shae ! @hongjoongsblckgf - Tumblr Blog

"But then, around the business, you know, we've got Je'Von Evans, who… who's 21. He's younger than my wrestling career. [He calls me mom] because I'm old enough to be his mom. Yeah. [...] I think he's so awesome. Like the confidence that he has and the ability that he has and his promo. Everything. I'm like, This kid's a star."

meluneira

foliexaxdeux

RUSH | JJK

Pairing: Jungkook x f!piercer!reader

Genre: Oneshot, smut

Summary: You meet Jungkook for the first time when he comes to your piercing studio for some new ear jewelry. Something about getting pierced (and you) gives him the rush of his life that makes him want to come back. Not to get his ears pierced though.

Warnings: MDNI, explicit sexual content, short descriptions of getting ears and nipples pierced, bisexual JK (referenced), mentions of Taekook (Tae is a sadist as a background character), JK has a pain kink and is a massive flirt but also a total cutie, he's down bad, JK whimpering!!, semi-public make out sesh, fingering, oral (both receiving and it's sloppy af), PiV, unprotected sex (don't do this!), bit of dirty talk

Wordcount: 8.3k

Masterlist

heavsblunt

Someone should write more danielseavey x reader fanfics

achtsamkeitsblog

Male moans can cure a girl's depression

hanasnx

❝ 𝄞 d o w n to you . . .

you’re pushing and pulling me

. . . down to y o u . ❞ 𓂃🖊

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ ✉️ | black veil brides WARNINGS. degradation (m receiving). features exhibitionism. dark content. descriptions of sex. sexual content but mostly narrative based.

you know that it was cringe to date ANDY BIERSACK. he’s obnoxious—combative. he’s always talking over people, including you. he just tries too damn hard to be edgy for the sake of it: bringing you to a cemetery to ask you to go down on him, or the time he got a coffin as a prop for one of black veil brides’s music videos and thought it would be fun to try to fuck you in it. they’re the kind of memories that give you some kind of comical psychic damage every time you recall them, squeezing your eyes shut and holding your head in your hand when you try to shake them out of your mind’s eye. the problem is you entertained it, you even encouraged it, and rewarded his behavior by accepting his offers. necessary self-reflection begs you, what were you thinking?

it was the kind of shit that half-endeared you, and you half-ignored when you got with him. you can’t really explain it. maybe he made you laugh enough times; or he surprised you with how caring and attentive he can be when he wants to; or even, it’s the trance those horse inches stuffed tight in those leather pants put you in.

you see him around and you visibly shudder at the thought you ever stooped that low. his interviews come up and you grit your teeth when he makes the interviewer do their little polite chuckle as they struggle to get their question out. you see his sets and how he’s dressed up in that “war paint” he calls it and how he drunkenly screams into the mic, the kind of thing that embarrasses you. you’re humiliated that you are so intertwined with his image, that people know you two were so tightly knit together even for such a short time. you rub your forehead at the reminder that you fucked this guy and your friends won’t let you live it down. you hate his music, you think he’s annoying, you have no clue why he had such a power over you.

somehow all those feelings melt into the background when he gets you onto the hood of his car to “watch the stars” only to migrate into the backseat for another round of public sex. you’d think you’d grow out of this, but maybe you can just keep him as a sneaky link.

orchidame

havingnonamesucks

dude does anyone remember those youtube BTS x Readers, where its like a visual nover ☝️😭 i used to watch those RELIGIOUSLY

luvvjayk-deactivated20260713

34 + 35 - jungkook

⋆˚࿔ Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x f!Reader (best friends to lovers, long-distance)

⋆˚࿔ Genre: Smut (18+), Angst, Pining, Friends with Tension/Benefits, Emotional Sexual Tension, Jealousy, Porn with (some) Plot, Reconnection

⋆˚࿔ Rating: Explicit / 18+ / MDNI

⋆˚࿔ Word Count: ~10k+ words

⋆˚࿔ Summary: Years of late-night FaceTime calls with your long-distance best friend Jungkook started as innocent catch-ups… then turned into something else entirely. Instructions. Edging sessions. Filthy praise. You saved every recording—especially the one labeled “34 + 35”. He was never supposed to find it. He was never supposed to fly to Seoul and fuck you like he’s been starving for you since the very first call.

⋆˚࿔ Warnings & Tags: explicit sexual content • heavy smut • long-distance mutual masturbation • FaceTime/phone sex • guided masturbation • dirty talk • praise kink • degradation kink • edging • orgasm denial • multiple orgasms • overstimulation • accidental voyeurism • jealousy • possessive behavior • rough sex • unprotected sex • creampie • multiple creampies • cum play • light impact play (spanking) • choking (light, non-breath-restricting) • hair pulling • nipple play • oral sex references • squirting • marking • no actual poly or cheating but brief date with another man (leads to jealousy trigger) • cum eating (brief, self-tasting)

⋆˚࿔ Additional Notes: This is shameless, plot-light smut with heavy emotional undercurrents. The sex is filthy, drawn-out, and escalates dramatically once they’re in the same room. If degradation, possessiveness, or intense jealousy dynamics bother you, please skip. just completely inspired by 34 + 35 - ariana grande song

The apartment in Gangnam was quiet except for the low hum of the city filtering through the half-open window—neon lights painting faint streaks across YN’s bedroom ceiling. She lay on her stomach across the duvet, phone propped against a stack of pillows, wearing nothing but an oversized black tee that used to be his from high school. It still smelled faintly like cedar and whatever cologne he’d worn back then, even after years of washing. She told herself she kept it for nostalgia. Lies.

The FaceTime ringtone cut through the stillness. She answered on the second one, and there he was: Jungkook in his study across an ocean, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the black ink of his forearm tattoos stark against the white button-down. Behind him, the same orderly chaos—textbooks stacked like architecture, a single desk lamp throwing gold across his sharp jaw and the faint shadow of stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave.

“You look like you’ve already given up on today,” he said first, voice low and rough from a full day of lecturing. He leaned back in the chair, stretching his arms overhead so the shirt pulled tight across his chest and the fabric rode up just enough to show a sliver of toned abdomen. He didn’t fix it. “What time did you even wake up?”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile. “Early enough to regret it. Had a meeting at nine that could’ve been an email. You? Still terrorizing freshmen with derivatives?”

“They terrorize themselves. One kid today asked if the chain rule was named after actual chains. I almost retired on the spot.” He dragged a hand through his hair, mussing it worse. “But yeah, long day. Grading midterms until my eyes crossed. Needed to see a friendly face before I lose my mind completely.”

The words landed softer than he probably meant. YN felt that familiar tug low in her stomach—the one she’d learned to ignore years ago. She shifted, letting the hem of the tee ride higher on her thighs, bare legs stretching across the sheets. His gaze flicked down for half a second. She pretended not to notice.

“You always say that like I’m doing you a favor,” she teased, voice deliberately light. “I’m literally just lying here procrastinating sleep. You’re the one with actual responsibilities.”

“Responsibilities are overrated. I’d trade them for your couch and a bottle of soju right now.” He tilted his head, studying her through the screen. “You’re wearing my old shirt again. Still fits?”

Her pulse skipped. “Barely. I’ve gained… personality since high school.”

“Looks like it fits exactly the way it should.” His tone stayed casual, but the way he said it—slow, eyes lingering on the way the fabric clung to the curve of her breasts—felt anything but. “You always sleep in that thing when you’re stressed. What’s going on?”

She exhaled through her nose, debating how much to give him. “Nothing major. Just… the usual. Swiped on some guy last week. We’re supposed to meet tomorrow. Drinks, maybe dinner if he doesn’t bore me to death in the first twenty minutes.”

Jungkook’s expression didn’t change, but something tightened around his mouth. “Another app casualty. What’s this one’s deal? Finance bro? Gym rat? Trust-fund poet?”

“Software engineer. Nice jawline, decent conversation over text. Claims he can cook. Jury’s still out.” She shrugged, trying to sound indifferent. “Figured I should at least try. Can’t keep living like a nun.”

