiffness fading a little. “Only if your specimen count tomorrow is better than mine.”
You snorted. “So, absolutely then.”
And there it was. The first crack in the tension. Small, but real.
You both sat with it for a moment — the shared smile, the mutual acknowledgment that this was going to be weird, but maybe not unbearable.
You turned toward the bedside lamp. “Lights out?”
Jungkook nodded. “Yeah. Big day tomorrow.”
You clicked the lamp off, and the room fell into a hush, lit only by the soft blue glow of streetlights bleeding through the curtain.
You didn’t sleep right away. Neither did he.
The silence between you was louder now, pressed thin by the narrow space you shared — just one bed, too small for comfort, too close for denial. You were lying back to back, bodies angled to avoid touching, but you could feel him. The heat of him. The subtle shift of the mattress whenever he adjusted his position, trying not to disturb you.
You stared at the ceiling, eyes tracing patterns in the dark. Every breath felt calculated. Every inch of space felt borrowed.
Jungkook exhaled softly. “You awake?”
His voice was low, barely more than a murmur against the hum of the air conditioner.
You hesitated. “Yeah.”
Another beat passed. He didn’t say anything else.
Your fingers curled against the sheets, restless. You could sense him thinking — the same way you’d always been able to tell when he was working through something he didn’t want to admit out loud. You weren’t touching, but somehow, you felt too close. And not close enough.
The bed dipped slightly as he shifted again. You stared harder at the ceiling.
This was ridiculous.
“I’ll sleep on the floor tomorrow,” he said suddenly. Quiet. Like it had been weighing on him.
You turned your head slightly, but didn’t look at him. “Don’t be stupid.”
“It’s not—”
“It’s fine, Jungkook.”
More silence.
You closed your eyes and tried to breathe past the static building in your chest. It was just one bed. Just a hotel. Just a field study.
And tomorrow, the jungle awaited.
You were halfway to the bathroom with your crumpled bra in hand, clutching it like it was evidence in a crime scene, when his voice cut through the quiet.
“I noticed, by the way.”
You stopped dead in your tracks.
He didn’t look up right away, still chewing thoughtfully, but the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth said he knew exactly what he’d done.
Your heart dropped into your stomach. “Noticed what?” you asked too quickly, too defensively.
Jungkook finally raised his gaze to meet yours, and it was almost too casual—like he was trying hard not to make it a big deal.
“You took your bra off last night,” he said, as simply as someone pointing out it might rain later. “Figured it wasn’t on purpose, but I didn’t say anything. Didn’t wanna make it worse.”
Your face burned. Your entire body went still. You couldn’t even bring yourself to blink.
He set his fork down and leaned his head back against the side of the bed, looking up at you with that easy grin of his.
“I’ve got sisters. A mom. It’s not a big deal, Y/N. I’m not gonna make you sneak around and jump like you just committed a felony every time you need to breathe comfortably.”
He laughed softly, like he was genuinely amused, not mocking you. Not even a little. Just… at ease with you, even in your most flustered moment.
“I mean,” he added, glancing back down at his tray, “you’ve seen me shirtless, what, like twenty times? And I’m pretty sure I woke up drooling. So really, we’re even.”
You finally managed to exhale, your fingers tightening around the bra in your hand. The tension started to fade from your shoulders, embarrassment slowly melting into reluctant laughter.
“Still,” you mumbled, stepping backward toward the bathroom, “could’ve let me think I got away with it.”
He smirked and took another bite. “Where’s the fun in that?”
You had a spoon clenched between your teeth, a cold scrambled egg half-forgotten as you tried to wrestle your field notebook into the front pocket of your backpack. The zipper caught—again—and you cursed under your breath, juggling between tugging it loose, checking the time, and trying not to spill the instant coffee you hadn’t even touched yet.
“Shit,” you muttered, toeing your hiking boots on at the same time.
Across the room, Jungkook had been quietly slipping sunscreen into his own pack, but the way his eyes flicked up told you he’d been watching you struggle for a while now.
“Hey,” he said, already moving toward you before you could huff your next breath. “I can do this while you eat.”
You looked up at him, egg still stuck between your teeth, brow furrowed.
“Seriously,” he said, reaching for your pack and sliding it effortlessly away from your lap. “Don’t worry. They can’t leave us. We’re the two most promising young minds in this entire doomed trip.”
He was grinning. A soft, crooked grin that barely hid how much he liked helping you.
You let out a breath—sharp, surprised, grateful—and slumped back into the chair like you hadn’t realized how tense you’d been until he said something.
He chuckled at the way your body deflated, like a balloon finally allowed to let go of all its panic. “There she is,” he murmured. “Breathing again.”
You mumbled a sarcastic thank you through a mouthful of cold toast, and he only laughed harder, crouched by your bag, hands moving with the kind of quiet precision you always admired in him. Still barefoot, hair a mess, sleeves pushed up. Still calm, even when you were a storm.
You watched him for a second too long before returning to your breakfast. Something in your chest shifted.
You popped the last bite of toast into your mouth, chewing slowly as you reached for your belt and clipped it around your waist. It took a second for your fingers to work—still stiff with leftover adrenaline from the morning rush—but you managed to fasten it snug over your shorts.
“Can you double-check my pack?” you asked, mouth half full, motioning toward the backpack Jungkook had just finished organizing. “Make sure I didn’t forget anything? I always forget something.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just gave you a look over his shoulder—brows raised, amused—and walked his fingers over the zipper before unfastening it again.
“You mean like how you almost left your GPS on the nightstand?” he teased, pulling the small black device from the front pocket and holding it up between two fingers.
You rolled your eyes and reached for it, but he pulled it just out of reach with a grin. “Tsk. And you call yourself an organized person.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “I am organized.”
“Sure,” he said, not bothering to hide his smirk as he tucked the GPS safely into the correct side compartment. “Organized chaos, maybe.”
You muttered something under your breath, but he was already half-laughing to himself as he moved on. He checked the specimen jars, your field knife, the small notebook you’d marked up with the region’s insect life. His fingers lingered briefly on a folded-up poncho and the extra batteries you always insisted on carrying.
“Looks good,” he finally said, zipping it back up and standing. “Prepared for all six plagues of Belize.”
You slung the pack over your shoulder with a grateful sigh and adjusted the strap. “Thanks, Jungkook.”
His eyes softened. “You’d do it for me.”
You didn’t say anything—just gave a small nod and a half-smile, one he returned with quiet sincerity. The air between you held something steady now. Unspoken, but beginning to feel inevitable.
Eight students total were selected for the field study. Four rooms, four pairs. Naturally, everyone was grouped off with their roommates for the first day’s assignment—which meant you were with Jungkook.
The two of you had been assigned the northeastern quadrant of the reserve, where the jungle grew denser and the canopy darker. You were barely fifteen minutes in before the mosquitoes had declared war and the trail had all but vanished beneath the thick undergrowth.
“The Pepsis grossa—tarantula hawk wasp—is usually found around decaying logs and near ceiba trees,” you said, squinting down at the coordinates on the field map in your hands. “So if we head northeast—”
“We should be heading east,” Jungkook interrupted, brushing past you. “The terrain flattens out faster that way. We’ll get a better survey sample.”
You blinked. “East takes us away from the rotting wood clusters,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. “It doesn’t match the pattern from last year’s reports.”
“Yeah, but those reports were done in the dry season. This is wet season,” Jungkook shot back. “Everything shifts. Trust me.”
You held your breath, counting to three in your head. “I do trust you,” you said calmly. “I’m just saying we should follow the data before gut instinct.”
He huffed, adjusting his backpack. “You always have to be the one leading, huh?”
That stung more than you wanted to admit.
Instead of replying, you stepped ahead and veered slightly off the trail toward a shaded patch of overgrowth. The silence stretched until it started to feel like static in your ears. You pulled the sunscreen bottle from your pack and held it up without looking at him.
“Can you get my back? I forgot to reapply.”
He hesitated for a moment, then took the bottle wordlessly. His fingers were gentle as they brushed across your shoulders, the cold lotion a sharp contrast to the oppressive heat. His touch was soft—softer than you expected, slow and deliberate, like he wasn’t just spreading sunscreen but… studying you.
You leaned slightly into it, breaking the tension with a half-smile. “You’ve got surprisingly delicate hands. You sure you didn’t pick the wrong field? Could’ve been a masseuse.”
He chuckled under his breath. “Please. I know my way around a woman’s body.”
You tensed, the air snapping back into discomfort. The joke sat there, loud and stupid and heavy between you.
You cleared your throat and took a quick step forward. “Right. GPS,” you muttered, digging through your belt pouch in a panic. Your fingers searched through tangled cords and folded paper, but it wasn’t there. “Shit.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked, already pulling off his backpack.
“My GPS unit’s gone. It was clipped to my belt this morning—I swear—”
“I’ve got mine,” he said, tugging it out, only to press the button and stare at the blank screen. “Dead. Battery’s toast.”
You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe. “Okay. It’s fine. Compass. We’ll use—” But as you turned to him, he was already tearing through the front pocket of his pack. His hands stilled.
“It’s not here,” he said.
You blinked at him. “You didn’t bring your compass?”
“I did,” he said, jaw tightening. “It must’ve fallen out.”
“That’s two navigational tools you didn’t check before leaving,” you snapped, voice rising before you could stop it. “God, Jungkook, do you even care that this isn’t just some day hike? This is research. This is my grade too.”
He straightened up, bristling. “Don’t talk to me like I’m some idiot. I packed last minute because someone took the bathroom for forty minutes.”
You scoffed. “You’re blaming your missing compass on my shower?”
“I’m saying maybe if you didn’t spend all your time trying to prove you’re the smartest person in the room, we’d be working together.”
That was the last thread.
“Oh my god,” you muttered, stepping away from him, hands on your hips as you stared at the thick canopy overhead like it could somehow cool the rage prickling under your skin. “You’re unbelievable.”
Jungkook stood there, silent for a moment, his face unreadable.
You didn’t even want to look at him. Not when your skin still tingled where his hands had been. Not when your chest ached like the disappointment had sunk into your ribs.
The silence stretched so long it made your ears ring. The thick, wet heat clung to your skin, and for a moment, all you could hear was the low hum of cicadas and the dull thudding of your pulse behind your ears.
You inhaled deeply, your breath catching slightly in your chest as you unscrewed the cap of your water bottle. Don’t snap. Don’t cry. Don’t let him see it. You drank, slow and measured, the lukewarm water doing nothing to soothe the burning in your throat. You were aware of how much was left—three swallows, maybe four. You capped it again and nodded to yourself.
“We’ll figure this out,” you said tightly, trying to summon calm with the words. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. “We just need to head downhill. Running water means trail markers. Civilization.”
Jungkook said nothing at first. You could feel him watching you, though. Like he wanted to say something and didn’t know how to start. Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. The tension hadn’t gone away—it just changed shape, curdled into something heavier.
You adjusted your bag, eyes scanning the patch of sky above the canopy, gauging direction by the sun.
“You’re mad,” he finally said, voice low.
You laughed, humorless. “Yeah. I am.”
A beat.
“I didn’t mean to mess things up,” he said quietly. “I know I’ve been... difficult.”
You turned slowly, your eyes locking on his for the first time since you’d raised your voice. He looked almost sheepish, like the fight had knocked something loose in him. And it made your throat ache even more.
“We’ll figure it out,” you repeated—this time softer, like a promise. You didn’t know if you meant the navigation or everything else. Maybe both.
“I just don’t understand how this happened,” you muttered, voice tinged with fatigue and frustration. “We both double-checked our packs. I watched you check mine.”
Jungkook didn’t argue. He looked like he wanted to, like there was a defense half-formed on his tongue, but it died under the weight of your exhaustion. You sighed and crouched, elbows braced on your knees, head falling between them. The pressure in your skull eased just slightly like that, grounded by the dirt, by the air, by the rising sound of the jungle around you.
You stayed like that for a few moments—long enough for the shame of snapping at him to dull. Long enough for the fear to set in properly, simmering beneath the surface like a slow boil. But then…
“Okay,” Jungkook said, gently. “Let’s just… start walking. That ridge we passed might be west. And if we follow the slope, we’ll hit the trail eventually.”
You nodded without a word and stood, brushing the backs of your thighs and tightening the straps on your backpack. He offered you a look that felt like truce—exhausted but quietly open. And you didn’t say anything. Just started walking beside him, deeper into the green.
You weren’t sure if you were headed in the right direction. Maybe it was luck. Maybe it wasn’t. But the fact that you were together made the whole thing just a little less terrifying.
After a while, your breathing evened out. The panic began to dull, replaced by something more manageable. You looked around the jungle, at the buzzing canopy above and the earth beneath your boots, and suddenly, the silence was too loud again.
“I was eight,” you said suddenly, not even realizing you were speaking until Jungkook glanced sideways at you. “The day I decided to study bugs.”
He blinked. “Yeah?”
You nodded. “We were on a camping trip. My dad caught me screaming over this beetle on my sleeping bag. It was huge—I mean massive. Orange and black. I cried like a baby. But he just picked it up and let it crawl on his hand. Told me it couldn’t hurt me, and it was just... exploring.”
Jungkook made a soft sound. “Your dad sounds cool.”
You smiled faintly, still watching the dirt path. “He was. He told me that being afraid of little things would make the big things scarier. So I held the beetle. It tickled. Didn’t cry after that.”
There was a beat of silence, warm and quiet.
“Guess that explains why you didn’t flinch when that tarantula crawled onto your leg last week,” Jungkook muttered.
You laughed, soft and genuine this time. “I flinched. I just flinched internally.”
He grinned. “You’re the only person I know who would rather be lost in the jungle than in a room full of people.”
You met his eyes briefly and gave a half-shrug. “People are harder to read than bugs.”
Jungkook hummed at that. He didn’t argue. Just walked a little closer to you—close enough that your shoulders brushed now and then. The tension hadn’t vanished completely, but it had shifted again—into something quieter, a little heavier, and a lot harder to ignore.
The jungle felt endless—green stacked on green, the canopy dripping with filtered sunlight. You pushed aside another low branch, sweat beading at your hairline, and tried to ignore how your shirt clung damp to your skin.
“Hold on,” Jungkook said suddenly, catching your wrist before you walked straight into a patch of thorns. His grip was firm, almost protective, and when you glanced back at him, his eyes darted away like he hadn’t meant to touch you for that long.
“Thanks,” you murmured, pulling free gently.
