IN WHICH jungkook lingers after closing with fresh ink and unspoken feelings, until the quiet studio turns months of tension into a confession, a kiss, and something much more intimate.
pairings `jungkook x ftattooartist!reader genre `tattoo studio au, idol au, smut, slow burn, romance, fluff, light angst warnings `MDNI explicit content ahead, making out, praise, light teasing (the concept of shy jungkook is so cute i had to), swearing, oral (m! receiving) wc 6.3k
a/n so like hi omg? first ever tumblr drabble/fic wtv you want to classify this as lol (AND EVERYONE CHEERED) hope you guys enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it! (proof-read and edited this thing so many damn times it's crazy, forgive me if there's any typos) also, if my formatting looks a tad bit weird, sorry i'm still getting used to it (wattpad and ao3 veteran of 8 years here 🫡). nevertheless, super appreciative of the ones who like my work. thangg ya!
aftercare
The studio had a different pulse after midnight.
During the day, it belonged to voices and ringing phones, to clients pretending not to be nervous, to the printer coughing out stencils, to the front door chiming every twenty minutes as someone wandered in smelling like cold air, coffee, or cigarette smoke from the street. At night, once the last artist had gone home and the lock had turned over with a heavy click, the place settled into its bones.
The lights above your station were still bright, clinical white pouring over stainless steel trays and sealed cartridges, over ink caps lined in neat black rows, over the roll of paper towels and the green soap bottle with its lavender-clean bite. Beneath that, there was the sharper scent of disinfectant, plastic wrap, skin-safe cleanser, a faint medicinal tang that always sat in the back of your throat after a long session. The machines were silent now, but the memory of their buzzing seemed to cling to the walls, a ghost-hum threaded through the rain tapping against the front windows.
Jungkook was still in the chair.
He had been finished for almost twenty minutes.
At first, he had an excuse. He wanted to look at the piece from another angle. Then he wanted to check how it moved when he bent his arm, careful not to disturb the fresh wrap. Then he had gotten up, stood in front of the mirror, turned his forearm under the light, and stared at the dark lines through the shine of protective film with the solemn focus of someone reading a sentence written in a language only he understood.
Now he had no excuse at all.
He sat back in the tattoo chair with one leg stretched out and the other bent, his loose black shirt wrinkled from hours of stillness, damp hair curling around his temples from the rain he had walked through earlier. His cap sat on your counter beside the half-finished iced drink he had brought you before the appointment, condensation pooling around the plastic cup. He looked tired in the way he often did when he came late, like his body had arrived before the rest of him, like some part of him was still catching up from wherever the day had dragged him.
You snapped off your gloves and tossed them into the bin. “You’re going to start paying rent if you keep sitting there.”
His mouth twitched. He did not look away from the mirror.
“How much?”
“For you? Expensive.”
“That sounds unfair.”
“You take up space.”
At that, he finally turned his head. His eyes were dark under the overhead light, still a little distant, but warmth moved through them when they landed on you. “I’m sitting very quietly.”
“You’re haunting the chair.”
“I like this chair.”
“You like avoiding going home.”
The quiet that followed was too honest to be accidental.
You regretted the words almost as soon as they left your mouth, not because they were cruel, but because they touched something you had both been circling for weeks. Jungkook’s gaze dropped to his wrapped arm. His fingers rested against his thigh, thumb rubbing once over the side seam of his pants. It was a small habit, barely there, but you had seen it enough times to know he did it when he was thinking about whether to tell the truth.
Outside, a car passed through the wet street, tires whispering over the road.
He gave a soft breath that might have been a laugh if it had tried harder. “Maybe.”
You picked up the spray bottle and began wiping down the tray because the movement gave both of you somewhere to put your attention. “Long day?”
“Long everything.”
The answer was plain and low. No drama in it. No performance. Just the fatigue of someone who had spent too much time being watched and not enough time being held by silence.
You glanced at him. “You ate that protein bar?”
“Yes.”
“The whole thing?”
His expression shifted, faintly offended. “You watched me.”
“I watched you open it. Different thing.”
“I ate it,” he said, and then, after a beat, added, “Most of it.”
“Jungkook.”
“It was dry.”
“It was food.”
“It was punishment.”
You tried not to smile and failed. He saw it, of course. He always noticed the smallest changes, especially the ones you thought you hid. That was one of the first things that had made him feel dangerous to you, long before anything openly romantic existed between you. Not dangerous in the obvious way people might have assumed when they saw the tattoos, the piercings, the black clothes, the calm way he carried his strength. Dangerous because he paid attention. Because he remembered.
Three weeks ago, you had mentioned once, while changing the cling film on your station, that the studio got too dry when the heat ran all day. The next appointment, he arrived with a small tube of hand cream and set it beside your ink caps without explanation.
A month before that, you had complained under your breath that one of the lamps flickered when it warmed up. The next time he came in, he tapped the base with one finger and said, “Still doing it?” as if the lamp had personally disappointed him.
He did not make grand gestures. He made evidence.
You sealed the last used cartridge in the sharps container and pulled the paper barrier from the tray. “Your wrap is good. Don’t mess with it tonight.”
“I know.”
“Don’t work out tomorrow.”
His eyes flicked up.
You pointed at him. “Don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“You were thinking loudly.”
He smiled then, wider, and the tension around his mouth eased. “You always talk like you can hear my brain.”
“Only when it’s being stupid.”
“Wow.”
“Professional opinion.”