He made a low sound—half laugh, half something darker. “You’re not a nun. You’re just picky. There’s a difference.”

“Picky, huh?” She arched a brow, rolling onto her side so the tee slipped off one shoulder. The strap of her bralette peeked out, thin black lace against skin. “Says the guy who hasn’t dated anyone longer than three weeks since grad school.”

“I date. I just don’t announce it.” He leaned closer to the camera, elbows on the desk, forearms flexing as he clasped his hands. “And when I do, it’s because they’re worth the time. Not because I’m trying to prove something.”

The jab landed. She felt heat crawl up her neck. “I’m not proving anything. I’m just… curious. Bored. Horny. Pick one.”

His laugh was quiet, almost private. “All three, probably.” He paused, eyes tracing the line of her exposed collarbone. “You ever think maybe you’re looking in the wrong places?”

Her breath caught. For one dangerous second the line between banter and something else dissolved. She could feel the weight of his stare like fingers on her skin.

“And where should I be looking, Professor?” The title came out huskier than she intended.

Jungkook didn’t flinch. If anything, his gaze sharpened. “Somewhere that actually knows you. Someone who doesn’t need an app to figure out what makes you tick.”

Silence stretched, thick and humming. She licked her bottom lip, suddenly hyper-aware of how dry her mouth felt.

“Careful,” she said softly. “That almost sounded like you were volunteering.”

He held her eyes for a long beat. Then the corner of his mouth lifted—just enough. “I don’t volunteer. I get requested.”

Heat flooded her core so fast she had to press her thighs together under the covers. She forced a laugh to cover it. “Cocky much?”

“Confident,” he corrected, voice dropping lower. “There’s a difference.”

She swallowed. “Noted.”

He changed the subject after that—asked about her latest project at work, told her about a ridiculous theorem one of his colleagues was obsessed with—but the undercurrent stayed. Every time he shifted and the light caught the ink curling around his bicep, every time his voice roughened from fatigue, she felt it: the slow, inevitable burn of wanting something she’d convinced herself she could never have.

Later, after they said goodnight and the screen went dark, YN didn’t move for a long time. She lay there staring at the ceiling, thighs still pressed tight, replaying the way he’d looked at her—like he already knew exactly how she’d fall apart under his hands.

She opened the dating app anyway. Swiped right on three more guys she’d probably never message.

Distraction. Always distraction.

But when she finally slid a hand between her legs that night, it wasn’t any of their faces she pictured.

It was his—sharp eyes, low voice, the slow roll of “I don’t volunteer. I get requested” echoing in her head while her fingers circled exactly the way she wished his tongue would. The next few dates blurred together like bad playlist skips—polite small talk over overpriced cocktails, awkward laughs at jokes that weren’t funny, hands brushing too soon or not at all. YN kept swiping anyway, telling herself momentum would eventually drown out the quiet ache that settled in her chest every time Jungkook’s name lit up her screen.

Then came Minho.

Software engineer, thirty-one, profile pictures heavy on gym mirrors and city rooftops. Messages sharp, flirty without trying too hard. He asked real questions, remembered details, made her laugh twice in under ten minutes of texting. When he suggested drinks at a low-lit bar in Itaewon and followed it with “no pressure, but I’d like to kiss you if the vibe’s right,” her stomach flipped in a way it hadn’t in months.

She said yes.

The date itself was good—better than good. Conversation flowed, his hand rested lightly on the small of her back when they walked, and when he leaned in outside the bar to brush his lips against hers, slow and deliberate, she felt the first real pulse of want coil low in her gut. He pulled back just enough to murmur against her mouth, “I’d really like to take you home tonight. Only if you want.”

She wanted. Or thought she did.

But the second the words left his mouth, panic bloomed sharp and cold beneath the heat. She’d had sex before—scattered, fumbling encounters in university that left her more confused than satisfied. She knew the mechanics. She didn’t know herself. Not the spots that made her breath hitch, not the pressure that turned ache into something shattering, not the rhythm her body actually craved. The thought of lying under him, clueless and performing, made her throat close.

She smiled, kissed him again—quick, deflecting—and promised to text about next time. He didn’t push. That made it worse.

Two nights later the humidity in Seoul was suffocating, windows open, fan doing nothing but stir the thick air. YN sprawled on her bed in nothing but black cotton boyshorts and a cropped tank, skin sticky, hair piled messily on top of her head. The FaceTime call connected at 11:47 p.m. her time, 9:47 a.m. his.

Jungkook appeared shirtless.

He must have just finished a workout or a shower; damp strands of black hair clung to his forehead, a towel slung around his neck, droplets tracing slow paths down the ridges of his collarbone, over the dark ink that wrapped his shoulder and spilled across his pec. The desk lamp behind him cast everything in warm amber, turning the sweat on his skin into something almost obscene.

He didn’t bother covering up. Just leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest, biceps flexing without effort.

“You look like you’re melting,” he said, voice still rough from sleep or maybe just the early hour for him. “Air-con broken again?”

“No. Just Seoul trying to kill me.” She shifted, propping herself higher on the pillows so the tank rode up, exposing the soft dip of her waist and the waistband of her shorts. “You look like you just finished filming thirst-trap content for your students.”

He snorted, wiping the towel across his neck. “They’d fail the next quiz if I did. What’s got you up this late? Another date?”

She exhaled, long and slow. The words felt heavier than they should.

“Yeah. Minho. The one I told you about.”

Jungkook’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened. “The rooftop guy. How’d it go?”

“Good. Really good, actually.” She dragged her teeth over her bottom lip. “He… wants to sleep with me. Asked tonight. I said maybe next time.”

A beat of silence. His jaw ticked once.

“And you’re freaking out because…?”

She laughed, but it came out brittle. “Because I have no idea what I’m doing, Jungkook. Like—zero. I’ve had sex, sure, but it was always… fast. Drunk. Awkward. I don’t even know what I like. Where to be touched. How fast, how hard, if I even get there the normal way. What if I just lie there like a dead fish while he’s expecting some porn-star performance? I’d rather die.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. Just watched her through the screen with that steady, dissecting gaze he used when he was solving something complicated.

“You’re not clueless,” he said finally, voice low and even. “You’re just uncharted. There’s a difference.”

Her pulse kicked hard. “Uncharted. Cute metaphor, Professor.”

“Not a metaphor. A fact.” He uncrossed his arms, leaned forward so his face filled more of the frame, tattoos shifting with the movement. “You’ve never mapped it out properly. Never taken the time to figure out what actually makes your breath catch, what makes your hips move on their own, what gets you so wet you can’t think straight.”

Heat exploded under her skin so fast she had to press her thighs together. She tried to keep her voice steady. “And how exactly do I… map it?”

“You experiment.” He said it like it was the most logical thing in the world. “Alone. No pressure, no audience. Start slow—neck, collarbone, the insides of your arms. Then lower. Stomach. Hips. Inner thighs. Tease yourself until you’re aching, then go where the ache leads. Light first. Then firmer. Circles, strokes, taps. Pay attention to what makes your toes curl versus what just feels nice. Build it. Edge it. Learn your own rhythm.”

Every word landed like a slow drag of fingers. She could picture it—his voice in her ear while her hand moved exactly where he described. She swallowed hard.

“You make it sound like a research project.”

“It is.” The corner of his mouth lifted, but his eyes stayed dark. “Hypothesis: certain touches make you soak through your shorts. Test it. Record the results. Adjust variables. Repeat until you know your body better than anyone else ever will.”

She laughed shakily, but it sounded more like a breath. “And then what? Hand him the lab report?”

“No.” His voice dropped lower, almost intimate. “Then when he touches you, you know exactly how to guide his hand. Or tell him to fuck off if he can’t keep up.”

Silence stretched again, heavy with humidity and something else.

She shifted, the movement making the tank slip higher, the underside of her breast almost visible. His gaze flicked down—deliberate this time—then back to her face.