Little things like that kept happening—his palm at the small of your back as you crossed a slippery patch, the way his shoulder brushed yours when the trail narrowed, how he offered you his canteen before even thinking about drinking from it himself. You tried not to read into it, but each moment left your stomach tighter, your breath a little shallower.
A flash of movement on the bark of a massive ceiba tree—bold orange streaks patterned against black. Your pulse jumped.
“Jungkook, look!” you whispered, dropping to your knees with practiced ease. It was a Harlequin Beetle, rare to see in the open during the day. Its body was striking, almost painted, and the male’s impossibly long forelegs looked like something out of science fiction.
Both of you crouched, shoulders pressed together, as you carefully guided the beetle into a specimen vial. His breath was hot against your cheek as he leaned closer to get a better look, and you had to force yourself to focus on the insect instead of the way his thigh pressed into yours.
“Damn,” Jungkook breathed. “This is—this is huge. Everyone else is going to lose their minds.”
You smiled, proud. “We’re definitely ahead now.”
But then his shoulders dropped, like some part of him gave in. He let out a slow breath, eyes flicking to the canopy above. “You know why I started studying bugs?”
The question caught you off guard. You shook your head. “No. You never told me.”
He gave a small, humorless laugh. “Most people think it’s because I liked catching them as a kid. Which… yeah, I did. But the truth is—” He stopped, chewing his lip before continuing. “I just liked how small they were. How overlooked. I felt like that most of my life, you know? Quiet. Easy to ignore. Bugs don’t need to be loud or obvious to matter. They just… do what they’re meant to. And half the time, they’re more important than the things people actually notice.”
Your chest tightened at the honesty in his tone. Jungkook rarely said things like this, and when he did, it was always sideways, half-hidden under a joke. But not now. Now he looked almost raw, his fingers worrying at the strap of his pack.
“I thought maybe if I studied them,” he added softly, “I could figure out where I belonged too.”
For a long moment, you just watched him—his lowered lashes, the set of his mouth, the vulnerability he probably wished he could stuff back down.
For a long moment, you just watched him—his lowered lashes, the set of his mouth, the vulnerability he probably wished he could stuff back down.
“Jungkook,” you said quietly, “you belong more than you think.”
His eyes lifted, catching yours, and for a heartbeat the jungle went silent around you.
Then, almost abruptly, he stood. He cleared his throat, brushing the dirt from his hands like he could shake off the weight of what he’d just said. Without meeting your gaze, he nodded toward your pack.
“Let’s, uh—let’s get that beetle stored properly before it overheats,” he muttered. “We should keep moving if we want to make it back before dark.”
You watched as he carefully secured the vial inside his specimen case, movements precise, almost reverent. He lingered for just a second too long before slinging his pack onto his shoulders again.
When he finally glanced down at you, his face was composed, but there was still a shadow of the boy who’d confessed more than he probably meant to.
“Ready?” he asked.
You swallowed, nodded, and rose to your feet. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
So you fell into step again, the unspoken words trailing behind you like a third presence in the humid air.
You’d barely walked another half hour before voices broke through the dense hum of cicadas. Relief hit like cool water when two figures emerged from the foliage—classmates from the trip, both balancing specimen nets and field packs.
“Along the water, maybe?” one said to the other before spotting the two of you looking drained and defeated.
The decision was immediate—you and Jungkook fell in with them, the four of you moving together along the winding path. They had their compasses, their maps, their calm sense of direction. And neither of you was ready to head back to the hotel empty-handed, so it worked out to stick with them for now.
Jungkook ended up walking ahead with Marisol, their voices low as they compared notes on habitat zones. You hung back with the other girl, Eliza, who wasn’t so much interested in insects as she was in people.
“So,” she said, nudging your arm as you carefully avoided a tangle of vines. “What happened? Why were you two wandering off-track like that?”
You hesitated, tightening your grip on your pack straps. “Our GPS glitched, then the compass went missing. Total disaster. But we’re fine now.”
“Mm,” she hummed, not sounding particularly convinced. Then she gave you a sly sideways look. “What about the weird tension?”
You blinked. “What tension?”
Her grin widened. “The way he looks at you. The way you look back. Have you two hooked up yet?”
You nearly tripped over a root. Heat rushed to your face so fast it made you dizzy. “Wh—no! What? That’s… no.”
But the question echoed in your own mind, loud and unsettling. Had you? No. Did you want to?
The thought alone made your stomach flip. You and Jungkook had known each other long enough to be natural together, sure. Perfect in some ways, even. But also messy, complicated, a contradiction that made no sense when you tried to name it.
Still, Eliza’s knowing smirk lingered in your periphery, and you hated how badly it rattled you.
Eliza’s smirk didn’t fade, even after you stammered out your denial. She just hummed like she already knew better and skipped a step ahead, leaving you scrambling to collect your thoughts.
A twig cracked ahead of you. When you looked up, Jungkook’s shoulders were tense, head tilted just slightly—like he’d caught the last few words. Your stomach dropped, but he didn’t turn around. Didn’t say a thing. Just kept pace with Marisol, voice low as they discussed soil composition.
You swallowed hard, pretending you hadn’t noticed.
The four of you fell into work not long after, the chatter shifting toward more practical things. Marisol was quick to point out specimens you’d missed earlier—leafcutter ants carving highways through the underbrush, a flash of blue when a morpho butterfly darted past. Jungkook’s excitement lit up every time he got close enough to document something, his laugh carrying through the trees when a grasshopper nearly leapt onto his face.
With their help, your packs slowly began to fill with pinned finds and careful samples. Eliza was surprisingly good at spotting movement in the brush, and Marisol’s steady hand with the nets kept you from fumbling every catch. It was easier to breathe when you were all crouched together, comparing notes, wiping sweat from your brows.
For a while, it was almost like the earlier tension had evaporated into the humid air. Almost.
Every now and then, you caught Jungkook glancing over his shoulder—not at the trees, not at the undergrowth. At you. And each time, your pulse jumped, your mind circling back to Eliza’s question like a moth to a flame.
By the time the four of you made it back to the hotel, the sun had already dipped low, painting the walls of the lobby with heavy shadows. Sweat still clung to the back of your neck, the straps of your pack digging deep, but relief made your limbs feel lighter.
Eliza and Marisol waved their goodbyes at the elevators, peeling off toward their room with promises to compare notes after dinner. That left just you and Jungkook, the silence between you still thick enough to taste.
The hallway stretched ahead, carpet muffling your footsteps. You tried not to fidget with the strap of your bag, tried not to glance at him out of the corner of your eye, but the tension was there—an electric hum between two magnets too stubborn to either pull close or push away.
And then you saw it.
Right outside your door, sitting neat as anything, was your GPS.
You stopped dead, staring down at the small device like it was mocking you. Jungkook nearly ran into you before following your gaze. For a second the two of you just blinked at it—then laughter burst out of both your chests, sharp and unrestrained, the kind that came when you’d been wound too tight for too long.
“Unbelievable,” you managed, doubling over with your pack still on. “All that panic—”
“—and it was right here the whole time.” Jungkook shook his head, grinning so hard his dimple showed.
Still chuckling, you swiped the GPS off the floor, unlocked the door, and pushed inside. The cool air of the room swept over you, tugging the tension down another notch—until your eyes landed on the small silver circle resting on the carpet near the foot of the bed.
Your compass.
Exactly where you’d struggled with your shoes this morning.
Jungkook spotted it the same moment you did, his grin faltering into something softer, sheepish. You let out a groan, covering your face with both hands.
“We’re idiots,” you muttered.
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly, though there was a hint of laughter still in his voice. “But at least we’re idiots together.”
And just like that, the tension shifted—still there, but less like a storm waiting to break and more like a spark hovering in the air, waiting for the right moment to catch.
You dropped your pack by the desk and crouched to unzip it, already sorting through notebooks, specimen jars, and your still half-eaten breakfast tucked into a napkin. “I’ll start unpacking,” you said, waving vaguely toward the bathroom. “You should shower first before you collapse.”
Jungkook slung his bag onto the other bed, tugging out a clean shirt and sweatpants. He gave you a tired grin, eyes rimmed red from the sun and hours of focus. “Deal. But only if you promise not to eat my share of the snacks while I’m in there.”
You huffed a laugh, pulling out one of your field notebooks. “No promises.”
As he gathered his things, you both fell into the kind of easy conversation that came when neither of you had the energy to think too hard.
“So… dinner downstairs? The hotel restaurant probably has more options than room service,” you suggested, trying to sound chipper even as your jaw cracked with a yawn.
He paused, clutching his towel over his shoulder. “Actually, I saw this cool little place a few streets over yesterday, when we were driving in. Looked local—authentic. Could be worth checking out.”
You groaned, letting your head drop forward into your hands. “Wait, don’t we have to go to the bank to convert more money first?”
Jungkook tilted his head, already halfway toward the bathroom. “Yeah… probably.”
There was a long, tired pause. You let out a sigh that carried the weight of the entire jungle, the sweat, the panic over the GPS. “You know what? Forget it. I don’t have the energy to find a bank, or walk three streets, or smile politely at strangers while I fumble with cash. I’m literally too tired to talk to anyone.”
Your voice cracked into a laugh at the end, tired and resigned all at once. Jungkook’s chuckle answered from across the room, soft and warm.
“Room service it is. I don’t mind a boring dinner on the first night,” he said, disappearing into the bathroom. “Wake me up if I fall asleep in the shower.”
You snorted, shaking your head as the door clicked shut behind him, the sound of running water filling the room.
By the time you’d finished unpacking, Jungkook had claimed the bathroom. The sound of water against tile carried through the walls, and every now and then you caught yourself glancing toward the door, imagining the steam building up inside. You shook it off, tucking your last specimen jar onto the desk and stretching out your arms until your shoulders popped.
A few minutes later, the door swung open with a hiss of steam. Jungkook stepped out, shirtless, skin still damp and catching the lamplight. His hair clung in dark strands against his forehead, and his face was hidden beneath a smooth, glossy sheet mask.
“Your turn,” he said, padding barefoot across the carpet. His voice was muffled by the mask, playful but casual, as though this wasn’t the most disarming sight you’d ever witnessed. In his hand, he held out another packet. “I brought extras. Wanna do one too?”
You blinked at him. Once. Twice. Then, forcing your throat to cooperate, you managed, “Uh—yeah. Sure.” The word snagged in your mouth, your stutter obvious even to your own ears. You took the packet quickly, nodding like it was no big deal, before retreating into the bathroom with your shower bag.
The hot water did little to quiet the buzz in your chest.
When you came back out, hair damp and your own mask cooling your skin, Jungkook was already sitting cross-legged on one of the beds. He patted the empty space in front of him, where he’d spread the dinner menu out like it was a deck of cards.
“Come on. Help me decide before I just give up and order three desserts,” he teased, his words peeking out from under the sheet mask.
You settled down opposite him, crossing your legs so your knees brushed against the edge of the menu. Together you leaned forward, reading through the list of options.
“Okay, so… chicken sandwich?” you said, tapping it with your finger. “Kinda basic. But maybe basic is good—it might feel a little less like we’re a million miles away from home.”
“Or…” Jungkook tapped at the pasta, eyes crinkling in mischief beneath the mask, “we embrace the chaos and pretend hotel spaghetti counts as an authentic cultural experience.”
You snorted. “Pretty sure that’s the opposite of authentic.”
The banter settled into something light, easy. A rhythm you didn’t have to think about, even though you were hyper-aware of how close you sat to him, of the faint eucalyptus scent wafting from his mask.
When the timer on his phone chimed, you both reached up at the same time, peeling the masks from your faces in unison.
“Wow,” you sighed, pressing your fingertips into your cheeks. “That felt amazing. My skin hasn’t breathed like this since we got here.”
“Told you,” he said proudly, wadding the used mask into a napkin. “This brand is legit. My skin would’ve mutinied by now without it.” He tilted his head, studying your face with an intensity that made your pulse skip. “Looks good on you.”
You ducked your gaze quickly, pretending to re-read the menu. “Yeah, well… good on both of us.”
The moment lingered, warm and quiet, before he finally picked up the hotel phone. “Alright,” he said, voice casual, but softer than before. “Let’s make it official. Room service for two.”
His knuckles brushed the edge of the menu while he dialed, and you found yourself watching him—watching the curve of his mouth, the damp shine of his hair, the casual way he made the mundane suddenly feel like something more.
Dinner arrived on a rolling tray, the knock at the door startling you both out of the haze you’d slipped into while waiting. Jungkook carried the plates to the bed, and you settled onto the floor beside him, your plate balanced on the edge of the mattress.
It felt strangely natural—him above, you below, both leaning toward the food and toward each other. Your voices fell soft in the small space, the kind of hush reserved for the quiet hours of night.
“So,” you said between bites, “what made you decide to study insects anyway? I know why you love them but why are you making them your life? Was it the thrill of watching tiny creatures crawl around, or…?”
He smirked, chewing thoughtfully before answering. “Nah. I always liked being outside. I hated sitting still as a kid. Bugs were just… everywhere. And no one else wanted to look at them for long, so I got to feel like I was discovering something.”
You grinned, nodding. “That makes sense. I was the opposite. I was the kid with thick glasses, reading bug encyclopedias instead of going outside. Total nerd.”
He chuckled, tilting his plate toward you. “A nerd who still beat me for the top spot in class.”
“Barely,” you shot back, playful but sheepish. Then, after a pause, you added quietly, “I was bullied a lot for it. For being too curious. Too different. Studying bugs didn’t exactly earn me popularity points.”
Something in Jungkook’s face softened. He leaned down, fork spearing a bite from his plate and holding it out toward you. “Guess the nerds win in the end.”
You rolled your eyes, but leaned forward, letting him feed you. The taste of his dish lingered sweet and tangy on your tongue. Without thinking, you cut a piece from your own plate and offered it up to him. His lips brushed the fork, and for one too-long second, you were caught watching them.
The conversation drifted, the food dwindled, until Jungkook leaned back against the headboard with a little sigh. “You know what’s funny?” he said, voice almost hesitant. “I was popular in school. Always had people around me. But I never dated anyone.”
Your brows lifted. “Never?”
He shook his head. “Didn’t feel right. Didn’t want to… waste time on something that didn’t mean anything.”
You swallowed, the words settling heavy in your chest. “That’s the opposite of me. I dated, but… only assholes. Like I was trying to prove I deserved worse than I wanted.”
Dinner was nearly done, plates balanced carelessly on the edge of the bed between you. You were picking at the last few bites of rice when Jungkook’s voice cut in, low and curious.
“Hey—don’t move.”
Your fork froze midair. “What?”
He tilted his chin, eyes glinting with something between mischief and fascination. “Spider. Right here.” He angled his shoulder toward you, where a tiny spider had spun down on a thread, dangling just above his collarbone.
You leaned closer automatically, the scientist in you sparking. “That’s… actually a Salticidae. Jumping spider,” you murmured, surprised at how steady your voice sounded when your heart was suddenly beating so fast.
“Cute little thing, huh?” Jungkook’s smile tugged at one corner of his mouth as he held still, watching the spider inch closer to his jaw. “Almost looks like it’s inspecting me.”
You laughed under your breath, crawling onto your knees to get a better look. The bed dipped as you placed a hand on the mattress for balance, your face now just inches from his. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s not impressed.”
He smirked. “Neither are you, apparently.”
You ignored that, focusing instead on gently coaxing the spider onto your fingertip before letting it crawl down to the carpet, free to wander.
When you looked back up, Jungkook’s eyes were already waiting for you. Close. Too close.
The air shifted—still, charged. His smirk softened, and in the quiet, you realized you were hovering over him, your knees pressed into the mattress, your body angled toward his.
Neither of you said a word.
Slowly, drawn as if by gravity, you crawled higher, your palms pressing into the sheets on either side of his thighs. His breath mingled with yours, warm and steady, and then you were kissing him—tentative at first, lips brushing lips, before he leaned up into you.
His hands found your waist, then slid beneath your shirt, fingers gliding against your bare back with a kind of reverence. The touch made you shiver, your body pressing closer as you shifted fully into his lap, straddling him.
The kiss deepened, slow and molten, the taste of him still laced with the faint salt of dinner, the scent of soap lingering from his shower. Your chest brushed against his as he tilted his head, guiding you into something hungrier, something that had clearly been waiting to break loose.
When you finally pulled back, foreheads pressed together, you were both breathing hard, the forgotten plates cooling on the floor. His thumbs traced the dip of your spine as though he needed the anchor, as though letting go of you wasn’t an option.
His thumb lingered at the corner of your mouth, tracing the shape of your lip as though memorizing it. Both of you were still breathing hard, lungs trying to catch up with the heat that had overtaken the room. You stared into his eyes, searching, but his gaze refused to leave your lips—dark, intent, as if he couldn’t look anywhere else.
Slowly, he pressed his thumb past your parted lips, the pad resting on your tongue. You froze for only a heartbeat, instinct taking over as your mouth closed around him. The faint taste of salt, the warmth of his skin, made the moment headier than you expected. His breath hitched, shallow and ragged, chest rising against yours as your tongue brushed against his fingertip.
“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, low and broken, his lips curving like he couldn’t believe you were doing this. He pulled his thumb free just enough to drag it across your bottom lip, smearing spit along the curve before pushing it back in, slower this time, watching the way your mouth yielded to him.
You sucked without thinking, cheeks hollowing, eyes locked on his. The air between you thickened until it felt impossible to breathe. He finally tugged his thumb free, glistening, and dragged it down your chin before curling his hand around the back of your neck.
“Come here,” he whispered, voice husky, tugging you back into another kiss.
This one wasn’t tentative—it was urgent, mouths crashing, teeth clashing, tongues sliding hot and messy. You clutched at his shoulders as his hands slid up your bare back again, palms flat, keeping you pressed tight against him while your hips ground down against his lap.
The kiss deepened until you forgot about the food cooling on the floor, the soft clatter of plates barely registering when your hand slipped and knocked one askew. All that existed was him—his mouth, hot and insistent against yours, his hands sliding over every inch of your skin like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch first.
Your knees pressed tighter into the mattress as you shifted higher in his lap, straddling him fully, chest to chest. His breath shuddered when you rolled your hips, the hard press of him beneath his sweats undeniable now. He broke from your mouth just long enough to groan, forehead pressed to yours, lips dragging over the edge of your jaw as though he needed to taste more.
Your hands fisted in the back of his shirt, tugging at the fabric until you felt the heat of his skin underneath. He laughed—quiet, strangled—when you mouthed at the line of his throat, his fingers gripping your hips tighter, urging you to move again.
“Fuck—” he hissed when you did, slow and deliberate, dragging your core against him. His grip shifted, one hand cupping the back of your neck again, the other skimming up under your shirt to trace the line of your spine.
When your kisses softened—gentle brushes over his lips like you were savoring him—he pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, blown wide, his voice a low rasp as he muttered, “You don’t have to be so gentle with me.”
The words sent a shiver racing down your spine. Before you could respond, he tugged you back in, teeth grazing your bottom lip, biting just enough to sting before soothing the spot with his tongue. His hands slid down to grab at your ass, pulling you harder against him, making the friction sharper, dirtier.
You gasped into his mouth, nails digging into his shoulders now, body instinctively pressing closer, chasing more. The kiss turned messy again, desperate, both of you breathing hard into each other’s mouths as if air only existed between your lips.
Your gasp dissolved into another kiss when he tugged you down harder against him, rolling his hips up at the same time. The friction was maddening—your thin shorts dragging against the hard line of him under his sweats. Both of you groaned into each other’s mouths at the same time, the sound desperate, needy.
You broke away for air, panting, forehead pressed to his as your hips found a rhythm against him. His hands guided you, big palms on your waist sliding lower to grip the curve of your ass, fingers digging in just enough to make you whimper.
“Like that,” he muttered, jaw tight, his head tipping back when you rocked down harder. The muscles in his neck strained, and for a moment you couldn’t help but kiss along his throat, tasting the salt of his skin, feeling his pulse race under your lips.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” you breathed, words tumbling out before you could catch them. His answering groan was guttural, his hips jerking up into you with more force.
The slow drag turned messy, frantic—your body chasing relief, his meeting you with the same urgency. The air was thick with the sound of your breathing, your muffled moans breaking every time his cock pressed perfectly against you through the layers of fabric.
He caught your mouth again, messy and wet, tongue tangling with yours while his grip on you tightened. Each grind had you clinging to him harder, your nails raking down his back, your body shuddering with the building heat in your core.
“Don’t stop,” he rasped against your lips, voice breaking with need. His thighs shifted beneath you, bracing, giving you more leverage, urging you to move faster.
You buried your face in his shoulder, biting back a cry as you rode him, every rock of your hips sending sparks through your body. His chest heaved against yours, his hands practically holding you in place as he thrust up to meet you, every movement sharper, hungrier.
The world blurred—just sweat, heat, the press of his body and the dizzy rush of pleasure coiling tighter, tighter—
Your rhythm turned frantic, sloppy, every drag of his cock against your soaked shorts pushing you closer to the edge. He met you thrust for thrust, hips snapping up into yours like he couldn’t get enough, the fabric between you nothing but torture now.
“Jungkook—” you gasped, nails biting into his shoulders, head thrown back as the tension in your belly threatened to snap.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he groaned, voice thick, his head burying against your neck. His teeth grazed your skin as his hips bucked up harder, faster. “Don’t hold back—fuck—just let go for me.”
The words wrecked you. You ground down harder, your thighs trembling as the pressure exploded, your orgasm tearing through you. A sharp cry left your throat as your body convulsed against him, clinging desperately to his slick skin.
He cursed low, broken, shoving up into you as he came undone, rutting through his release with his jaw slack and eyes squeezed shut. His grip bruised at your waist as he held you flush against him, riding out every desperate grind until his body finally stilled under yours.
For a long moment, the room was filled with nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing, your foreheads pressed together, both of you trembling and dazed.
Then his voice came soft, almost reverent, brushing against your lips.
“You’re incredible,” he whispered, thumb stroking your cheek. His tone was hoarse but steady, like he meant every syllable. “So fucking perfect. You feel so good… you make me feel so good.”
His eyes searched yours, tender despite the sweat and the mess, his words breaking through the haze and sinking into you like a vow.
You slumped against him, chest still heaving, the sticky warmth between you both proof of what just happened. The reality of it washed over you all at once and you found yourself murmuring, “That was… impulsive.”
Jungkook tilted his head, dark eyes on you, thumb tracing lazy circles along your back. “Maybe,” he admitted softly, “but don’t act like I imagined this.”
You blinked up at him, confused, until he gave a tiny, almost guilty smile.
“I overheard you with Eliza earlier,” he said, voice quiet, almost tentative. “When she asked if we’d hooked up yet. The way you froze? The way you couldn’t answer?” His hand moved up, brushing your hair back gently. “I knew I wasn’t the only one feeling it.”
Your lips parted, embarrassment flooding your face, but he didn’t give you the chance to spiral.
“And I’ve been wondering all day if the tension was just in my head.” His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, tender. “Guess I got my answer.”
You swallowed hard, shifting slightly in his lap, still clinging to a last thread of hesitation. “But what if this makes the rest of the trip awkward?” you whispered.
He huffed a laugh through his nose, leaning his forehead against yours. “The shared bed is awfully convenient, don’t you think?” His lips quirked, teasing but still warm. “Only took us a day.”
That dragged a reluctant laugh from you, soft and quiet. You hadn’t even realized his fingers had found their way into your hair until the gentle tug of them made you lean closer, melting under his touch.
“Hey,” he murmured, eyes soft but steady, voice dipping into something so sure it made your stomach flip. “You don’t have to overthink this. We’re okay. I want this—want you. Nothing’s gonna change that.”
And somehow, the reassurance landed perfectly, wrapping around you like safety itself.
You rest your forehead against his chest, breathing in his scent. It’s quiet apart from the hotel air humming low, and you imagine if you stayed in this moment forever, you almost could.
Then Jungkook shifts, clearing his throat. “I should probably, you know… change,” He teases lightly, voice thick with warmth. “Before this all… dries.” His tone was light, teasing. He straightens, carefully sliding you off his lap. You land on the bed softly, kneeling, watching him—skin still damp, hair dark and slick—from where you sit. He reaches for the bathroom door, pausing just inside the frame, turning back with a look that’s half playful, half something tender. Then he disappears behind the door.
He disappeared into the bathroom, door clicking shut behind him, and the second he was gone, you scrambled for your own bag. The adrenaline still buzzed in your body, but you worked quickly, tugging on an oversized tee and shorts, hesitating just long enough before deciding to leave your bra folded neatly at the bottom of your suitcase.
For the first time since arriving in Belize, your skin felt free, and more importantly—you didn’t feel the need to hide it from him anymore.
The days blurred together after that first night. Every morning started with the two of you brushing past each other in the cramped hotel bathroom, trying not to bump elbows while you traded turns at the sink. Every evening ended the same—plates on the floor, laughter filling the room, and the two of you pressed so close together in bed it was hard to tell where you ended and he began.
You went to the restaurant Jungkook had spotted, the whole group filling tables with food and chatter. Everyone swapped stories about their finds, specimens carefully catalogued, and laughed a little louder after a few drinks. You remember how his hand found yours under the table, how you didn’t pull away.
At night, though, that was yours and his time. Quiet dinners in your room, whispered jokes in the dark, limbs tangled under thin hotel sheets. It wasn’t just the intimacy—it was the comfort. The warmth.
By the time the trip wrapped, the bond felt unshakable.
At the airport bus, everyone dragged their luggage toward the waiting line, voices a little hoarse with exhaustion. Jungkook drifted off with the guys, their laughter echoing from the back of the group, while you found yourself shoulder to shoulder with Eliza.
“I can’t believe it’s already over,” she sighed.
You nodded. “Yeah. Honestly, I was so anxious the first night. Sharing a bed with Jungkook…” you trailed off, feeling your cheeks warm.
Eliza’s head snapped toward you. “Sharing a bed?” she repeated, her brows lifting.
You blinked, confused. “Yeah? We had one bed in our room.”
Her mouth dropped open, then she burst into laughter so sudden it made people turn around. “Y/N—what? We were all supposed to have separate beds!”
Your eyes widened, stomach dropping. “Wait, what?”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” she gasped through her laughter.
“I just thought everyone had to share beds!” you blurted, mortified, which only made her laugh harder, clutching her stomach.
The bus driver started calling for boarding, and you could still hear Eliza’s giggles echoing as you tried to process the realization.
When the two of you boarded, Jungkook slid into a window seat without hesitation, and you followed, settling beside him. The hum of the bus filled the silence, students already pulling out headphones or leaning against the glass. Jungkook slipped his arm around you like it was second nature, tugging you close until your side fit snug against his.
You hesitated, cheeks warming, before saying softly, “So, apparently… us only having one bed? That was a booking mistake.”
He turned to you, eyes wide for a split second before a grin spread across his face. His laugh rumbled low in his chest, shaking both of you. “A mistake, huh?”
You nodded, embarrassed. “Yeah. Eliza nearly cried laughing when I told her. I thought everyone had to share beds.”
He squeezed your shoulder gently, eyes still sparkling. “Well… I wouldn’t change it. Not one second. Worth every moment.”
The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard, heat crawling up your neck. You let out a small, nervous laugh, lowering your gaze to your hands. “You’re ridiculous.”
But your smile gave you away.
As the bus lurched into motion, the exhaustion of the past days finally caught up. You leaned into him, head resting against his chest, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His hand smoothed over your arm, holding you close, safe. Protective.
By the time the highway stretched out behind you, your eyes had already slipped shut, sleep finding you in the warmth of his embrace.
KINKTOBER WEEK 1 Bondage / sub space / masks
KINKTOBER LIST I REFERENCED
SUMMARY: At a hidden speakeasy, a masked burlesque dancer and a mysterious stranger find themselves tangled in desire and restraint. What begins as a game of masks and teasing soon unravels into something deeper—an intoxicating connection neither expected.
PAIRING: Jungkook × Reader
THEMES: Masquerade, anonymity, burlesque performance, speakeasy setting, bondage & restraint, hidden identities, unexpected intimacy, slightly subby jungkook until hes had enough and takes control, unprotected sex, cussing
WORD COUNT: 5.9k
Backstage hummed with nerves and laughter, the faint buzz of champagne flutes clinking as half-dressed women adjusted garters and fluffed feather fans. The air was thick with powder and perfume, roses tucked into vanity jars, sequins glittering like tiny stars under the dressing room’s golden bulbs. A corset laced tighter, stockings clipped, lipstick reapplied in the mirror’s smudged reflection.
“Remember—slower steps tonight. They’re here to ache for it,” one of the senior dancers teased, her voice muffled as she bent to pin the heel strap of her shoe.
You grinned faintly from where you sat, tugging up your opera gloves until the silk hugged your arms like a second skin. “They always ache. That’s the easy part.”