“You’re blushing,” he said quietly.

“It’s hot in here.”

“Sure it is.” He dragged the towel across his chest again, slower this time, like he knew exactly what the motion did to her. “Try it tonight. After we hang up. Start small. See what happens.”

“And report back?” The question came out huskier than she meant.

His smile was slow. Dangerous. “Only if you want extra credit.”

She felt the words settle between her legs like a hand. Her clit throbbed once, traitorous and sudden.

“Noted,” she managed.

They talked for another twenty minutes—work, weather, nothing important—but the undercurrent stayed. Every time he shifted and the light caught the ink on his ribs, every time his voice roughened on a yawn, she felt it coil tighter.

When they finally said goodnight, she didn’t hang up right away. Just watched the screen go dark, heart hammering.

Then she slid her hand down her stomach, past the waistband of her shorts, and did exactly what he’d told her.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Imagining his voice the entire time.

“Light first. Then firmer. See what makes your hips move on their own.”

Her back arched off the bed at the first real press.

She didn’t come that night—not fully—but the edge he’d put her on stayed for hours, humming under her skin like a live wire.

And when she finally drifted off, it was his low, steady “Only if you want extra credit” looping in her head, over and over, until sleep took her.

The weeks bled into each other like ink on wet paper, humid Seoul nights stacking one on top of the next. YN’s dating life stayed lukewarm at best—Minho texted sporadically, suggesting another drink, but she kept pushing it back with vague excuses. The real reason sat heavy in her phone history: longer and longer FaceTime calls with Jungkook that started innocent and ended with her thighs trembling under the sheets.

It began small. One call, she mentioned offhand that the “mapping” experiment had gone… okay. “But I keep getting stuck at the same point. Like my body knows what it wants but won’t tell me the combination.”

Jungkook had been mid-sip of coffee, shirt already gone because “LA decided to hit 38°C today.” The black ink curling over his shoulder and down his ribs caught the morning light filtering through his blinds. He set the mug down slowly.

“Then stop guessing. Be systematic.” His voice was calm, professorial, but lower than usual. “Next time, start at your clit but don’t go straight for it. Circle the hood first—light, barely there. Then drag one finger down the outer lips, back up, repeat. No penetration yet. Just tease until you’re dripping. See how long you can hold off before you crack and press harder.”

She’d laughed, nervous, cheeks burning. “You’re turning this into a fucking flowchart.”

“Precision matters,” he said, eyes locked on hers through the screen. “You want to know what makes you come undone? Then learn the variables.”

That was the first time she kept the camera on while following his instructions.

At first it was clinical—almost. She angled the phone high, so only her face and collarbones showed, the rest hidden under the duvet. Her giggles broke the quiet every time her breath hitched. “This feels ridiculous. I’m literally taking notes from my best friend like he’s my personal sex ed teacher.”

He didn’t laugh back. Just watched, jaw tight. “Keep going. Slower circles. Tell me when the pressure feels good versus when it feels like nothing.”

“Now it’s… better. Shit. Tingling.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

“Good. Stay there. Don’t chase it yet. Breathe through it.” His chest rose and fell visibly, slower than before, nipples dark against taut skin. “Describe it. Exact sensation.”

“Hot. Pulsing. Like everything’s drawing tight but not enough.”

“Then add a second finger. Flat, not pointed. Slide along the sides—never directly on the clit. Edge it. Pull back when you get close.”

She whimpered once—small, involuntary. His hand flexed on the desk, knuckles white.

The next call, she didn’t bother with the duvet. Just a thin silk slip the color of midnight, lace trim barely skimming the tops of her thighs. When she shifted to prop the phone higher, one strap slid down her shoulder. She left it there.

Jungkook appeared shirtless again, this time with sweat beading along his sternum. “You trying to kill the AC or something?” she teased, voice lighter than she felt.

“It’s broken. Again.” His eyes dropped to the fallen strap, lingered, then flicked back up. “Nice slip. New?”

“Impulse buy. Figured if I’m doing ‘homework,’ might as well look the part.” She stretched lazily, back arching so the silk pulled tight across her nipples, visible through the thin fabric. “Your turn. Any updates on the heat wave?”

“Still brutal.” He leaned back, arms spreading along the back of his chair so every line of his torso flexed—abs contracting, the deep V disappearing into low-slung sweats. “You ready for round two?”

“Born ready.” She smirked, but her pulse hammered in her throat.

This time the instructions came slower, more deliberate.

“Legs wider. Let me see how you’re touching.” His voice had dropped an octave. “Show me the rhythm. Slow-motion replay.”

She hesitated only a second before angling the camera lower—still not full exposure, but enough that the silk rode up, revealing the damp patch darkening her black lace boyshorts. She hooked a finger under the fabric, pulled it aside just enough.

“Like this?” She circled her clit with the pad of her middle finger—slow, feather-light.

His breath audibly caught. “Yeah. Exactly like that. Now press a little firmer. Small, tight circles. Count to ten, then stop. Repeat.”

“You’re evil.” But she obeyed, hips lifting off the mattress on the third round. “Fuck… it’s building fast.”

“Don’t come yet.” The command was quiet, almost gentle, but iron underneath. “Edge it twice more. Tell me how close you are each time.”

“Eight… nine… close. Really close.” Her thighs trembled. “Stopping… god.”

“Good girl.” The praise landed like a slap of heat. His hand had disappeared below the frame now—she could see the subtle flex of his forearm, the way his bicep tensed in rhythm. “One more. This time, two fingers inside. Curl them up, press against the front wall. Thumb on your clit. Slow grind.”

She moaned—open, shameless. “Jungkook… I’m gonna—”

“Not yet.” His voice was rougher now, strained. “Hold it. Squeeze around your fingers. Feel how wet you are. Tell me.”

“Soaked. Dripping down my thighs. Please…”

“Please what?”

“Let me come.” It came out desperate, cracked.

He exhaled hard through his nose. “On three. One… two… three. Now.”

Her back bowed off the bed, a broken cry tearing from her throat as the orgasm hit—sharp, blinding, thighs clamping around her own hand. Through the haze she saw him: head tipped back, throat working, the rapid flex of his arm below frame speeding up before he groaned low, body jerking once, twice.

Silence after. Heavy breathing on both ends.

She laughed shakily, dazed. “That… escalated.”

“You escalated it.” His voice was wrecked, eyes half-lidded. “Wearing that slip. Arching like that. You knew what you were doing.”

“Maybe.” She dragged a finger through her own wetness, brought it to her lips—slow, deliberate—tasting herself while holding his stare. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

His jaw ticked. “I didn’t.”

The call ended soon after—mutual goodnights that felt obscene in their politeness—but the shift was permanent now. No more pretending the tension was accidental.

The next night she answered in nothing but lace-trimmed boyshorts and a cropped tank that ended just under her breasts. When she leaned forward to adjust the phone, the hem lifted enough to flash the underside curve.

Jungkook appeared in only black boxer briefs, claiming the apartment was “still a furnace.” The outline of him—thick, half-hard—was impossible to ignore.

“New uniform?” she asked, voice husky.

“Fair’s fair.” He palmed himself once through the fabric—casual, like stretching. “You gonna behave tonight?”

“Never.” She slid a hand down her stomach, fingers dipping under the lace. “What’s the lesson plan, Professor?”

His smile was slow, predatory. “Tonight we work on endurance. You don’t come until I say. And I’m going to make it hurt so good you’ll beg for the numbers.”

She shivered. “Challenge accepted.”

The calls had long since stopped pretending to be casual. Now they were scheduled like appointments—late Seoul nights when the city quieted and his California mornings still carried the haze of sleep. YN answered one humid Thursday in nothing but sheer black lace panties and a cropped silk camisole that ended inches above her navel, the fabric so thin her nipples peaked against it the second the AC kicked on. She propped the phone against pillows, legs bent at the knees, thighs parted just enough that the camera caught the shadow between them.