The others laughed, a mix of nerves and mischief, the kind of camaraderie that existed only in smoky dressing rooms before the curtain rose. Someone spritzed too much perfume, the floral cloud chasing away the musk of sweat and powder. Beyond the thin wall, jazz throbbed steady and low, the upright bass reverberating through the floorboards like a pulse.
You reached for your mask — sleek, feathered, delicate enough to conceal but daring enough to make you feel untouchable — and tied it firmly behind your head. Once it was on, you weren’t just yourself anymore. You were the fantasy they came to drink in.
At the front of the house, the speakeasy was already alive. The air was dense with cigarette smoke and chatter, the clink of glasses punctuating laughter. Jazz coiled through the haze, sultry and alive, notes sliding like velvet over the crowd. Waitresses in short skirts darted between tables, balancing trays of gin and bourbon as shadows shifted against the dark wood walls.
Jungkook slipped in through the hidden door behind two of his friends, his mask obscuring the sharpness of his face but not the way he carried himself. He adjusted his jacket, dark and well-fitted, and cast a look around the packed room.
“Not bad, huh?” one of his friends murmured, pulling at his own mask as they were led to a small round table near the edge of the performance floor.
Jungkook said nothing at first, only scanned the amber-lit room with restless eyes. The anonymity of the masks thrilled some, unnerved others — but for him, it was a shield. Tonight, he wasn’t anyone recognizable. He was just another guest in a hidden place where identities didn’t matter.
He dropped into his chair, the velvet cushion sighing under his weight, and leaned back as a waitress set down their drinks. Bourbon burned the back of his throat as he sipped, but the warmth barely cut through his tension. He wasn’t here for the liquor.
The lights dimmed, voices softened. Somewhere backstage, the dancers were lining up, silk and sequins trembling under their own anticipation.
And Jungkook’s gaze lifted, caught by the glow of the stage as the curtains began to part.
The first note of the trumpet cut through the smoke, a sultry swell that commanded silence. A slow thrum of bass followed, vibrating through the tables, before the curtains unfurled to reveal you and the other dancers bathed in amber light.
Your heels clicked against the polished wood, every step deliberate, hips swaying in time with the lazy curl of the saxophone. The sequined corset caught every flicker of light, sparkling like champagne poured into crystal. Behind your mask, your eyes scanned the room — a sea of half-hidden faces leaning closer, drinks paused halfway to parted lips.
The performance wasn’t just on the stage. Not tonight.
You descended into the crowd, trailing your feather fan over shoulders, brushing gloved fingertips along chair backs as you moved between tables. Men shifted in their seats, leaning forward for more, women smirked knowingly, and the whole room seemed to lean into your orbit.
You slipped past a group near the bar, laughter dying on their lips as you turned and arched into a slow bend, your hand ghosting over the edge of their table before you pivoted away. The music swelled, carrying you deeper into the haze of perfume and smoke, closer to the shadows at the edge of the room.
Closer to him.
Jungkook hadn’t moved since the moment you stepped onto the stage. His mask hid most of his face, but his gaze — steady, heavy — followed your every step. Unlike the others, he didn’t reach, didn’t leer. He simply watched, broad shoulders squared, bourbon untouched at his elbow.
As you drew near his table, your eyes flicked toward him, the faintest grin tugging at your lips. For once, you paused.
Leaning down, you rested a gloved hand against the edge of his chair, so close he could catch the faint sheen of perfume mixed with powder and sweat. The crowd hummed around you, yet it felt muted, pressed behind glass. You tilted your head, mask brushing the edge of his, your lips almost grazing his ear as you whispered, low enough for him alone:
“Why do you look like you’re searching for something you’ve already found?”
The moment stretched taut. His jaw flexed under the mask, a sharp inhale breaking his stillness. When you pulled back, you expected him to look away like the others — but his gaze held fast, dark and burning through the slits of his mask.
The music swept you onward, and you disappeared back into the crowd, leaving the imprint of your voice hanging in the smoky air between you.
Jungkook’s hand clenched loosely around his glass, untouched bourbon catching the light.
For the first time all night, he wanted more than anonymity.
The next act swept onto the stage, feathers and sequins swirling in practiced rhythm. You and two of the other dancers moved seamlessly into the crowd again, the performance spilling off the stage and through the tables. Cigarette smoke curled in your wake, jazz pounding steady, the lights turning everything honey-gold.
But your focus had narrowed.
Across the haze, you spotted him again. The man in the dark jacket, his mask catching just enough light to frame the sharpness of his gaze. He hadn’t softened, hadn’t smiled, hadn’t let himself be pulled into the antics of the others. He was watching — not the room, not the dancers flitting past him — but you.
You lingered.
A gloved hand brushed across the linen of his table as you slowed your pace, finally stopping just before him. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretched thin against the swell of music. Then, with a slight tilt of your head, you extended your hand.
Jungkook didn’t move at first. His eyes searched yours behind the mask, unblinking, as though trying to anchor himself in the reality of this moment. Then he exhaled slowly, set down his untouched glass, and slid his hand into yours.
The warmth of his palm against your glove sparked down your arm. You gave the gentlest pull, and he stood, the scrape of his chair lost beneath the trumpet’s wail. Without a word, you led him through the maze of tables, past velvet curtains, down a short hallway until you found the heavy door you knew would be empty.
It shut behind you with a decisive thud. You turned the lock.
The room was dim, lit only by the golden spill of a wall sconce. A velvet settee pressed against the wall, deep cushions waiting. Jungkook stood near the door, his breathing low and steady, the mask still hiding everything but the intensity of his stare.
You didn’t ask. He didn’t speak.
Instead, you pressed him gently down onto the seat. His broad frame sank into the velvet, tension radiating off him in waves. You moved slowly, deliberately, letting the music faintly seeping through the wall dictate your rhythm as you slid into his lap.
His hands twitched at his thighs but didn’t reach for you — not yet. You rolled your hips lightly against him, sequins brushing his shirt, the heat of him bleeding through layers of fabric. The masks kept you both hidden, yet somehow the anonymity felt sharper, like a blade.
The air between you thickened, your breath quickening as you leaned close enough for your lips to hover just above his.
“Sit still,” you whispered, voice low, commanding, before pulling back just enough to dance against him, every movement calculated to unravel.
Jungkook swallowed hard, chest rising under your palms. His eyes never left yours, dark, unyielding, burning behind the mask.
And neither of you needed more than that.
You shifted in his lap, sequins scraping faintly against his shirt, your body undulating in slow rhythm with the muted bass thudding through the walls. Jungkook’s breath hitched, his chest rising sharply beneath you. His hands twitched again, fingertips curling against velvet, but you placed a gloved palm firmly on one of his wrists.
“Don’t,” you murmured, voice velvet-draped steel. “Sit still, remember?”
His jaw clenched behind the mask, but he obeyed. That obedience, that careful restraint, only heightened the tension crackling between you.
From the low table nearby, you tugged one of the silken scarves the club kept for decoration — props that, in rooms like this, were often put to far more intimate use. Slowly, deliberately, you looped it around his wrist, knotting it against the carved wooden armrest of the settee. The other followed, binding him in place, his broad chest caged by nothing more than silk and your command.
His breathing deepened.
You let your gloved fingers roam then — down the line of his throat, skimming the edge of his collarbone, trailing across the defined planes of his chest. He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on you, his body trembling under the restraint of your touch.
Every caress was purposeful, just enough to tease, never enough to satisfy. Your fingertips danced over the warmth of his skin through his shirt, sliding up the column of his throat until you pressed lightly under his jaw, coaxing his head back against the cushion.
“Look at you,” you whispered, leaning close, your lips hovering just above his mask. “All tied up for me.”
His lashes fluttered, breath shaky, the mask hiding so much — yet not enough. You could see the hunger in the way his body strained toward yours, held back only by silk and your soft command.
You shifted, grinding faintly against his lap, watching the tension ripple through him. The mask kept him faceless, yet his need burned undeniable. And that anonymity — that careful concealment — made every second heavier, sharper, sweeter.
Then you paused. The silence stretched, broken only by his ragged inhale.
Your voice dropped to a sultry whisper, deliberate, coaxing:
“Let me take it off?”
He stilled completely.
You traced his jawline through the mask with slow, delicate fingers. “The door is locked,” you reassured, soft as a lull, “it’s just us.”
For a moment, he hesitated — then he exhaled, shoulders lowering in surrender. His wrists remained bound, his body taut beneath yours. You reached up, fingers sliding into the knot of fabric, and slowly pulled the mask away.
The sight of him hit you like a rush. His hair damp at the edges, lips parted, eyes dark and utterly mesmerized — not just by you, but by the moment itself. You knew it because you felt it too: caught, undone, captivated.
Your own fingers trembled faintly as you lifted your mask, revealing yourself in kind. His gaze roved over you, unguarded and intense, and though he said nothing, the silence spoke louder than words.
Mesmerized. Consumed. Yours.
The silence after the masks drop feels heavy, charged, but not uncomfortable. His dark eyes search yours with an intensity that makes your chest ache. Bound hands shift against the chair armrests, the rope digging faintly into his skin, but he doesn’t fight it. He just stares, lips parting as if he’s testing whether he can trust his own voice.
“Do you still want me?” The question slips out low, steady—but you can hear the crack just beneath, the sliver of disbelief he tries to bury. He says it like someone bracing for an answer that might break him.
Your breath catches, heart twisting, because of course he’d ask. Of course he’d wonder. You lean in, letting your body brush against his as you cradle the back of his head, fingers sliding into the soft hair at his nape. Your other hand cups his cheek, thumb ghosting across the swell of his bottom lip. His breath stutters against your skin.
“Want?” you echo, your voice dropping to a sultry whisper, thick with both playfulness and truth. You bite your lip, letting him see how much you mean it, how much you ache. Your smile is tender, reverent, even as heat coils through you. “You don’t even know how badly.”
The tension between you sharpens, alive, and you feel him shiver under your touch, all restraint undone by the weight of your words.
His face is sharper without the mask, but not unkind—his jaw cut like stone, lips full and plush even when pressed tight, lashes so thick they cast shadows when he blinks. His nose, his cheekbones, the faint sheen of sweat clinging to his temples from the heat of the room—it all feels realer than it should, like you’ve known this face longer than the handful of minutes it’s been unmasked.
Your thumb lingers on his bottom lip, dragging across the soft curve, while your other hand toys idly with the hair at his nape. He shudders, almost imperceptibly, but you catch it—just like you catch the way his breath quickens when your nails scrape lightly against his skin.
Something here doesn’t feel like two strangers in the back of a burlesque club. It doesn’t feel like chance or curiosity. It feels fated. Like you’ve stumbled into some secret you weren’t supposed to find.
Because despite the stoicism of his face, despite how carefully he tries to keep still in his restraints, you can feel it radiating off him—his warmth, his need, the trembling thread of control he’s holding onto just because you’ve tied his hands down.
Anyone else would think a man like him would want the power, the rope, the dominance. But you knew. You could see it in the way his shoulders dropped when you knotted the ties, the way his eyes darkened when you pressed him back into the chair.
You knew what he needed. And it was driving him fucking bonkers.
Your lips find his throat in a hungry trail, teeth scraping, tongue soothing, kisses bruising in their urgency. His breath stutters, sharp and unsteady, when you nip at the tender spot just under his jaw, and the sound that slips from his chest is low enough to thrum through your bones.
You grind down against him, slow at first, rolling your hips deliberately so the friction builds exactly where you both need it. His thighs tense beneath you, his wrists tug uselessly at the restraints, and still—he doesn’t ask you to stop. Doesn’t command, doesn’t demand. He just gives.
“Fuck…” The word leaks out of him like he didn’t mean for it to, voice frayed with want. His head tips back, throat bared for you, and the sight makes you even more desperate.
You move with more need now, rocking harder against him, the thin layers of fabric between you damp and clinging. Every shift drags another sound out of him—low groans, sharp exhales, the occasional broken hum that makes heat coil in your belly.
Your hand slides down his chest, pausing to feel the way his heart pounds beneath your palm, before slipping lower. You don’t give him what he wants just yet—just tease along the waistband of his pants, fingertips pressing into the muscles twitching there. He bites his lip so hard you think it might bleed, and his eyes finally snap open to meet yours.
They’re blown wide, dark and glassy, the look of a man unraveling, and you smile against his neck. “You look so good like this,” you whisper, breath hot against his skin. “Tied up, needy. You want me to ruin you, don’t you?”
His jaw works, like he’s fighting to stay quiet, but when you roll your hips again—slow and punishing—he can’t hold it. “Yes. Please…”
The word falls out, hoarse, almost broken. And it makes you ache.
Your mouth finds his again, and this time you don’t hold back—biting, tugging at his lower lip before soothing it with a slow, desperate kiss. His lips are soft but swollen from how hard you’ve taken them, and the quiet groan he lets out vibrates straight into your chest.
You press yourself flush against him, chest to chest, nothing between you but heat and fabric. Every roll of your hips drags another shudder from him, his restrained hands clenching against the chair’s arms like he’s fighting the urge to break free.
“Shhh,” you whisper against his lips, your breath ghosting warm as you kiss him again, slower, gentler. “You’re doing so good for me… letting me have you like this.”
His lashes flutter, eyes squeezing shut as if your words hit somewhere deep. He exhales through his nose, a shaky sound, and when you kiss his jaw this time, softer than before, he turns into it like he’s starving for the reassurance.
Your teeth graze his skin, and then you’re back at his mouth, kissing him like you’ll drown without it—hungry, needy, but laced with tenderness that makes his whole body go taut. You murmur between kisses, your words half-sighs, half-promises:
“Just stay with me… let me take care of you… you don’t have to be anything but mine right now.”
His hips jerk upward instinctively, grinding into you even though you’re the one in control. The sound he makes is quiet but ragged, his composure slipping more with every roll of your body. Thumb brushing tenderly over his skin.
When you press your forehead to his, whispering softly, “You’re safe here. You’re mine,” he lets out a sound so wrecked and raw that it makes you ache all over.
You rise from his lap slowly, his breath chasing you like he can’t stand to lose the closeness. His eyes never leave you as your fingers trail down your body, toying with the hem of your outfit before peeling it off piece by piece.
The dim backroom light glances over the curves of your skin as you strip, every movement unhurried, purposeful. You keep the fishnets on, the dark pattern wrapping your legs like art, a detail you know will ruin him.
His chest heaves as he watches, tied hands straining against the chair’s arms, jaw tight like it takes everything in him not to beg already. You can feel his gaze on you like it’s a touch, hot and desperate, devouring every inch you reveal.
You smirk softly, stepping close again, and let your hand drag along his thigh as you lower yourself. His pants come undone with an easy tug, and you peel them down, slow enough to make him twitch beneath you. His boxers do little to hide the way he’s straining, thick and hard against the fabric.
You stroke him through it first, just enough pressure to have him gritting his teeth, groaning low in his throat. His hips lift without him meaning to, chasing more friction, and you lean in, kissing along his jaw as your hand keeps teasing.
Then, with a tug, you pull the thin fabric down, freeing him. He’s flushed, heavy, already leaking, and the sight alone makes your mouth water. You let your fingers glide down his length once, feather-light, before climbing back into his lap, straddling him again.
His cock presses against you, hot and throbbing, but you don’t give him what he wants just yet. Instead, you rock your hips just enough to tease him, his breath ragged against your ear.
“Say it,” you whisper, voice low and sultry, your hand braced against his chest to keep him pinned. “Say please.”
His jaw works, stubborn for only a beat before his composure shatters. “Please,” he rasps, voice breaking. His eyes snap to yours through the mask, wide and desperate. “Please—fuck me.”
You smile, soft but dangerous, lips brushing his as you whisper back, “That’s my good boy.”
You line yourself up slowly, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing yourself on him while keeping your eyes locked to his. His chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven breaths, hands flexing uselessly against the restraints, his whole body begging even if his lips can’t form the words fast enough.
“Fuck…” he groans, his head falling back against the chair when you sink just the tip inside. His thighs quiver beneath you, muscles straining as if he’s holding himself together by sheer will.
You lower yourself inch by inch, savoring the stretch, the way he fills you so achingly slow. Every part of him presses into you perfectly, and you moan at the fullness, nails digging into his chest for balance.
When you finally sink all the way down, both of you gasp—his sharp and guttural, yours breathless and broken. You stay there for a moment, seated fully on him, your fishnets brushing rough against his thighs while your walls flutter desperately around him.
“Fuck—you feel…” His voice cracks, low and wrecked, and he can’t even finish the thought. His eyes are wild behind the mask, and his hips twitch upward, needing more.
You smile, leaning close to kiss him—slow, messy, hungry—while you roll your hips, dragging yourself over him in deep, deliberate motions. Every thrust of him inside you has you clenching tighter, your moans spilling against his mouth.
“God, you’re so good like this,” you murmur against his lips, grinding down harder. “So desperate for me. All tied up and still trying to fuck me back.”
His groan tears through the room, rough and needy. “Please—don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
And you don’t—you rise and fall in a steady rhythm, riding him deeper, faster, his cock stretching you with every thrust. The sound of your slick and his desperate panting fills the air, your nails leaving marks on his chest as you chase the growing wave of pleasure.
Every move of your hips has him unraveling further, his composure shattered completely as he moans your name, raw and frantic, like he can’t hold it back anymore.
Your hips slam down again, harder this time, and the sharp stretch makes your eyes roll back. A broken laugh escapes you, half-moan, half-disbelief, and you clutch his jaw in your hand, forcing him to look at you.
“God—you’re so thick,” you pant, kissing him hard and sloppy before pulling back just enough to whisper against his lips. “The way you stretch me… it’s perfect. Like you were made to ruin me.”
His groan rips through his chest, deep and wrecked, and his hips buck up into you, desperate for more.
You bite your lip, riding him deeper, your voice dropping lower, sultrier, a confession you can’t hold in. “I could let you fuck me like this for days—just to feel you inside me, filling me up, keeping me stretched around your cock.”
His eyes snap open at that, wide and dark, the look in them nothing short of feral. “Fuck,” he growls, the word breaking as his bound wrists jerk against the restraints. He wants to touch you so badly it’s practically vibrating off of him.
You smirk, leaning down to kiss along his throat, letting your teeth graze just hard enough to make him gasp. “Patience, pretty boy,” you murmur, voice honey-slick. “You’re mine like this. And I’m not done with you yet.”
You ride him harder now, the slap of your bodies filling the room, sweat making your thighs slick where they press against his. Every thrust has you both gasping, panting into each other’s mouths, but he’s unraveling faster than you.
Jungkook kisses you like a starving man—wet, frantic, his tongue sliding against yours as if he can pour all the want in his chest into the space between your mouths. He bites at your lips, groans into your kisses, but it’s not enough. God, it’s not nearly enough.
His wrists strain against the ropes, muscles tight, veins bulging as he tries and fails to break free. In his head, it’s chaos: he wants to grab your tits, wants to squeeze them until you gasp his name; wants to dip you back, bare your throat, and drag his tongue all the way up the center of your trachea until you’re shivering. He aches to grip your waist, to force you down harder, to grind you back and forth on his cock while he latches onto your nipples and devours you there too.
Fuck—he thinks of everything he’d do to you, everything he needs to do, and it rips a helpless whimper from his throat before he can stop it.
You freeze for just a beat, eyes darting down to his face, worried you might have hurt him. But then you see it—his eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched, sweat dripping from his temples, his body shaking with the effort of holding back. That sound wasn’t pain. That sound was pure desperation.
A slow smile curls at your lips as you lean down, your sweat-sheened forehead pressing against his temple. You roll your hips slower, deeper, dragging him through every wet, tight clench of your cunt. Your lips ghost against his ear as you whisper, voice dark and sultry, “Don’t worry, baby… I can slow down for you. I don’t want it to end yet either.”
His body shudders at your words, another groan torn out of him, this one wrecked and raw.
Finally, you sit up, fingers slipping down to untie the restraints biting into his wrists. The moment he feels the last knot loosen, his hands fly to your body—rough palms gripping your waist hard enough to bruise, hauling you down onto him in a sharp, desperate thrust that makes you cry out.
The look in his eyes when he finally grips you is feral, as though every second he spent tied back only stoked the fire higher.
The second the ropes fall away, his hands are everywhere—rough, frantic, almost shaking with the pent-up need of being denied for too long. He drags you down harder onto his cock, forcing a sharp gasp out of your throat as he thrusts up into you with everything he has.
“Fuck—” he groans, his voice ragged, his hands greedy as they clutch your waist, your ass, your thighs, pulling you tighter, deeper. He doesn’t even know where to touch first, doesn’t care—he just needs all of you, at once.
His mouth is on your tits before you can think, teeth grazing one nipple before sucking it deep into the wet heat of his mouth. His tongue circles it hard, sloppy, almost desperate, and you cry out, your back arching as he groans against your skin. His free hand cups your other breast, kneading roughly, thumb flicking over your nipple like he can’t stand to leave it untouched.
He pulls back only to trail kisses—no, licks—down the valley of your chest, hot, wet stripes of his tongue dragging up your sternum to your throat. The sensation makes your whole body shudder, his mouth messy as he licks, bites, and kisses his way up to your jaw.
“You taste so fucking good,” he growls against your skin, biting down lightly before sucking at your pulse until you whimper. “I’ve been going insane—” His words cut off as he kisses you again, all teeth and tongue, like he’s trying to swallow you whole.
His grip on your waist is bruising as he rocks you back and forth, grinding you against him while his hips thrust up, driving his cock deeper into your soaked heat. You feel every thick inch of him stretch you, every desperate slam of his body against yours, the friction only made hotter by the sweat sheening both of your skin.
“Fuck, you’re so wet for me,” he pants against your lips, biting at them again as his tongue plunges into your mouth. “So fucking tight—”
He doesn’t stop touching you—fingers digging into your flesh, mouth claiming every inch of skin he can reach, as though he’s making up for every second he couldn’t. It’s messy, frantic, pure hunger, his control shattered and replaced with nothing but raw, unrestrained need.
And the way he’s looking at you between kisses, eyes wild and dark, makes you feel like he’s never going to let you go.
His mouth is relentless—wet, hot kisses smearing across your throat, tongue dragging over the sensitive skin of your collarbone before he bites down just enough to make you gasp. He groans at the sound, lips sliding lower again to suck another nipple between his teeth, tugging hard before laving it with his tongue.
Your skin is damp under his mouth, slick with sweat, and his hair sticks to his forehead as he buries his face in your chest. He can’t stop—sucking, licking, biting—like every mark he leaves is a claim, a proof you’re his right now. His hands grip your ass, squeezing, dragging you forward and back on his cock as if the thought of you slowing even for a second is unbearable.
You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into the hard muscle as he fucks up into you, filling you so deep you can barely breathe. Your moans are messy, desperate, spilling out of you with every bounce of your hips, and Jungkook devours them, kissing you sloppily, tongues tangling, both of you panting against each other’s mouths.
The air between you is thick—sweat, heat, the sharp scent of sex, the slick sound of your body taking him again and again. You’re lightheaded from it, drowning in the sensation of his cock stretching you wide, his chest slick against yours, his mouth worshipping every inch he can reach. Your forehead pressing to his as you whimper, “I’m close, fuck, I’m so close.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes glazed and wild, his lips red and wet from all the kissing, all the biting. His hips snap up harder, sharper, pounding into you with a rhythm that makes your body jolt.
“Do you have any idea,” he growls, voice low and wrecked, “how good it feels to have your pussy squeezing me like this?”
Your breath stutters, a whine catching in your throat at his words, and his jaw clenches, eyes flicking over your face like he’s memorizing the way you fall apart on him. His hands tighten on your waist, grinding you down to meet every thrust, forcing you to take him even deeper.
“Fuck—you’re driving me insane,” he groans, biting your shoulder before kissing it tenderly, almost apologetically, and then thrusting up again, harder, so deep your vision blurs.
He shifts suddenly, his control snapping into place as though he’s been waiting for this exact moment. His grip on your waist is brutal, dragging you down to meet each punishing thrust, his cock driving so deep inside you the world goes white around the edges.
He’s loud now, no longer holding back—every groan, every curse, every shattered sound tearing out of his throat with each slam of his hips. “Fuck—yes, just like that,” he snarls, his head falling back for a beat before snapping forward again, eyes locked to yours, wild and desperate. “You feel so fucking good around me, so tight—shit, I can’t—”
The rawness of his voice, the way he takes complete control, makes your knees weak even as you straddle him. Your nails scrape down his chest, leaving red lines, but you don’t care—you’re too far gone, your body coiling tight, your moans turning into frantic whines.
And then it hits—you break with a sharp cry, your pussy clenching around him in desperate waves, squeezing him so tight you feel every twitch, every drag of his cock inside you.
His jaw locks, a guttural groan ripping from his chest as his hips slam up hard, once, twice, before he’s gone too. His cock jerks inside you, twitching as he spills deep, the warmth filling you in hot, pulsing bursts.
You collapse into each other, sweaty bodies sticking together, mouths still dragging against lips, throats, anywhere you can reach. His hands clutch your hips so hard it hurts, bruises blooming under his grip as if he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.
Both of you pant, foreheads pressed together, your hips still jerking reflexively as the aftershocks roll through you. His cock twitches one last time inside you, and he groans low, almost like he can’t believe how good it feels to be buried so deep, still connected.
The room is thick with your shared breaths, with the sound of your heartbeats still racing against each other. For a long moment, you don’t speak—you just cling, coming down together in the quiet, your sweat-slick bodies tangled and trembling.
Your chest still heaves against his, both of you catching your breath as your body slowly stops trembling. Sweat drips down your temples, and your thighs ache from where you’re still straddling him, but you don’t move—not yet. Instead, you cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing gently over his flushed cheeks.
A small, breathless giggle escapes you, lightening the haze of heat that lingers in the room. “So,” you murmur, eyes searching his face, “are you finally going to tell me your name?”
He blinks at you, startled for a beat, then breaks into a wide, boyish smile—so different from the hungry, desperate man who just had you writhing on his lap. “Jungkook,” he admits, voice low but warm.
Your lips quirk, playful despite your exhaustion. “Would have been nice to hear you say it earlier,” he teases, tilting your head.
You laugh softly, still out of breath, eyes shining with something he can’t quite place. “Oh, so you have critiques? After how good that was?”
You grin, biting your lip as your hands slide back to tangle in the damp hair at his nape. “Mm, maybe just one or two,” he whispers, leaning close to brush your lips against his again.
You stayed where you were, palm still resting against his cheek, thumb tracing along the edge of his jaw as though your hand had found its home there. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close, anchoring you in the haze of heat and sweat. He tilted his head just slightly, looking up at you with dark, still-dazed eyes.
“I’m glad it was you,” he murmured, his voice softer now, laced with something unguarded.
A smile tugged at your lips, breathless and tender. “Me too, Jungkook.” Saying his name for the first time felt like claiming something, and his answering grin—wide, boyish, and a little proud—made your chest ache in the sweetest way.
Leaning into your touch, he let his lashes fall, voice dipping even lower. “Don’t disappear on me, okay?”
Your heart skipped. You pressed your forehead against his, whispering back, “I won’t.”
For a moment, the world was just the two of you. Then, as if unable to help himself, he chuckled softly, mischief curling through the edges of his tone. “Might have to make this place a regular stop. Catch more of your shows.” His fingers flexed at your waist, teasing. “Maybe even step in as your love interest one night.”
You laughed, breathy and warm, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
The corner of his mouth lifted, a glint in his eyes that promised trouble and devotion both. “I’d love that.”
And with his arms locked around you as if he had no intention of letting go, you couldn’t help but believe him.
★ — synopsis: professor satoru has a big problem—everyone wants him, but his dick wants no one. erectile dysfunction hits hard, until he stumbles into a nightclub and sees his quiet, nerdy student dressed like a sexy villain. and to his suprise, something downstairs finally wakes up.
★ — tags & warnings: MDNI. fem!reader. age gap, unprotected p in v, pūssydrūnk, oral (fem!recieving.) fíngeríng, spíttíng, overstím, dom!reader, dry humpíng, blōwjōb, chōkíng, slight tummy bulge, size kīnk. reader is an adult.