Jungkook appeared in low gray sweats, no shirt, hair still damp from a shower. The tattoos on his ribs shifted with every slow breath. He didn’t greet her with small talk anymore.

“You’re already wet, aren’t you?” His voice was gravel, eyes dragging down the screen like he could feel the heat radiating off her.

She didn’t deny it. Just hooked a finger under the lace edge and tugged it aside, exposing slick folds to the cool air. “Been thinking about this all day. Couldn’t wait.”

“Show me how much.”

She slid two fingers down, parting herself, letting him see the shine coating her entrance. A soft, involuntary whimper escaped when she brushed her clit—already swollen, hypersensitive from days of edging herself to the memory of his last command.

They pulled up a video together—some soft-lit amateur clip they’d both saved to a shared note. A woman on her knees, mouth working slow and deliberate over a thick cock; the man’s hand gentle in her hair, guiding without forcing. At first they dissected it clinically.

“See how she keeps her tongue flat under the head?” Jungkook’s tone was steady, almost academic. “The pressure’s constant but not aggressive. Builds him up without rushing the finish.”

YN mirrored the motion with her fingers—circling her clit in wide, lazy loops, mimicking the slow drag of tongue. “Like this?”

“Slower.” His voice dropped half an octave. “Make it ache first. Let the need coil so tight you can’t think.”

Her hips rolled forward on instinct. A breathy moan slipped out—soft, testing. His jaw clenched visibly; the outline of his cock thickened against the gray cotton, straining the fabric.

“Fuck… you’re leaking,” he muttered, palming himself once through the sweats—slow, deliberate. “Keep that rhythm. Don’t speed up. Tell me how close.”

“So close… pulsing. God, Jungkook—”

“Stop.”

She froze, fingers hovering, thighs shaking. The denial hit like ice water and fire at once. “You’re cruel.”

“And you love it.” He tugged the waistband down just enough to free himself—thick, flushed, the head glistening. He wrapped a fist around the base, stroking once, eyes never leaving her screen. “Now resume. But match my pace. Slow. Up. Down. Feel every inch of the build.”

They synced without words—her fingers sliding in shallow thrusts, his hand gliding over his length in the same unhurried rhythm. Breathing grew ragged on both ends. The video played on, forgotten; all that mattered was the wet sounds filling the call, the way her clit throbbed under her touch, the flex of his forearm as he worked himself.

Mid-edge, when she was trembling and glassy-eyed, she let the words slip—breathless, teasing.

“What if we tried something like… 34 plus 35?”

He huffed a low laugh, hand still moving. “That’s just 69. Basic addition. You and your weird math jokes.”

The obliviousness sent a fresh gush of wetness between her thighs. She bit her lip hard enough to sting, imagining his mouth on her while she took him deep—tongues and lips and no space for air. The fantasy burned hotter because he didn’t catch it. Didn’t know how badly she wanted to flip positions, straddle his face, grind down while she swallowed him whole.

“Yeah… basic,” she murmured, voice wrecked. “Keep going. Don’t stop.”

“Not stopping until you’re shaking.” His strokes sped fractionally—still controlled, but the vein along his shaft stood out stark. “Rub faster now. Small, tight circles. Imagine it’s my tongue instead—flat, pressing, flicking just enough to make you sob.”

She obeyed. Moans turned sharp, desperate. Her free hand gripped the sheet, knuckles white.

“Jungkook—please—”

“Not yet.” His voice cracked on the command. “Hold it. Squeeze around nothing. Feel how empty you are. How much you want to be filled.”

She whimpered—loud, broken. The denial stretched unbearable seconds into eternity.

Then, finally: “Now. Come for me.”

Her body seized—back arching off the bed, thighs clamping around her hand as the orgasm tore through her in brutal waves. She cried out his name, raw and unguarded. On screen, his head fell back, throat working, abs contracting hard as he spilled over his fist in thick, pulsing ropes—groaning low, wrecked.

They stayed like that—panting, spent, screens still open. No rush to speak.

After a long minute, he dragged a hand through his hair, voice hoarse. “You keep pulling that 34 35 shit… one day I’m gonna make you explain it.”

She laughed—shaky, satisfied. “Maybe I will. When you’re ready to solve it properly.”

He smirked, dark and knowing, even if he still didn’t get the subtext.

The tension didn’t break. It only thickened.

The next call came two nights later, no preamble, no casual check-in. YN answered in a sheer white camisole so thin the dark circles of her nipples pressed against the fabric like they were begging to be seen. No bra. No shorts—just black lace panties that rode high on her hips. She sat cross-legged on the bed, phone angled to catch the way the silk clung to the undersides of her breasts when she breathed.

Jungkook appeared shirtless again, but this time the pretense was gone. Gray sweats low on his hips, the thick ridge of his cock already outlined against the cotton before either of them spoke.

“You’re not even trying to hide it anymore,” he said, voice rough, eyes dragging from her chest to the damp spot darkening the lace between her thighs.

“Neither are you.” She shifted, letting her knees fall wider, the camisole strap slipping down one shoulder. “I see the flush on your neck. The way your forearm flexes when your hand disappears. You’re already touching yourself, aren’t you?”

He didn’t deny it. Just palmed the length of himself through the fabric—slow, deliberate. “Hard not to when you show up like that. What do you want tonight?”

“Show me.” Her voice came out breathier than she meant. “Stroke with me. Let me watch.”

A beat of heavy silence. His jaw ticked once, twice. Then he reached for the phone, angled it lower until the camera framed his lap: sweats shoved down just enough, cock thick and flushed in his fist, the head already slick. He gave one slow pump, eyes never leaving hers through the screen.

“Your turn.”

She hooked the lace aside, fingers sliding through her wetness before circling her clit—matching the lazy rhythm he set. Their breathing synced almost instantly: shallow inhales, soft exhales that turned ragged fast.

“Slower,” he commanded, voice gravel-low. “Match me. Feel every drag.”

She obeyed, hips rolling forward on the third stroke. A soft moan slipped out—his name tangled in it. His grip tightened visibly, thumb swiping over the slit, spreading pre-cum. “Fuck… say it again.”

“Jungkook…” She sped up fractionally, testing. “Like this?”

“Exactly like that. Tight circles. Don’t stop.” His strokes grew firmer, forearm flexing with each pull. The wet sounds filled the call—hers slick and obscene, his rougher, fist gliding over skin.

Tension coiled unbearable. She arched, free hand pinching a nipple through the sheer fabric until it ached. “I’m close… god, watching you—”

“Not yet.” His voice cracked on the denial. “Wait for me. Squeeze around your fingers. Imagine it’s mine stretching you instead.”

She whimpered—loud, desperate—but held the edge, thighs trembling. His head tipped back for a second, throat working, abs contracting hard.

“Now.” The word tore out of him.

She shattered first—back bowing, a broken “Jungkook—” spilling from her lips as her orgasm ripped through her, walls pulsing around nothing, slick coating her fingers. Seconds later he followed: low, guttural groan, hips jerking as thick ropes spilled over his fist, painting his stomach.

They stayed connected, panting, screens still open. No rush to speak.

After a long minute he huffed a quiet laugh, wiping his hand on the sheet. “Just friends helping friends, right?”

“Right.” Her voice was wrecked, smile shaky. “Totally platonic.”

The lie hung between them, thinner than the camisole still clinging to her sweat-damp skin.

She didn’t bother fixing the fallen strap next time. He didn’t bother mentioning the heat.

The bar lights were too dim, the music too loud, Minho’s hands too careful. YN tried—god, she tried—to stay present. His mouth on her neck should have felt good; instead it registered as wrong texture, wrong pressure. Every slide of his fingers along her thigh echoed Jungkook’s low “slower… build the ache” in her head. She arched into the touch anyway, chasing the ghost of commands that weren’t his.