★ — author's note: HAPPY (early) KINKTOBER YAYY. thanks for 4k so consider this as a thank you gift 🫶🏼
the gojo fanart in the middle by @/3-aem !!
satoru always thought hell would be fire and brimstone. the cartoon version. little red devils with pitchforks, laughing while they jabbed him in the ribs. rivers of lava, gnashing teeth, the whole sunday school slideshow burned into his brain.
he never thought hell would look like this.
the bass rattled his ribs like someone had hollowed him out and stuffed a subwoofer inside. every beat felt like it was shaking his skeleton loose. neon lights cut across the room in sharp stabs of pink and blue, flashing fast enough to fry retinas. strangers pressed together, grinding, sweaty, blurred into one big organism that breathed and moaned in time with the music. the air was thick with perfume, cigarettes, and that sticky-sweet smell of spilled liquor clinging to everything.
and speaking of spilled liquor—his sweater vest had taken the hit. a splash of something neon and syrupy had soaked into the fabric, cooling fast against his skin.
he looked down at himself. the vest. the collared shirt. the smudged glasses sliding down his nose. he stuck out like a chalkboard at an imax theater.
jesus. what was he even doing here?
satoru hunched at the edge of the room, trying to fold six-foot-something of himself into invisibility. his long frame bent awkwardly, one hand wrapped around a glass of something he wasn’t drinking, the other shoved deep into his pocket. he stared into the alcohol like it was the most complex equation he’d ever seen, as if enough focus could rewrite reality and teleport him back home.
he could already imagine the voices of his colleagues.
professor gojo? out? on a friday night? in public? with other human beings?
they’d laugh until they choked.
and honestly, he couldn’t even fault them. his idea of “wild” was alphabetizing his bookcase differently. sweater vests weren’t ironic—they were his uniform. his hair was a perpetual disaster. his glasses had never once been clean.
yet somehow, impossibly, people wanted him. women. men. hell, even the terrifying librarian with the sharp nails had once slipped her number into his pocket and scratched his palm on purpose.
but none of it mattered. because his cock wanted no one.
months of failure—years, if he stopped lying to himself. soft, useless, unresponsive. like a bored student passed out in the back of a lecture hall. hands, mouths, bodies, toys, pills, even guided breathing exercises he found on youtube. nothing worked. he’d tried so hard.
a doctor had once patted his knee, offered him a kind smile, and said it was probably psychological. probably. as if that helped.
so here he was. in hell. in a nightclub. chasing some faint ghost of arousal he barely remembered, desperate enough to gamble on noise and neon fixing something pills couldn’t.
he swirled the liquid in his glass, watching the ice clink against the sides. his palms were sweating, napkin damp and tearing in his grip. the sticky spill on his vest itched. everyone else here looked poured into leather and lace, bodies slick with heat, moving like choreography. he looked like somebody’s lost chaperone.
he was going to leave. he could already hear the excuses forming. you tried. you showed up. that counts. go home, put on jeopardy reruns, pretend this never happened.
and then—
his eyes caught on the bar.
his chest locked tight.
because there, bathed in neon haze, was you.
his student.
quiet. diligent. always front row. notebooks filled with neat handwriting, margins full of smart little questions that made his chest ache with pride. the kind of student who turned assignments in early. who lingered after class to double-check things with a polite smile.
and now—
now you were lit up in violent flashes of pink and blue. straps biting into your thighs, a glittering body chain sparking under the strobe. lipstick dark and wet, dangerous. you moved behind the bar with practiced ease, bottles flashing in your hands, wrists flexing with the same precision you used to balance equations.
someone—holy fuck—slipped a bill into your thigh strap. and you only smirked. unbothered.
satoru’s breath hitched.
this wasn’t real. it couldn’t be real. you weren’t supposed to look like this. you weren’t supposed to look like you’d stepped out of his most private, most shameful late-night fantasies—except sharper, alive, intentional.
and then it happened.
a twitch. a stirring. a pulse low in his gut.
satoru almost dropped his glass.
because his cock—his stubborn, traitorous, useless cock—was waking up. not halfheartedly. not maybe-if-you-squint. no, it was real hard. straining against his slacks, throbbing like it had been shocked back from the dead.
his face burned. no. no no no. this was unethical. wrong. god, illegal. he should turn around and leave, sprint home, bury himself under blankets until the shame killed him.
but his feet betrayed him.
like gravity had shifted, like he’d been caught in some perverse orbit, he drifted toward the bar, clutching his glass like a talisman.
“oh—uh, h-hi,” he croaked, throat bone-dry, voice cracking.
your smile was small at first, the kind bartenders give when they’re humoring some sad man too out of place for the room. but then it curved, sharpened, and oh god, it was aimed right at him.
satoru’s stomach dropped like an elevator.
“professor?” you said, like you couldn’t quite believe it. your voice cut through the bass, familiar in a way that made his ears burn. “what are you doing here?”
his mouth opened. nothing came out. he tried again, fumbling like a freshman caught cheating. “i—uh—research?”
oh god.
research?!
he wanted to bite his own tongue off.
you arched a brow, wiping the bar with a rag, unimpressed. “research. in a club?”
“anthropology,” he blurted, then immediately winced. “sociology. human… behavior.”
you snorted, and the sound went straight to his cock. fuck. since when did laughter make him hard?
“you’re terrible at lying,” you said, leaning on the counter. your body chain dipped, catching the light, and he swore he almost passed out. “so. try again, professor. why are you here?”
his glasses slipped down his nose. he pushed them up with a shaky hand, fingers clammy against the frames. “i… i don’t know.”
and it was true. he didn’t know. he’d come chasing some hopeless spark, some phantom memory of desire. but now, faced with you—his quietest student dressed like a nightmare dressed like a dream—he had no words, no excuse, nothing.
you tilted your head, studying him the way you did in class when he went off on tangents about wave-particle duality. except now your eyes were darker, sharper, and satoru felt pinned like a bug.
“hm,” you said, and that little sound nearly undid him.
he scrambled for composure. “shouldn’t you, uh… be studying? not, um…” his hand flailed vaguely at your outfit, at the neon, at the woman trying to squeeze past with three shots in each hand. “…this?”
you laughed again. “oh, professor. i can multitask.”
his cock twitched. hard. jesus christ.
you slid a glass toward him. whiskey, neat. the kind of drink that burned going down, exactly what he deserved.
“here,” you said, lips quirking. “on the house. unless you want me to put it on your… tuition.”
satoru choked. literally choked. coughs tore out of him while his face went scarlet. you watched with undisguised amusement, not moving to help.
“you’re enjoying this,” he accused weakly, wiping at his mouth with a napkin that dissolved instantly in condensation.
“maybe.” your smirk widened. “you look cute when you’re flustered.”
his brain short-circuited. cute. you called him cute. his cock pressed insistently against his slacks, proof of his betrayal.
“i—i’m not—” he stammered, but you cut him off with a lazy wave.
“don’t bother. you’re blushing so hard i can see it even under these lights.”
he dropped his gaze to the drink. amber liquid swirled, reflecting neon. he wished he could sink into it and drown.
“so,” you said casually, like you weren’t dismantling his entire sense of self, “what’s a professor doing all alone at a club, looking like someone’s lost dad?”
“that’s—harsh,” he muttered.
“accurate,” you shot back, grin quick and sharp.
he couldn’t look at you. couldn’t look at your mouth, your chain, the way you leaned just far enough forward that every inch of skin caught the light. his throat worked uselessly.
“i shouldn’t be here,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.
“and yet.” your voice was smooth, merciless. “here you are.”
satoru downed the whiskey in one gulp. it scorched his throat, burned all the way down, but it didn’t steady his hands. didn’t stop the ache building in his cock, thick and heavy, a sensation he hadn’t felt in too long.
“i should leave,” he tried again, pushing his glasses up.
“you won’t.”
he blinked. “i—what?”
“you won’t,” you repeated, smirk back in place. “because you’re curious.” you leaned closer, so close he could smell your perfume, heady and dangerous. “aren’t you?”
satoru told himself he could leave at any moment.
he’d finish the whiskey, set the glass down, mutter some excuse about “an early lecture tomorrow,” and walk out. back to his apartment. back to his alphabetized bookshelves and his disappointing bed.
but he didn’t move.
the bass thrummed through the soles of his shoes, through his bones, like it was mocking the rhythm of his pulse. sweat prickled down his back beneath his sweater vest. every time he risked a glance at you, he swore the room shifted, tilting on some new axis, as if you were its center.
and you weren’t even doing anything. just working. mixing drinks with methodical precision, slipping straws between lacquered lips to taste-test before sliding them across to strangers. laughing at some offhand joke from another bartender. leaning forward just enough that the chain across your chest glittered and dipped, pulling his gaze like a lodestone.
it was unbearable. he wasn’t built for this.
your laugh was too loud in his head. his name sounded different on your tongue—professor—but stretched into something teasing, indulgent, like you were tasting it. he kept replaying it, again and again, like an idiot listening to a broken record.
he thought of the classroom. you, hunched over neat notes. the quiet hum you made when something clicked in your head. the way your eyes brightened when he explained concepts no one else bothered to ask about. safe. simple. untouchable.
and now—this.
what was worse? that you looked like sin personified, or that his body responded to you instantly, violently, in a way it hadn’t responded to anyone in months.
his cock pressed hard against the zipper of his slacks, an ache he’d half-convinced himself he’d never feel again. humiliating. exhilarating. he wanted to crawl out of his own skin.
he barely realized you were speaking until your words cut clean through his haze.
“so what’s the real reason you’re here, professor?”
his heart jolted.
“i—i told you—”
“research?” your smirk slanted, ruthless. “you’ve been staring at me like i’m the experiment.”
he flinched. too obvious. he was too obvious.
“i wasn’t—”
“you were.” your voice was low, amused. “so what’s the hypothesis? what are you testing?”
he wanted to melt into the bar. vanish between the floorboards. die instantly, do not collect two hundred dollars.
“i shouldn’t—” he started, but his throat closed. he swallowed, the burn of whiskey still sharp. “…be here.”
“and yet.” your gaze held his. “here you are.”
he hated how your words stuck. how they rang truer than anything he could summon.
you slid closer along the bar, slow, deliberate, until he could smell you. not perfume, not entirely—something warmer, like sweat, leather, faint sugar from spilled drinks. dizzying. he was suddenly hyperaware of the glasses sliding down his nose, the sweat on his palms, the way his knees pressed awkwardly together like a teenager.
“want me to guess?” you asked.
he couldn’t speak. he nodded.
you leaned in, lips nearly brushing the rim of his ear, and his entire body went rigid.
“you came here because you’re desperate.”
his cock throbbed. shame twisted in his chest, but his body betrayed him.
“no—i’m not—”
“you are.” you didn’t even let him finish. “you’ve got this reputation, right? handsome professor, women fawning over you, colleagues jealous. but you look miserable.” a pause. a smirk in your tone. “like a man who can’t get it up.”
the air vanished from his lungs.
he stared at the counter, vision blurring. if there had been any mercy in the universe, the floor would have opened up beneath him.
“h-how—”
“i can tell,” you said easily, like you were pointing out the weather. “the way you’re sitting. the way you drink like it’ll save you. the way you’re staring at me like you don’t know whether to beg or bolt.”
a whimper caught in his throat. he clamped his lips shut, horrified.
your grin was sharp enough to wound.
“don’t worry, professor,” you murmured, leaning back, stretching like a cat. “i think it’s cute.”
cute. there it was again. his entire face was burning. his body was a live wire, buzzing, too much input all at once.
he tried to swallow words that didn’t form. tried to breathe. tried not to reach for himself under the bar like a pathetic man.
and then you tilted your head, watching him squirm, and said the words that broke him:
“want me to help you?”
his head snapped up. his throat bobbed, working uselessly around sounds.
“i—i can’t—this is wrong—”
“wrong?” you interrupted, lips quirking. “look around, professor.”
he did.
the club pulsed and writhed with bodies, couples grinding, strangers pressed against walls, mouths and hands everywhere. people moaning into each other’s necks, slipping fingers under clothes, lost in their own hunger. no one cared. no one noticed him.
except you.
you leaned closer, gaze bright in the dark. “so. what’s it gonna be? back to your little apartment, back to boring physics theories and untouched cock…” your hand brushed his knee under the bar, light as static. “or let me show you what it feels like to want again?”
satoru’s pulse roared in his ears.
his cock strained hard, insistent. his brain was sludge, torn between flight and surrender.
he should leave. he should.
instead, his lips parted, voice shaky, cracked, humiliating:
“…please.”
your smile was triumphant. the wicked, malicious kind.
“good boy.”
the words sank into him slow.
"good boy."
his chest seized. his cock twitched, painful against the zipper. no one had ever called him that in his thirty-nine years of life, not like this, not with a voice that dripped command and amusement and warmth all at once.
his glasses slid down his nose, blurred neon smears swimming in his vision, but he couldn’t lift a hand to fix them. he was frozen. small. wide-eyed.
you tilted your head, smile sharp. “come on, professor. up.”
he blinked. “w-what?”
“up.” your hand closed around his wrist, cool metal from your rings pressing against his skin, and before he could resist—before he could think—you were tugging him off the barstool.
his legs wobbled. he nearly tripped, muttering an apology even though you didn’t stumble. the crowd pressed in on every side, bodies slick and shameless, but all he could feel was your hand guiding him, sure and steady, threading through the chaos.
“w-wait,” he stammered, trying to plant his heels. “where—where are we—”
“somewhere better.”
he wanted to ask what that meant. he wanted to protest, to point out the ethical violations, the sheer impossibility of this. he wanted to run.
instead, his cock throbbed harder.
the crowd swallowed you both whole. neon washed over faces twisted in pleasure, mouths open, eyes closed. no one looked. no one cared. satoru’s chest heaved, panic and arousal choking him, and still you dragged him deeper, until you found an empty couch pushed up against the wall.
you shoved him down onto it with terrifying ease.
satoru sat stiff, knees locked together, sweater vest damp with sweat. his glasses fogged instantly.
“breathe,” you said, standing over him, hands sliding down your own body like you knew exactly how to keep his eyes glued. “you look like you’re gonna faint.”
he swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “i—I just—this is—”
“shh.” you climbed into his lap, straddling him like you’d done it a thousand times, like his body had always been your seat. the shift of your weight pressed him deeper into the cracked leather couch, and his breath left him in a strangled wheeze, the kind that clawed its way up from his chest without permission.
his cock lurched violently against the too-tight confines of his slacks, the swollen head straining against the damp fabric where precum had already bled through.
his hands flailed uselessly at his sides before gripping the cushions like a lifeline, knuckles bleaching white, fingers trembling. he was terrified to touch you, because what if he ruined it? what if he crossed a line?
but he was equally terrified not to, because every inch of him screamed to hold you, to clutch at your hips, to pull you closer. caught between the two, he clung to the couch as though it might ground him while his entire world tilted off its axis.
“shit,” he whispered, voice cracking so badly it almost wasn’t a word. “this is—fuck, this is—”
your body chain caught the strobing light as you leaned in, the flash of silver burning his retinas before your lips brushed the shell of his ear. he flinched at the ghost of your breath, chest heaving like you’d branded him.
“relax, professor,” you murmured, voice low and cruelly soothing. “i’ll take care of you.”
his hips jerked helplessly before he could stop them, rutting up against you like he had no control left. the motion dragged a shocked gasp out of him, and heat rushed to his face so fast it burned.