They made it to his apartment. Clothes shed in the hallway, bed sheets cool against her back. He settled between her legs, kissed down her stomach, and she closed her eyes—picturing dark ink curling over broad shoulders, a voice rough with control. When his tongue flicked her clit, tentative, she moaned without thinking.

“Jungkook…”

The name slipped out—soft, wrecked, unmistakable.

Minho froze. Pulled back. The silence was louder than the city outside.

“What?” His voice was flat, confused. “Who the fuck is Jungkook?”

She sat up fast, heart slamming. “Shit—Minho, I—”

He was already rolling off the bed, grabbing his boxers. “You’re serious right now? You’re thinking about someone else while I’m—” He gestured between them, face twisting. “Never mind. Just… get dressed.”

The ride home was silent except for the hum of the taxi. She stared out the window, thighs still slick with unspent want, shame burning hotter than arousal ever had.

Next FaceTime, two nights later. She answered in the same silk slip, hair loose, trying for casual. Jungkook appeared shirtless, study lamp casting harsh shadows across his clenched jaw.

“So?” he asked, voice even. Too even. “How’d it go with Minho?”

She forced a smile, light. “It was good. Really good, actually. Your tips worked. I didn’t freeze up or anything.”

His eyes narrowed—sharp, predatory. The flush on his neck wasn’t from heat this time. His hand flexed on the desk, knuckles white. “Glad it helped.” The words came out clipped, smile tight enough to crack.

She felt the shift like a door slamming. He leaned closer, voice dropping. “Tell me exactly how good.”

Her pulse kicked. “Just… good. I came. Twice.”

Something dark flickered across his face—jealousy, raw and unfiltered. He didn’t speak for a long second, just stared, breathing slow and deliberate.

“Twice.” He repeated it like tasting poison, not convinced. “Must’ve been real thorough, then.”

The air between pixels crackled, thick with everything he wasn’t saying.

The FaceTime connected at 1:14 a.m. Seoul time. No hello. No small talk. Jungkook’s face filled the screen—jaw locked, eyes black with something feral, shirt already gone, sweats shoved down just enough to free his cock. It stood thick and flushed in his fist, the head slick from the few strokes he’d already given himself before answering.

“Strip.” The word came out low, guttural. “Everything. Now.”

YN’s breath caught. She was still in the same sheer slip from earlier—thin straps, lace hem barely skimming her ass. Her hands moved before her brain caught up: fingers hooking the straps, sliding them off her shoulders. The silk pooled at her waist, then she pushed it down her hips, kicking it off the bed. Naked. Exposed. Camera angled low enough to show the sheen already coating her inner thighs.

“Legs wide. Let me see how fucking wet you are from lying to me.”

She spread her knees, hooking them over the edge of the mattress. Her pussy glistened under the lamp light—swollen, dripping, clit visibly throbbing. She didn’t touch yet. Waiting for permission like he’d trained her.

“Touch. Slow. Two fingers. Spread yourself open so I can watch.”

She obeyed, parting her folds with trembling fingers. The cool air hit her clit and she whimpered—soft, needy.

“Imagine it’s my mouth instead.” His voice dropped darker, filthy. “My tongue flat against you, dragging up slow, then flicking your clit—sharp, fast, over and over until your hips buck. Then I suck it hard. Pull it between my lips. Teeth grazing just enough to make you cry.”

Her fingers circled faster on instinct. “Fuck… Jungkook—”

“Not yet.” He stroked himself in long, deliberate pulls—base to tip, thumb swiping the slit. “Edge it. Get right to the brink, then stop. You don’t come until I say. You don’t deserve it after letting some other guy think he could make you feel this.”

The jealousy bled through every word—raw, possessive. She moaned louder, fingers plunging inside, curling against that spot he’d taught her. Her thumb worked her clit in tight circles. Heat coiled viciously low in her belly.

“Close… so close—”

“Stop.”

She yanked her hand away with a broken sob. Thighs shaking. Pussy clenching around nothing. “Please… I need—”

“Greedy little bitch.” He sped up his strokes—wet sounds loud through the speaker. “Again. Same pace. Imagine me pinning your thighs open, tongue fucking into you while my fingers rub your clit. You’re dripping down my chin and you still can’t come.”

Second edge. She got there faster—body already primed, desperate. Back arching, moans turning sharp and frantic.

“Stop.”

She cried out—frustrated, wrecked. Tears pricked her eyes. “Jungkook, I can’t… please—”

“One more.” His voice cracked with restraint. “Then you get to come like the filthy slut you are. For me. Only me.”

Third time she didn’t hold back. Fingers thrusting deep, palm grinding against her clit. The pressure built unbearable—hot, liquid, unstoppable.

“Now.” He growled it. “Come. My filthy slut—come all over your hand while I watch you fall apart.”

She shattered. Hard. Back bowing off the bed, a choked scream tearing from her throat as her pussy spasmed, gushing slick in messy pulses that soaked the sheets beneath her. Legs trembling uncontrollably. His name spilled from her lips again and again—raw, reverent.

On screen, Jungkook’s head fell back. Abs clenched. Hand flying over his cock. “Fuck—YN—” He came with a low, broken growl—thick ropes spilling over his fist, painting his stomach, dripping down his knuckles. His whole body jerked with it, chest heaving.

They stayed there—panting, wrecked, screens still open. No words for a long minute.

Then he dragged a hand through his hair, voice rough but softer. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She laughed shakily, dazed. “More than okay.”

He didn’t know the red recording light had blinked on in the corner of her laptop the second the call connected. Didn’t know she’d angled the phone just right to capture every filthy command, every moan, every drop. The file saved automatically.

Named: 34 + 35

The conference email had landed in Jungkook’s inbox three days earlier—some last-minute panel on applied mathematics at Seoul National University. He’d booked the flight without overthinking it, telling himself it was just work. The fact that it put him in the same city as her for forty-eight hours was incidental. Convenient. Nothing more.

He texted her from Incheon Airport: “In Seoul till Sunday. Dinner tomorrow? Your place?”

Her reply came fast: “Yes. Bring nothing but yourself. I’ll order jjajangmyeon.”

When he knocked on her door the next evening, the hallway smelled like rain and fried food. She opened it barefoot, in loose cotton shorts and a thin tank top that clung just enough to remind him of every pixel he’d stared at for months. Her hair was messy, face bare except for a swipe of gloss. She smiled—easy, familiar—and pulled him into a hug that lasted one heartbeat too long.

“You’re taller than I remember,” she mumbled against his shoulder.

“You’re smaller.” He squeezed once before letting go, inhaling the faint citrus of her shampoo. “Or maybe I just missed you.”

They ate cross-legged on her living room floor, containers spread between them like old times. Laughter came easy—stories about his chaotic undergrads, her office drama, the way Seoul felt smaller now that he was back in it. Every time their chopsticks clinked or their knees brushed under the low table, the air tightened. She caught him staring at the curve of her neck when she tipped her head back to laugh. He noticed the way her thighs pressed together when he leaned in to wipe a smear of black bean sauce from her chin with his thumb.

“You’ve got sauce… right here.” His voice stayed low, casual. His thumb lingered a second longer than necessary, pressing just enough to feel her pulse jump.

“Thanks.” She licked her bottom lip after, eyes flicking to his mouth. “Can’t have you thinking I’m a messy eater.”

“I already know you are.” The words came out darker than he meant. She didn’t flinch—just held his gaze until the moment stretched thin and hot.

They cleaned up in comfortable silence, shoulders brushing in the tiny kitchen. When she bent to load the dishwasher, the hem of her shorts rode up, exposing the soft crease where thigh met ass. He looked away too late. She straightened, smirking like she’d caught him.

“Couch is yours tonight,” she said, tossing him a spare blanket. “Unless you want the floor. Professor’s choice.”

“Couch is fine.” He caught the blanket, fingers brushing hers. “I don’t plan on sleeping much anyway.”

She paused in the doorway to her bedroom, one hand on the frame. “Jet lag?”

“Something like that.”

Her eyes dropped to his mouth, then lower—quick, deliberate—before she disappeared down the hall. “Night, Jungkook.”

“Night.”

The apartment went quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and distant traffic. He tried to sleep. Tried scrolling his phone, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. Nothing worked. The undercurrent from dinner still buzzed under his skin—every glance, every accidental touch replaying like a loop he couldn’t pause.

Around 2:37 a.m. he gave up. Sat up on the couch, blanket pooled around his waist. Her laptop sat open on the coffee table, screen dark except for a single glowing file icon in the middle of the desktop. Paused. Title: 34 + 35.

Curiosity—sharp, insistent—won.

He reached over, tapped the trackpad. The video resumed without warning.

His own voice filled the dim living room, low and filthy.

“Imagine my mouth instead—tongue flicking your clit, sucking hard.”

The camera angle was perfect: her on the bed, legs spread wide, fingers buried deep, back arched so hard her breasts lifted toward the ceiling. Sweat glistened on her skin. Her moans were desperate, broken—“Please… Jungkook, I can’t—”

His stomach dropped. Cock twitched instantly, thickening against the soft cotton of his sweats. He should have closed it. Should have shut the laptop, walked away, pretended he hadn’t seen.

He didn’t.

Instead he dragged the volume slider up a notch. Watched himself on screen—shirtless, hand working his length in brutal rhythm while he commanded her.

“Not yet, you greedy little bitch—hold it.”

Her body jerked at the denial, thighs trembling, a thin string of slick connecting her fingers to her entrance. She sobbed his name again—raw, pleading. Then the permission came.

“Now. Come. My filthy slut—come all over your hand while I watch you fall apart.”

She shattered. Back bowing off the mattress, a choked scream ripping out as she gushed—messy, uncontrollable pulses soaking the sheets beneath her. Her hips bucked like she was riding his face, his cock, anything to chase the aftershocks. On screen, his groan followed seconds later—low, wrecked—thick ropes spilling over his fist.

Jungkook’s breathing turned shallow. He was rock-hard now, painfully so, the head of his cock leaking against the fabric. He palmed himself once—slow, testing—through the sweats. The friction sent a jolt straight up his spine.

He replayed the last thirty seconds. Her face when she came—eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent scream, his name falling from her lips like prayer. Again. The sound of her squirting, wet and obscene. Again. His own voice growling “my filthy slut” like ownership.

His hand slipped under the waistband. Wrapped around himself. One slow stroke—base to tip—spreading pre-cum. Another. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep quiet, eyes glued to the screen where she was still trembling through aftershocks, fingers still inside herself, milking every last pulse.

The video looped back to the beginning. “Strip. Everything. Now.”

He sped up—fist tight, rhythm matching the frantic pace he’d set on cam months ago. His abs clenched, breath coming in harsh pants. The couch creaked under him. He didn’t care. All he could see was her—writhing, begging, coming undone because of him. For him.

He imagined walking into her room right now. Waking her with his mouth between her thighs. Making her come again—real this time, not pixels. Making her say his name while he fucked her through it, slow and deep, until she couldn’t remember anyone else’s.

The edge hit fast. Too fast. He groaned low—her name tangled in it—hips jerking as he spilled over his fist, hot and thick, soaking his sweats and the blanket. His whole body shuddered with it, vision blurring for a second.

Silence rushed back in. The video kept playing—her soft whimpers fading into heavy breathing.

The apartment was still dark except for the blue glow spilling from the laptop on the coffee table. YN had woken with a dry throat, the sheets tangled around her legs, body still humming from dreams she couldn’t quite shake. She padded barefoot down the hallway in the tiniest sleep slip she owned—black silk, barely grazing the tops of her thighs, thin straps already slipping off her shoulders, no bra, no panties. Just skin and want.

She stopped dead in the doorway to the living room.

Jungkook was sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the screen. The video was paused on a single frame: her own face mid-orgasm, mouth open in a silent scream, his voice frozen mid-sentence somewhere off-camera. “My filthy slut—come all over your hand while I watch you fall apart.” The timestamp glowed in the corner. He’d watched the whole thing. Multiple times, judging by the way his breathing was still uneven, the obvious ridge straining against his sweats.

He didn’t flinch when he saw her. Just lifted his gaze slowly—dark, unreadable, pupils blown wide.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” she whispered, voice cracking on the last word.

He stood. Slow. Deliberate. Every inch of the movement predatory, like a predator deciding the chase was over.

“Why keep it?” His voice was low, rough from lack of sleep and something darker. He took one step toward her. “Why label it ‘34 + 35’ and leave it right there on your desktop like a fucking invitation?”

She swallowed hard. The air between them felt flammable. “Because…” Her back hit the wall as he closed the distance. “Because when you’re gone—when it’s just me and the silence—it gets me off harder than anything else. Hearing you call me your slut. Watching you lose control because of me. I replay it until I can’t breathe. Until I come so hard I cry.”

The confession hung there—raw, shameless.

Something snapped in his expression. Not anger. Hunger. Pure, unfiltered need.

He crossed the last two strides in a heartbeat. One hand slammed against the wall beside her head; the other fisted the front of her slip and yanked her forward. Their mouths crashed together—rough, desperate, no preamble. His tongue pushed past her lips immediately, claiming, tasting the faint mint of her toothpaste and the lingering sweetness of the jjajangmyeon from earlier. She moaned into it—loud, broken—fingers digging into his bare shoulders, nails biting skin.

He tasted like coffee and restraint finally gone.

He spun her so her front pressed to the wall, cheek against cool plaster. The slip rode up instantly, exposing her ass. His erection ground against her from behind—thick, hot, insistent—while his free hand dragged up her thigh, bunching the silk until it bunched at her waist.

“You’ve been getting off to me for months,” he growled against her ear, teeth grazing the shell. “Fucking yourself raw to my voice while I was on the other side of the world, clueless. You think I’m not gonna make you pay for that?”

“Please,” she gasped, hips pushing back against him instinctively. “I need it. Need you.”

“You’ll get it.” His hand slid between her legs—two fingers plunging straight into her soaked heat without warning. She cried out, knees buckling. He caught her around the waist, holding her upright. “So fucking wet already. Dripping down your thighs just from watching me watch you. Pathetic.”

He pumped his fingers once, twice—curling hard against that spot that made her vision white—then pulled out. She whimpered at the loss.

“On your knees.”

She dropped without hesitation, carpet burning her skin. He shoved his sweats down; his cock sprang free—heavy, flushed, the head already slick with pre-cum. She opened her mouth automatically, tongue out, but he fisted her hair instead, tilting her head back.

“Not yet.” He stroked himself once—slow, deliberate—letting the tip drag across her bottom lip, smearing wetness. “You don’t get to taste until I’ve had mine.”

He hauled her up by the hair, spun her again, bent her over the back of the couch so her ass was high, chest pressed to the cushions. The slip was rucked up around her waist now—useless. He kicked her feet wider.

“Look at you.” His palm cracked against her ass—sharp, stinging. She jolted, moaning. “Ass up, pussy dripping, begging for it like the greedy little slut you are.”

Another slap. Harder. The sound echoed. Her skin bloomed red instantly.

“Say it.”

“I’m your greedy little slut,” she gasped, voice wrecked. “Please—fuck me. I need your cock.”

He didn’t tease. Didn’t ease in. One brutal thrust and he was buried to the hilt—thick, stretching her open in one go. She screamed—half pain, half pleasure—nails digging into the couch fabric.

“Fuck—tight,” he groaned, hips snapping forward again. “Been dreaming about this cunt for months. Squeezing me like you were made for it.”

The pace was merciless from the start—deep, punishing strokes that slapped skin against skin, his balls hitting her clit with every thrust. One hand wrapped around her throat from behind—not choking, just possessive—fingers pressing just enough to make her head spin. The other cracked down on her ass again, then again, turning it bright red.

“This what you wanted?” he growled, pace brutal. “Me fucking you raw while my voice still echoes in your head? While you’re still clenching around the memory of my fingers?”