“i’m sorry—I didn’t mean—fuck, i can’t—” the words tumbled out of him in a flood, every syllable stammered, desperate to cover his shame.
“stop apologizing,” you ordered, rolling your hips slow and deliberate against the thick ridge in his pants. the drag of your body over his cock stole the air straight from his lungs. a raw sound ripped free of his throat, high and broken, somewhere between a whimper and a groan.
“just feel.”
and he did. his whole body bowed under the order. every nerve lit up sharp and electric, too much at once, like his skin was too thin for what you were doing to him. his cock strained painfully, the pressure unbearable, every throb slicking his boxers wetter. he’d been empty for months—years, really—living in silence, shutting down, failing every time he tried. now it all came roaring back with a vengeance, violent in its intensity.
“f-fuck, wait, i—i think—” his head tipped back against the couch so hard the frame rattled, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose until the neon lights fractured through the skewed lenses. “i can’t, i can’t—”
you caught his chin, grip firm, forcing his gaze back up to you. the bass rattled his ribs, but your voice cut clean through it. your eyes burned, merciless, bright with the kind of authority that stripped him bare.
“you can,” you said. every word sharp as a blade. “and you will. i’m not stopping until you’re wrecked.”
something inside him cracked wide open at that—some fragile wall he’d been clutching tight for years.
a choked whimper tore up from his throat, humiliating in its pitch, loud enough that it vanished into the club’s bassline before anyone could catch it. his cock pulsed, aching, straining so hard against the soaked fabric he thought he might spill untouched, just from the relentless grind of your hips, the heat of your body, and the way you looked at him like he was already yours.
your head tilted, lashes heavy, hands resting deliberate on his chest, nails grazing the knit of his sweater vest like you were testing the weave. “so tense,” you murmured, and the way your breath ghosted across his face made his cock lurch violently against his thigh. “doesn’t anyone ever touch you?”
the question sliced him straight open.
his throat bobbed hard. “n-no. i mean— not like this—oh fuck—”
your grin was wicked, slow, sharpened with intent. and then you rolled your hips down, devastating friction sparking white behind his eyes, and he choked on a sound that didn’t belong to him, too high, too desperate, too filthy.
“please,” he gasped, already spiraling into humiliation, voice cracking. “i—I can’t, i’ll—”
“you’ll what?” your voice was silk, smooth and cruel, unhurried, like you had all the time in the world to watch him unravel.
his head dropped back against the couch, glasses sliding down his nose, hair sticking to his damp forehead. “i’ll c-cum—” the words broke as his body jolted, thighs trembling, because you ground down again, heat and pressure tearing through him like he was on fire.
your eyes glinted, unbothered, like this had always been inevitable. “then cum.”
two words. and he broke instantly.
his hips bucked helpless, desperate, and then he was spilling in his slacks with a raw, humiliating cry that punched out of his chest before he could choke it down. hot wetness flooded the fabric, cock twitching helplessly under you as you held him there, forcing him to rut into the mess while the club roared around you.
the sound that ripped out of him was loud, cracked, raw enough that a few heads actually turned—but no one cared, everyone too busy moaning, grinding, fucking against the walls. his face burned like it was on fire, shame and bliss strangling each other in his chest, and then he collapsed back against the couch, glasses crooked, chest heaving, sweat gluing his shirt to his skin.
“oh my god,” he stammered, voice breaking, hands trembling like they didn’t know where to go. “i—I’m sorry, i didn’t mean to, i couldn’t—”
“shhh.” your palm dragged deliberately across the wet patch spreading thick across his slacks. he jolted like you had electrocuted him. “wait—n-no, too much, i just—”
“you’re still hard,” you observed, voice calm, amused, a scientist noting a phenomenon.
his breath caught hard. because you were right—his cock was still rock-hard, twitching in the sticky mess, throbbing under your palm, desperate and disobedient. betrayal, unbearable shame, and molten pleasure all crashed through him until he couldn’t breathe.
“look at you,” you murmured, pressing firmer, stroking him through the soaked fabric. “your body doesn’t want to stop.”
he shook his head, thighs trembling, voice cracking. “i c-can’t—it’s too much, i can’t—”
“you can.”
his vision blurred, the world a haze of neon and bass and strangers fucking in every direction, but all of it faded into white noise compared to the heat of your hand on his ruined cock.
the sharp rasp of his zipper being pulled down cut through everything. his stomach dropped, a pit opening.
“n-no, wait—”
but you were already freeing him, dragging his cock out, and it sprang up against his stomach, fat and flushed dark, wet with his own cum. it slapped heavy against his shirt, drool-thick strings clinging to the fabric, veins pulsing down the obscene length.
his whine cracked in the back of his throat. “please, please, it’s too sensitive, i just—”
“exactly,” you purred, sweeping your thumb slow over the leaking head, and satoru almost screamed.
his hips jerked like he was trying to both push closer and pull away at the same time, and his mouth just poured nonsense, cracked babbles of: “i can’t—fuck, oh god—don’t, don’t, i’ll—please—”
you ignored him, stroking steady and merciless, fingers wrapping tight around the slick shaft, twisting just enough to make him writhe.
every stroke wrung another wrecked sound out of him—strangled moans, breathless apologies, gasps that made his face burn hotter than the neon.
“so sensitive,” you murmured, almost admiring, watching his cock pulse in your fist. “and you’re still leaking. fucking unbelievable.”
he tried, half-sobbing. “i—it’s embarrassing, i don’t—” but his protest cut off with a choked cry when your wrist twisted, dragging cum and slick in a perfect glide. “please, it’s too much—”
“you’re doing fine.”
and then, before his brain could catch up, you shifted off his lap, sliding down to your knees in front of him.
satoru’s stomach flipped so hard it felt like he might be sick. “w-wait, no, you don’t—don’t have to, you shouldn’t—”
but then your mouth closed over his cock and the world ripped out from under him.
a sharp, humiliating cry tore out of his throat, lost to the pounding bass, his glasses sliding down his nose as his whole body convulsed. “oh god, oh fuck, your—your mouth—too warm—too much—!”
heat seared through every nerve ending, your tongue flattening against the thick vein under his shaft, your lips stretching tight around his girth as you sank down. he tried to push at your shoulders, terrified, babbling broken apologies between sobs of pleasure—“i’m sorry, i can’t, i’ll cum, i can’t hold it, please, i’m gonna, please stop, i can’t—”
your nails dug into his thighs, pinning him to the couch. no escape.
he sobbed, full-bodied, chest heaving, his whole world reduced to the wet drag of your throat and the unbearable pull of being forced to endure it. every suction, every glide, every obscene slurp had him arching off the seat like you were shocking him straight through the spine.
“please—please—i’m gonna—”
and then you hummed around him, and the vibration detonated through his nerves.
he broke. his cock jerked helplessly down your throat, hot cum spilling in thick spurts, gagging him on his own cry. it ripped the breath from his lungs, left him shaking violently, glasses fogged uselessly, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. the kind of sob that clawed out of him wasn’t meant for anyone else’s ears, high and raw, the sound of a man unraveling past recognition.
when you finally pulled off, his cock was still hard, still twitching, still drooling cum down the swollen length like it didn’t know the meaning of release.
you looked up at him through lashes wet with club-light, lips shining with spit and cum, a lazy smirk curling. “two.”
the word made his stomach drop through the floor.
“oh god,” he whispered, voice shredded, chest heaving like he had been drowned and dragged up again. “i can’t—i can’t, no more, it’s too much, i’m sorry—”
“look at you.” your hand wrapped him again, stroking slow, ignoring how he flinched, how his hips bucked despite his desperate pleas. “still hard. your body doesn’t know how to quit.”
he whimpered, mortified, his hands fisting so tight into the couch cushions the fabric threatened to rip.
you grabbed his chin, forced him to meet your eyes through the blur of tears. “you made a mess,” you murmured, rolling your hips so his cock twitched weakly inside you. “now it’s your turn.”
he stared, breath caught. “m-my… my turn?”
“yeah.” your smirk cut him open. “don’t you think you should take care of me too?”
the words short-circuited him. he stared like you had just rewritten physics in front of him, babbling, “w-wait, i—I’ve never—”
“exactly.” you guided his trembling hand down between your thighs, dragged his fingers straight into the slick heat, obscene and dripping.
his pupils blew wide, throat locking, a sound like prayer clawing out of him. you were soaked. his knuckles shone, drenched instantly, and the poor man nearly fainted.
“oh my god,” he croaked, voice breaking. “you’re—you’re really—fuck, you’re so wet—”
“don’t just stare.” you ground against his hand, coating his fingers more. “touch me.”
he looked wrecked, like he might cry from the pressure, but he obeyed, shaking fingers brushing tentative over your folds, clumsy and too soft. the tiny contact made your hips twitch, and his gasp was wild, like he had discovered fire.
“s-sorry! i don’t—i don’t know what i’m doing, i’ll mess it up—”
“then learn.”
and it detonated in him.
his fingers hovered like they were trespassing, trembling against the soaked heat of your cunt as though one wrong move might make you vanish. every nerve in his body screamed that he shouldn’t, couldn’t, but you were dragging him closer, guiding his hand like it was yours to command.
he swallowed hard, adam’s apple bobbing, breath wrecked and shaky. “i—i’ll mess it up,” he whispered, and the way his voice cracked on the words only made your thighs twitch around his wrist.
“then mess it up,” you said. “just do it.”
the smallest whimper broke out of him, almost inaudible, before he slid one finger in, too careful, too shallow. it wasn’t even enough to stretch you properly, but the slick heat that swallowed him down nearly knocked the breath out of his lungs.
“fuck.. oh god, you’re—” he bit the words off, glasses sliding down his nose as his eyes glued to the sight of his knuckle vanishing inside you. “you’re so warm, i can feel.”
he pushed a little deeper, unsteady, like he was afraid you’d burn him. his fingertip brushed that tender spot inside, purely by accident, and the way your hips jolted made his cock jerk so violently he almost came again untouched.
“did i—did i hurt you?” he stammered, terrified, but the noise you made—a broken, needy sound—set his ears ringing.
you grabbed his wrist and pressed him deeper, until the base of his finger was buried inside you. he choked, a wrecked sound clawing out of him as your walls squeezed around him. “holy fuck. holy fuck. you’re… you’re gripping me so tight.”
his hand was shaking so badly it made the movement jerky, awkward. he tried curling his finger, the way he must have read somewhere online, but it was too stiff, too hesitant, more trial-and-error than skill. still, each clumsy drag scraped over that sensitive spot again, and your breath hitched.
he froze. “that—was that good? i—fuck, tell me it was good—”
your laugh came broken, sharp with arousal. “keep going.”
so he did. one finger turned into two, a shaky stretch that had his forehead beading with sweat, because the snug heat clamped down like it was refusing to let him go. he pushed them in with a choked groan, as though your cunt was swallowing him whole instead of just his fingers.
“oh my god—oh my god—you’re so wet, it’s dripping down my hand—” he babbled, staring wide-eyed as slick glistened across his knuckles. “fuck, you’re—your body’s sucking me in, it’s—”
he thrust clumsily, too fast, then slowed to almost nothing, lost in the rhythm, like his brain couldn’t decide between frantic and reverent. every twitch of your walls had him gasping like he was the one being fucked, his hips jerking helplessly in the air, cock smearing more cum across his ruined shirt.
and when he tried curling them again, clumsy and off-angle, he still managed to rub over that perfect spot enough to make you arch. the sight of your head falling back, lips parted, sent him spiraling.
“oh, fuck, you like that—you like my fingers—fuck, i can’t believe. i can’t believe it’s me doing this—” his voice was breaking into frantic little gasps, humiliation and awe knotted tight together. “you’re squeezing so tight, i can feel every—every flutter—fuck, i feel like i'm gonna die...”
he pumped harder, wrist slick, two fingers scissoring inside you with messy, desperate insistence. he didn’t have finesse, didn’t know how to pace himself—but he had raw need, and it showed in every frantic drag, every shuddering whimper spilling out of him as he watched you come apart.
his breath rasped in your ear, hot and frantic. “i—I don’t know if it’s right—oh god, you’re clenching so hard—I can’t tell—” his words broke into a whine when your nails dug into his shoulder.
“keep going,” you ordered.
he obeyed instantly, fumbling faster, the sloppy rhythm making obscene squelches that filled the neon-drenched air. your slick coated his knuckles, running down to his wrist, dripping onto his ruined slacks. every time he realized how wet you were, his head shook like he couldn’t believe it.
“god, it’s everywhere—you’re dripping on me—fuck, fuck, it’s so hot—” he was babbling again, voice pitched high, cock twitching helplessly against his stomach. “i don’t deserve this.”
he tried curling his fingers like before, but the angle was wrong, too shallow. he groaned in frustration, muttering, “shit, no, wait, let me—” and pulled them almost all the way out before shoving them back in, too hard, making you jolt.
your gasp made him panic. “d-did I hurt you? oh god, I hurt you, I’m sorry—”
“shut up and do it again,” you snapped, hips bucking down to meet his hand.
his eyes rolled back, a wrecked sound clawing out of him. “fuck, you’re unreal...”
he started thrusting harder, less finesse, more instinct. the blunt force of his fingers wasn’t precise, but it was relentless, pumping fast enough that your thighs quivered against his wrist. he stared down, fascinated and horrified, at the way your slick gushed around him, his hand disappearing into the mess of your cunt.
“oh god, you’re soaking me—fuck, I can hear it, it’s so loud.”
the wet squelches spurred him on, and even when his pace faltered, his desperation filled the gaps. his palm slapped clumsily against your clit once, making you jolt with a sharp cry, and the sound broke him.
“there? was that—oh fuck, I did something right, didn’t I?”
he pressed again, rubbing his palm awkwardly over your clit while still driving his fingers inside. the angle was messy, his hand shaking too much, but the added friction made your hips grind against him without thinking.
your body betrayed you first, tightening hard around his fingers, the wet clutch of your cunt dragging him deeper. his eyes went wide, lips parting in shock. “you’re—oh my god, you’re close...”
his voice cracked into a whimper as he worked you harder, clumsy but relentless, pumping fast enough that your slick sprayed his wrist, coating his hand in shine. your nails raked down his back, and he sobbed, hips bucking into the air like he could fuck the phantom of your pleasure.
“please—please cum, I need it—oh god, g-give it to me...”
and when it finally hit, when your cunt fluttered and clamped tight around his fingers, he nearly screamed with you. your orgasm tore through you, soaking his hand, milking his clumsy thrusts as your back arched. the wet sounds doubled, tripled, until it was all you could hear under the bass.
“ohhh fuck—you’re cumming on me—on my fingers—holy shit, I’m making you—” his words spiraled into hysterics, forehead pressing to your chest as he panted. “you’re squeezing me so tight—I can feel everything... you’re so beautiful like this.”
your thighs trembled, cunt pulsing around the fingers still stuffed inside, and he looked ruined, wrecked, trembling like he was the one undone. cum smeared his shirt from his earlier release, but his cock still twitched angrily against his stomach, fat and flushed and desperate.
and still, his hand didn’t stop moving, fingers writhing inside you, like he was terrified to let you go.
“you’re still squeezing me,” he whispered, voice cracking. “it feels so good, I can’t… I don’t know how to stop.”
your body twitched under him, nerves raw, clit throbbing with every accidental brush of his palm. overstimulation began to crawl up your spine, that unbearable mix of ache and need that had your thighs clamping tight around his wrist. you tried to twist away, but he followed, his mouth hanging open, eyes glazed as he watched his fingers vanish into your dripping heat again and again.
“you’re dripping all over me,” he babbled, almost hysterical, his cheeks flushed scarlet. “it’s everywhere… you can cum again, right? you can, I know you can. your body feels like it wants to.”
the sloppy pressure of his palm ground over your clit again, and your back arched helplessly. a broken sound tore out of you, and that was all the encouragement he needed.
“yes, yes, there, that’s it,” he gasped, tears beading the corners of his eyes. “you feel so good on my fingers, I’ll do anything, just cum for me again, please.”
your walls clenched down brutally, and the orgasm ripped through you a second time, shorter, sharper, leaving your thighs shaking against his shoulders. you could hear the slick gush around his fingers, feel the mess smeared down his wrist.
satoru almost sobbed. “you really did… you came again on me. I can feel you everywhere. you’re perfect.”
he finally slowed, dragging his fingers out and staring in awe at how drenched they were, cum and slick coating him up to the knuckles. his cock twitched violently against his ruined shirt, leaking like he hadn’t already spilled earlier.
he looked up at you then, wrecked and trembling, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. his glasses were sliding down his nose, crooked, making him look even more like the flustered professor you knew.
“I… I want more,” he admitted, voice low and raw. “I want to be inside. please. I need it.”
the confession hit like a blow, his tone frantic but sincere, eyes wide with a kind of fear that came from desperation rather than doubt. he looked at you like you were his last chance at salvation.
“you want to fuck me here? in the club?” you teased, dragging your slick fingers down his chest.
his head bobbed in a shaky nod. “yes. I don’t care if they watch. I don’t care about anything. I need you. I’ve never—” his throat caught, and he forced the words out, trembling. “I’ve never wanted anything this much in my life.”
his cock pressed heavy and flushed against your stomach, twitching, leaking, obscenely hard in spite of everything. he wrapped a hand around the base like he was trying to steady it, but it only made it look bigger, angrier, every vein standing out against the flushed skin.
he met your eyes, broken and pleading. “tell me how. tell me what to do. I’ll try, I promise.”
satoru lined himself up with both hands, knuckles white, the fat weight of his cock slapping heavy against your stomach as he tried to steady it. his glasses had slid so far down his nose they were practically useless, but he didn’t dare push them back up—he needed both palms just to keep himself in place.
“god, it’s—fuck—it’s huge, it won’t…” his voice cracked, shaking apart as the flushed head dragged through your slick folds. every pass caught on your entrance, smearing cum and spit everywhere, and his hips jerked like a nervous tic. “I can feel the heat, I can feel you pulling me in already—I’m not gonna last if I even—if I just—”
you reached down and wrapped your hand around him, guiding the tip exactly where you wanted it. his whole body jolted like you’d stuck a live wire to his skin.
“wait—no, don’t, don’t guide me, I’ll lose it if you—ahh—” the words dissolved into a sharp, humiliating cry as you pushed him forward, the swollen head breaching your cunt with a brutal stretch.
his glasses fogged instantly, his jaw dropping open. “oh, fffuck, I’m in—I’m really—oh god, you’re strangling me, I can’t, it’s too tight—”
the stretch bordered on unbearable, your walls aching around him as he struggled to sink deeper. his chest heaved, every muscle straining, like he was trying to hold himself back but couldn’t.
“you’re so hot—so hot and wet—oh fuck, it hurts, but it’s good, it’s so good—I don’t deserve this, professors don’t—don’t belong inside—students—oh god—”
you dug your nails into his ass and dragged him down. he sobbed out loud, high-pitched and broken, as inch after inch forced its way inside, until his hips finally slammed flush with yours.
your stomach bulged with the shape of him, the obscene outline of his cock stretching you open, pulsing, twitching.
satoru collapsed against you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, shaking all over. “I—I can’t breathe. you’re so full, you’re choking me—I mean, you’re choking my cock—your walls are squeezing like you’ll never let go. I’m gonna cum, I’ll cum just from this, I swear—”
he pulled out clumsily, only a few inches, then drove back in with no rhythm. the couch squeaked, your ass slapping wetly against his thighs.
“sorry—sorry, I can’t slow down—I’m trying, I swear, but it feels too good, too good, I’ll die if I stop—”
his thrusts were messy, frantic, slamming deep one moment and grinding crooked the next. every push punched air from your lungs, every drag scraped your clit against his pelvis in ragged bursts of friction.
his face above you was wrecked, flushed crimson, mouth hanging open, glasses sliding halfway down his nose. “you’re—so beautiful—so filthy—under me—oh god, don’t kick me out, please don’t—I’ll do anything—”
then his cockhead clipped something inside you, that raw spot that made your hips jolt. his breath caught like he’d heard the sound of a miracle.
“there—oh fuck, I hit it, didn’t I?—that little jump, that was it—I’ll do it again, I’ll keep hitting it, I’ll make you cum, I’ll make sure—”
he hammered in with wild urgency, aiming clumsy but determined. the couch banged against the floor, his heavy balls smacking wet against your ass, every sound swallowed by the roar of the club around you.
“you’re gripping me so hard—I can’t think—I’m gonna cum, I’m already there, I can’t stop it, I can’t—oh god, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
your cunt swallowed him greedily, obscene squelches rising up each time his hips slammed flush against yours. every thrust ground the fat head of his cock against your cervix, a bruising battering that made your toes curl and your belly clench, and satoru couldn’t stop babbling through it.
“oh fuck, it’s so deep—you’re letting me fuck your womb, I can feel the way you’re choking me from the inside out—I shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t let me...”
you dug your nails into his back, dragging red streaks down his pale skin, and the sound that ripped out of him was high and shattered. when his head dropped against your neck, you caught him by the chin, forcing his tear-streaked face up toward you.
“look at me,” you ordered, tightening your thighs around his waist until he shuddered. “look at how pathetic you are.”
his eyes were wet, lashes clumped, glasses hanging useless on the edge of his nose. he tried to nod, but your hand suddenly wrapped around his throat, squeezing just enough to cut his breath.
he choked, a ragged, broken sob spilling out of his chest, hips bucking violently forward as if the denial of air short-circuited every nerve in him.
“you like that?” you hissed, your grip firm on his throat as your other hand fisted in his hair, holding him still. “you like being choked while you fuck me?”
his answer was a garbled, desperate moan, body trembling, cock twitching inside you as if it wanted to cum from the grip alone. tears spilled hot down his cheeks, streaking his flushed skin, and you licked the salt off his jaw before slapping his face lightly, just enough to make him whine.
“fuck, you’re gonna make me cum again,” you hissed, nails biting into his scalp, dragging him down into a bruising kiss. your cunt squeezed him tighter, wringing him, dragging him to the edge with you.
he whimpered against your lips, babbling, “please cum with me—need you to cum, need to feel it...”
your body arched, shuddering, as you broke on him, the world collapsing into white heat, your cunt clamping down hard enough to make his cock jerk violently inside you. the wet spasm milked him, and he screamed into your mouth, a guttural, broken sound, cock spilling hot, thick cum straight into your womb.
it was endless—pulse after pulse flooding you, until it leaked out around the thick shaft still stuffing you full. your stomach bulged under the sheer stretch of him, throbbing with every twitch, every shudder.
and then, finally, his body faltered. his thrusts lost rhythm, stuttering weakly before slowing to nothing. his cock softened inside you, still dripping, still plugged deep in your cunt even as his chest collapsed against yours.
the overstimulation left him raw, twitching, tears drying sticky on his cheeks. his hands clutched at you like he was drowning, sobbing quietly against your collarbone.
when you finally lifted your hips and slid off him, his cock slipped free with a wet, humiliating squelch, soft but still leaking thick ropes of cum that spilled down his thighs and yours, soaking the couch beneath you.
he whimpered at the loss of your heat, face burning, unable to meet your eyes.
and you just sat back, catching your breath, watching his ruined cock twitch feebly against his stomach, cum still drooling from the slit.
“look at you,” you said, voice low and sharp. “you did cum with me. barely.”
satoru sobbed once, a raw, involuntary sound that seemed to tear itself straight out of his chest. he looked wrecked, utterly destroyed, glasses crooked and fogged, sweat dampening the pale hair that clung to his forehead. cum still streaked across his lap, staining the fabric of his slacks, sticking to his ruined shirt, obscene evidence of what he’d been reduced to. professor, mentor, supposed genius—nothing but a trembling mess sprawled out under your control.
his mouth moved before his mind caught up, words spilling unfiltered, sharp with shame. “fuck, I… I ruined you. ruined everything. I couldn’t even—couldn’t even finish right.” his throat worked hard around the confession, bobbing visibly, his eyes glossing with frustrated tears as they darted away from yours. “what kind of man does that?”
you didn’t let him spiral. your hand rose, steady and deliberate, cupping his jaw, dragging his flushed face back toward you until there was nowhere else for him to look. the heat of his skin pulsed under your palm, damp with sweat and spit, his cheek slick from where tears had already carved tracks.
around you the club was chaos—moans tearing through the air, wet slaps of bodies colliding, a burst of laughter that faded into the heavy pulse of bass. the sounds were relentless, every one a reminder of the filth you were drowning in, but it all blurred into meaningless noise compared to the fragile way he breathed in your hand.
“you didn’t ruin me,” you said, voice calm, cutting straight through his panic. your thumb dragged slow across his cheekbone, catching on the salt-slick there. “you made me cum. twice. you fucked me until your body gave out. that’s more than most men manage on their best night.”
his lips parted like he meant to protest, to deny, but nothing came out. only the faintest stammer of breath, a tremor of disbelief. below, his cock twitched feebly against his thigh, pitiful in its soft state, but still dribbling a last thread of cum onto his lap like it hadn’t learned the word surrender.
“look at me, professor.”
your command sliced through him, sharper than the bass, sharper than his own shame, and his head snapped up without thought. his eyes met yours—wet, wide, drowning in their own storm.
“you did fine,” you murmured, low and steady, letting the words settle into him like weight on his chest. “better than fine. you gave me everything you had.”
the praise landed like a strike. he broke under it in a way he hadn’t under overstimulation or pressure or even your hand at his throat. his shoulders shuddered hard, tremors rippling down his long frame, his lips pressing tight like he was holding something back. for a moment you thought he might collapse fully, burst into sobs right there in your hands.
instead, with a clumsy desperation, he reached for you. his big, shaking hand grabbed yours and dragged it to his chest, pressing it flat over the rapid, chaotic beat of his heart. it stuttered and jumped against your palm, frantic, like it was trying to leap free from his ribs.
“i—thank you,” he whispered, voice shredded, trembling so badly it was almost inaudible under the music.
“thank you for… for letting me—” his words cracked, splintered. he couldn’t force the last part out, couldn’t say the word fuck, not when his voice was already breaking like prayer, like confession.
behind you, a girl moaned loud against the wall, the guttural sound drowned in the brutal rhythm of her partner’s hips slamming into her. another man stumbled past, cock already out, jerking frantically into his fist as though the world outside this neon blur didn’t exist.
satoru’s hands shook as he reached for you, as if instinct alone was dragging him forward. his palm brushed your thigh, slick and trembling, trying to swipe away the mess he’d left. but his fingers only smeared it further, dragging cum across your skin in wet streaks.
“i should—” his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “i should clean you up. i can’t just leave you like this. i—fuck, i made such a mess.”
you caught his wrist before he could fumble further, his knuckles shining with your slick. his pale lashes fluttered, frantic, like he expected you to scold him.
“relax,” you said, tone steady. “this isn’t your problem.”
his lips parted. “it is—”
“no, satoru.” you pressed, and the firmness in your voice made him flinch. “i work here. this is my job. the mess, the neon, the moans, the way people look at me—this is all mine. not yours to fix.”
his throat bobbed hard, adam’s apple jerking as he looked at you like the ground had just opened under his feet. he wanted to argue—god, every nerve in him screamed to argue—but nothing came out.
instead, he pulled back his hand slowly, staring at the shine of cum and spit coating his skin, at the sticky threads clinging between his fingers. his cock gave a feeble twitch, soft but still too heavy against his thigh, betraying him even in shame.
you leaned in, brushing his glasses back onto his face, straightening them where they’d slid crooked. “go home, professor. get some rest.”
something in the way you said it—gentle, final—cut straight through him.
he nodded, small, shaky. “right. yes. of course.”
he tried to stand, but his knees nearly buckled under his own weight, and he had to grab the couch to steady himself. his sweater vest clung damp to his chest, stained with sweat and cum.
he fumbled with his slacks, hands clumsy and shaking as he tried to shove his cock back inside. the length was soft now, heavy and sticky against his palm, smeared with spit and dripping the last of his release down his wrist. every brush of fabric dragged a shiver out of him, too sensitive, too raw, until he hissed through his teeth.
he finally managed to tuck himself away, the wet patch blooming darker over his crotch, his obscene girth still bulging obvious through the ruined fabric. shame burned through him—anyone who looked would know exactly what had happened.
satoru glanced at you once more, words forming and dying on his tongue. he wanted to tell you how beautiful you’d looked, how you’d ruined him in ways he didn’t know he could be ruined, how every moan you’d wrung out of him would haunt him for the rest of his life.
but he only managed a strangled, “i'll see you at school,” before he turned away.
the bass swallowed him as he slipped toward the exit, shoulders hunched, shame and guilt and unspent desire burning a hole in his chest.
behind him, you stayed perched on the ruined couch, legs still sticky with his cum, eyes glinting in the neon haze.