“Yes—god, yes—” She was babbling now, words slurring. “Harder. Deeper. Mark me. Make me yours.”

He pulled out suddenly—leaving her empty, aching—and flipped her onto her back on the couch. Legs spread wide, slip torn at one strap so one breast spilled free. He hooked her knees over his shoulders, folded her in half, and slammed back in—deeper angle, hitting that spot relentlessly.

“Look at me.” His hand gripped her jaw, forcing her eyes to his. “You don’t get to close them. You watch while I ruin you.”

She obeyed—eyes glassy, lips swollen. He fucked into her harder, thumb finding her clit, rubbing tight, fast circles.

“Come,” he ordered, voice raw. “Come on my cock like you came for the video. Scream my name. Let the whole fucking building know who owns this pussy.”

The command tipped her over. She shattered—back arching off the cushions, walls clamping down so hard he groaned like it hurt. A gush of wetness coated them both; she sobbed his name—“Jungkook—fuck—Jungkook—”—over and over as wave after wave ripped through her.

He didn’t stop. Kept pounding through it—chasing his own edge—until his rhythm stuttered. “Gonna fill you,” he snarled against her mouth. “Gonna come so deep you’ll feel me for days.”

One last brutal thrust and he buried himself to the hilt, spilling inside her—hot, thick pulses that made her clench again, milking him dry. His forehead dropped to hers, both of them shaking, sweat-slick, breathing like they’d run miles.

For a long minute, neither moved. The laptop was still open—video long since ended, screen dark. The room smelled like sex and sweat and something possessive neither of them wanted to name yet.

He pulled out slowly—watching his cum leak from her swollen entrance, mixing with her own wetness. She whimpered at the loss.

“Stay,” he murmured, voice softer now. He scooped her up—legs around his waist—and carried her to the bedroom. Laid her on the sheets still warm from her earlier sleep.

He stripped the ruined slip off her completely, then shed his sweats. Climbed in beside her, pulling her back to his chest, one arm banded around her waist, the other sliding between her thighs to cup her possessively.

“We’re not done,” he whispered against her ear, already half-hard again against her ass. “Not even close.”

She shivered, pressing back into him. “Good.”

The city lights flickered through the curtains. Dawn was still hours away.

And neither of them was sleeping tonight.

The bedroom door barely clicked shut before Jungkook had her back on the mattress—face-down, ass up, still leaking his first load down her thighs. He didn’t give her time to catch her breath. One hand pressed between her shoulder blades, pinning her chest to the sheets; the other guided his cock back inside her in one long, punishing slide. She gasped—raw, oversensitive walls fluttering around him.

“Thought we were done?” he murmured against her ear, hips already rolling in slow, deep circles that dragged every ridge along her front wall. “We’re just getting started.”

He fucked her like that for long minutes—lazy but brutal, grinding so deep she felt him in her stomach. Then he pulled out, flipped her onto her back, hooked her legs over his elbows, and folded her in half again. Missionary this time, but slower. Deeper. Every thrust deliberate, eyes locked on hers the entire time. No words—just the wet slap of skin, her sharp inhales, his low grunts when she clenched around him. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripped onto her collarbone. She reached up, nails raking down his chest, leaving red trails over ink.

“Look at me,” he ordered when her eyes fluttered shut. “Watch while I fill you again.”

She did. Held his stare through the next orgasm—hers first, walls pulsing so hard he groaned like it hurt. Then his—hips stuttering, cock throbbing as he pumped another hot load deep inside her, so much it leaked out around him when he finally stilled.

They didn’t stay there long.

He carried her to the living room floor—rug burning her back as he laid her down, spread her thighs wide, and sank back in from above. Reverse this time: she straddled him facing away, ass bouncing as she tried to ride. He didn’t let her control it. Hands clamped on her hips, yanking her down hard onto every upward thrust, setting a punishing rhythm. His palm cracked against her ass—once, twice—until the skin glowed red again.

“Bounce harder,” he growled. “Show me how bad you wanted this.”

She obeyed—hips rolling, back arching, moans turning into sharp cries every time he bottomed out. He reached around, fingers finding her clit, rubbing fast circles until she came again—shaking, gushing around his cock, soaking his thighs. He followed seconds later, spilling inside her with a low “Fuck—take it all.”

Next was the wall—her back slammed against it, legs wrapped tight around his waist, arms locked around his neck. He fucked her standing, gravity driving him deeper with every snap of his hips. One hand braced beside her head; the other gripped her throat—not choking, just possessive pressure that made her eyes roll. She bit his shoulder to muffle her screams when the next orgasm hit. He bit her neck in return—hard enough to bruise—growling against her skin as he came again, flooding her until it dripped down her thighs and onto the hardwood.

They stumbled to the kitchen. He lifted her onto the counter—cold granite shocking her overheated skin. Legs spread wide, heels hooked on the edge. He stepped between them, thrust back in without warning, pace brutal again. The sound of skin slapping echoed off the tiles.

“You’re dripping everywhere,” he rasped, watching his cock disappear into her over and over. “My cum, your cum—such a filthy fucking mess.”

He reached past her, yanked open the drawer she kept her toys in—the one he’d once casually recommended she buy from during one of their calls. The small bullet vibrator landed in his palm. He clicked it on—low buzz filling the room—then pressed it straight to her swollen clit.

“No—Jungkook—too much—”

“You’ll take it.” He kept thrusting—deep, steady—while the vibrations wrecked her. “Come again. Milk me dry.”

She shattered almost instantly—sobbing, thighs shaking uncontrollably, walls spasming so hard he cursed under his breath. He didn’t stop the toy. Kept it pressed firm while he fucked her through another, then another—orgasms stacking until tears streamed down her cheeks, pleasure so sharp it bordered pain. When he finally came again—growling her name, hips jerking—he pulled out just enough to watch the last creampie leak out, mixing with her slick on the counter.

Dawn was bleeding pink through the curtains by the time they made it back to the bed. Bodies slick with sweat, cum, and exhaustion. They collapsed—her sprawled across his chest, his arm banded around her waist like he was afraid she’d disappear.

No grand declarations. No whispered I-love-yous. Just heavy breathing and the faint scent of sex hanging thick in the air.

He reached for the sheet, dragged it over them, then used a corner to gently wipe the sweat and mess from between her thighs. His touch was careful now—almost tender. He traced the fresh hickey blooming on her neck with his thumb, low chuckle rumbling in his chest.

“Fucked you stupid,” he murmured, voice wrecked.

She laughed—hoarse, spent. “Worth it.”

His eyes drifted to the laptop still open on the nightstand. The file name glowed in the dim light: 34 + 35.

He quirked a brow, thumb still stroking her skin. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shifted—slow, deliberate—until she was straddling his hips again. His cock—still half-hard—twitched against her slick folds. She leaned down, lips brushing his, voice a soft, filthy whisper.

“Means I wanna 69 with you.”

She kissed him then—slow, deep, tongues sliding together like they had all the time in the world. He smirked against her mouth, hands sliding down to grip her ass—fingers digging in, pulling her flush so her wet heat dragged along his length.

“Noted,” he said, voice dark with promise. “But next time? You’re gonna beg for it properly.”

She rolled her hips once—teasing, testing. “Challenge accepted.”

The city outside woke slowly. Inside, they stayed tangled—marked, wrecked, irreversibly changed.

No going back.

masterlist taglist about me

A/N :

hi hi… i’m finally back after almost six months and i return with something very different from my usual style 👀

this one-shot is mostly smut very fast paced with a very light plot, heavily inspired by me looping 34+35 by ariana grande way too many times and honestly… i had way too much fun writing it.

if you enjoyed it, please show some love — reblogs, likes, comments, all of it really helps more than you know <3

i’ll be focusing on one-shots for a while as i get back into my rhythm before diving into series again. if you’d like to be tagged in future works, check out my taglist and let me know ♡

thank you for being here. truly.

thank you again for reading. really. it means a lot. ♡

jeffpunksgrl

jeff hardy x alt!wrestler

bratzdollsasha

Reblog if you’re black tumblr

and yes you have to be black, this isn’t an all access typa club

shawtuzi

SUGA! HONEY! LOVE! ft. min yoongi

a/n: was struggling so hard to think of a title and then this kali uchis song came on

synopsis: after almost a year of dating your super nonchalant bf drops an even more nonchalant L bomb

cw include: black fem!reader in mind when writing this, super fluffy like they love each other sm, pet names used (baby, pretty girl, cutie, babe), fondling, some nasty kissing, crotchless panties are involved somewhere in here, body worship, oral f!receiving, fingering, softdom!yoongi, he gets kinda mean tho, yoongi wears a chain and he has long hair hehe, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, riding, squirting, creampie, some dirty talk, lots of praise, cock warming, aftercare!! wc: 8.1k

“did you enjoy dinner?”

“yes, it was so yummy. thank you for treating me, honey.”

yoongi looked over at you, and gave you a small, barely noticeable smile. he brought your hand that was interlocked with his up his lips, pressing a kiss to the soft, glittery skin.

tonight was your nine month anniversary. not quite one year, but close enough to where he wanted to treat you to something special.

the night started off with him surprising you with a small, bow shaped diamond necklace that hung prettily on a gold chain. he had noticed your slow transition from silver to gold jewelry, and thought the necklace would make a beautiful addition to your growing collection.

you were ecstatic. brown eyes gone completely glossy the second he opened the small box that had pandora printed on the front.

you wore it to the extra fancy restaurant he took you to, of course. the jewelry sat so prettily on your collarbone, it was impossible to not feel like the most special girl in the room, and that was exactly what yoongi wanted.

he wanted you to feel beautiful, expensive, untouchable—because his girl deserved nothing but the absolute best.

“m’so glad you had a nice time. you were definitely the prettiest girl in the room tonight,” he spoke softly, bringing heat to your cheeks. “but honestly, you’re the prettiest girl anywhere we go.”

ohhowjooniewept

handyman jungkookx y/n

damsel in distress, obsessive obsessive obsessive, smutty

>20k

the life you lived was hardly one that many dreamt about.

you weren’t rich, successful or even remotely happy. you worked two gruelling jobs, one throughout the day and then a night shift at your local diner all whilst barely having enough money at the end of the month for basic necessities and food, all thanks to the horrible apartment you had moved into.

moving away from an abuser who had connections and knew everyone in the town you’d once lived in meant you were forced into the city - big streets, bigger prices and no safety net. you had been here for six months, still healing from the kind of trauma that lodged itself in your body as opposed to your overworked mind. the kind that made you flinch at footsteps, double check locks, keep your head down.

you weren’t sure you had ever experienced safety, and you weren’t sure you ever would.

the only building you managed to secure on such short notice was the building you lived in now - a concrete block rotting from the inside out. the water pressure was horrendous, shooting out cold water a majority of the time, with mould crawling up your walls like it was alive. you owned very little because you couldn’t afford to replace anything that broke, and the worst part of all? the rent.

triple what the apartment was worth.

you didn’t know at first, too blinded by your desperation to escape your abusive home, too tired, too exhausted - you had signed the papers without looking properly. by the time you realised, you were already trapped. you couldn’t move even if you wanted, not with all of the deposits you couldn’t afford, moving fees you couldn’t dream of paying or the even nastier landlords that somehow managed to be sleazier than your own.

and so, you endured. endured the way he would speak to you, all up in your business, breath hot on your neck and cheeks every time he’d lean in too close. sometimes he would move goalposts, forcing you to pay your rent early just to watch you scramble. you were in a constant fight or flight mode that you knew would kill you.

you woke up tired and went to sleep tired, body aching in ways that rest could never help recover. you didn’t complain, didn’t have anyone to ask for help, didn’t have the time nor the energy to believe anything would change. you moved through the world quietly, apologetically, as though your mere presence took up too much space.

pjminii-deactivated20260816

CULT CLASSIC ! jeon jungkook

the rewind series

you were just renting your usual blockbuster from the stupidly hot guy at the video store, when it turns out you’ve been handed a tape you really shouldn’t be watching. are you an intruder, or did he give it to you on purpose?

⌗ pairings. jeon jungkook x female reader

⌗ word count. 17k

⌗ warnings and tags. pwp, don juankook (lol, jk is a ladiesman), voyeurism, penetrative sex, smitten!oc, kinda smitten!jk, weird love confession, cunnilingus, penetrative sex, unprotected sex (wrap it up guys), oc goes limp with overstimulation lol, jk is kinda all over the places — neither dom or sub, oral pleasure (m!receiving), cum swallowing, cum eating, sloppy aftercare.

notes ! okay this is a bit overdue buttttt at least i finished it, hey! i’m so beyond amazed by my lovely girl ana’s ‘special delivery’, so i’m hoping this won’t disappoint LMAO! anyways, this is crazy. buckle up guys.

banner by @voyter obviouslyyyy

shawtuzi

SUGA! HONEY! LOVE! ft. min yoongi

a/n: was struggling so hard to think of a title and then this kali uchis song came on

synopsis: after almost a year of dating your super nonchalant bf drops an even more nonchalant L bomb

“did you enjoy dinner?”

“yes, it was so yummy. thank you for treating me, honey.”

yoongi looked over at you, and gave you a small, barely noticeable smile. he brought your hand that was interlocked with his up his lips, pressing a kiss to the soft, glittery skin.

tonight was your nine month anniversary. not quite one year, but close enough to where he wanted to treat you to something special.

you were ecstatic. brown eyes gone completely glossy the second he opened the small box that had pandora printed on the front.

he wanted you to feel beautiful, expensive, untouchable—because his girl deserved nothing but the absolute best.

h03forballers

Fuck he’s fine

dreamersparacosm

no warranty ᯓ★ jeon jungkook

SUMMARY. Namhae Valley was supposed to be your definition of a “break,” a vacation from all the stress you’ve endured at work. What you didn’t plan for? A broken-down car and a grease-stained, smug mechanic who comes with it.

pairing. jeon jungkook x reader

word count. 15.8k

warnings/genre. BLUE COLLAR DICK!!!!!!, mechanic!kook, rich girl!oc, jungkook is a little shit, jungkook jerking off lol, kinda public sex, fingering, he bends you over the car, cowgirl in the drivers seat, creampie

note. blue collar!jk is back by VERY popular demand. handle with care was such a hit so why not take it one step further and double it.. except this time jeon jungkook is a mechanic. a smug, sexy mechanic with a massive cock that is barely hidden by his overalls. i love it here. 🩷 this is very smutty so beware like there is quite literally no plot besides sheer horniness

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| should i stay or should i go by the clash

banner creds | masterlist

“Fuck me.”

Okay, breathe. Your therapist told you to work on your breathing exercises when you’re in tough situations.

slashire

wear me, babe

Summary: after a long day, you and stu went to the thrift store, although you didn't stay very long and ended up back at his place.

Stu macher x fem!reader

notes/warnings: semi-public, oral (fem receiving) teasing/bratty Dom!Stu, overstimulation, handsy, mirror use slightly, dirty talk, power dynamic, rough sex, hair pulling, light choking, possessiveness, praise kink, shower sex, fingering, p in v, clingy stu, aftercare. Just basically porn with little plot! Not proofread. lil off character Stu, but it's fine, It was fun. :)

Words: 5215

The bell over the door jingled as you stepped into the thrift store, your eyes lighting up at the racks of clothes. The thrift store smelled faintly like old wood and worn denim, dust and faded perfume, the kind of place with more potential than organization. Racks of mismatched clothes surrounded you, and the broken speakers overhead buzzed with some old song playing low in the background. You were in your element, browsing, flipping through hangers, already holding two oversized flannels and a soft-looking sweater over one arm.

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