He gave a low, amused sound and leaned his head back against the chair. For a while, you cleaned in companionable quiet. The rain thickened, spilling silver down the glass. Somewhere in the back room, the heater clicked on with a dry rattle. The green soap smell rose again as you wiped the armrest where his wrist had rested for hours, mingling with disinfectant and the faint ozone tang from equipment that had worked hard all day.
When you looked over again, Jungkook was watching your hands.
Not your face. Not the room. Your hands.
The focus in his gaze made your fingers slow around the spray bottle.
“You’re staring,” you said.
He did not deny it quickly enough.
“I’m learning,” he replied.
“You know how to clean a station?”
“I know how you clean a station.”
The words should not have landed the way they did. They were simple, almost casual, but something in his voice had lowered on the last part, and the air between you tightened with the same subtle shift you felt when a stencil first touched skin. A point of contact. A decision approaching.
You set the bottle down. “That useful to you?”
“Maybe.”
“For what?”
He looked at you then, directly, and the question seemed to move through him before he answered. His throat bobbed once.
“I don’t know yet.”
The studio became too quiet.
You could have laughed it off. He might have let you. You could have made a joke about him becoming your apprentice, about charging him for lessons, about anything that would have pushed the moment back into safer shape. He had given you room to do that. Jungkook often did. His honesty came with an exit, a door left half-open so the other person could step away without making it cruel.
You did not step away.
Instead, you moved to the counter beside him and picked up the small roll of medical tape, checking the edge though you did not need it. “You keep doing that.”
His eyes followed the movement. “Doing what?”
“Saying something and then pretending you didn’t.”
His lips parted slightly, but no answer came. He looked younger when he was caught off guard, not less grown, just less armored. The strong lines of his face softened; the confidence people liked to assign him loosened into something more human. He rubbed the side of his thumb against his index finger, careful with the wrapped arm.
“I’m not pretending,” he said at last.
“No?”
“I’m deciding if I should say more.”
Your heartbeat climbed in a way that annoyed you. You were used to steady hands. You made a living from precision, from keeping your breath calm when skin moved under you, from controlling pressure and depth and angle. Yet here he was, sitting in your chair with tired eyes and fresh ink, and your body reacted as if he were the needle.
You leaned back against the counter. “And?”
His gaze lowered to your mouth so briefly you might have missed it if you had not already been watching him too closely.
“And I think if I say more,” he said, voice quieter, “I can’t take it back.”
The rain dragged itself down the windows in long, wavering lines.
You took one step closer.
He stilled.
It was not dramatic. He did not grab you, did not smirk, did not suddenly become someone else. He simply stopped moving, all his attention narrowing into the space between your bodies. His breathing changed first, a slow inhale that did not fully settle. Then his fingers flexed against his thigh.
“You don’t have to take everything back,” you said.
His eyes lifted to yours.
For a few seconds, neither of you moved. The whole studio seemed to hold its breath around the chair, around the ink drying under film on his forearm, around the months of him coming in with new ideas and careful questions and drinks he pretended were no big deal. Around every time his hand had lingered too near yours when you passed him a sketch. Around every time you had caught him watching you work with an expression too intent to be only artistic interest.
Jungkook reached out slowly, giving you every chance to shift away, and touched your wrist.
His hand was warm. His grip was light. His thumb rested over your pulse with terrifying gentleness.
“You know,” he said.
It was not really a question.
You looked down at his fingers around your wrist, at the faint ink stains near your own nails, at the contrast of his skin against yours. “I know.”
His thumb moved once, barely, and your pulse jumped under it.
“Since when?”
You smiled faintly. “You brought me coffee after I complained about the place across the street burning theirs.”
“That was just being nice.”
“You hate that café.”
He looked away, caught, and a breath of laughter escaped him. “Their coffee is really bad.”
“You still went.”
His eyes returned to yours, warmer now, shy and steady at once. “Yeah.”
Something inside you softened so hard it almost hurt.
You turned your wrist under his hand until your fingers brushed his palm. “Since then.”
He swallowed. “That was two months ago.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“Neither did you.”
His mouth curved, but there was nervousness underneath it. “I was trying to be respectful.”
“You were.”
“I didn’t want to make this weird.”
“You didn’t.”
“I thought about it,” he admitted, and the honesty seemed to pull the next words from him before caution could stop them. “A lot.”
Your breath caught quietly.
His hand tightened around yours, then loosened, as if he had to remind himself not to hold too hard. “Coming here. Seeing you. Thinking maybe I should stop before I made it complicated. Then thinking I didn’t want to stop.”
The words were simple. That made them worse. Better. More intimate than any polished confession could have been.
You stepped between his knees, and his head tilted up to follow you. The chair put him slightly lower than you like this, broad shoulders relaxed against black vinyl, tattooed arm carefully held away, his unwrapped hand still around yours. There was nothing careless in him now. Nothing performative. Just attention, direct and deep.
“Do you want to stop now?” you asked.
His eyes went to your mouth again. This time he let you see it.
“No.”
You bent slowly, giving him the same chance he had given you.
He met you halfway.
The first kiss was careful enough to ache. His lips were warm, softer than the hard line of his jaw suggested, and for one suspended second he barely moved, like he was registering the fact of it. Then his breath left him through his nose, shaky and relieved, and his hand slid from your wrist to the side of your neck.
He kissed like he listened.
At first, he learned. The angle of your mouth, the pressure you liked, the small sound you made when his thumb brushed under your jaw. He took it in with that same focused patience he brought to everything that mattered, then adjusted, deepening the kiss when you leaned into him, slowing when your fingers curled into the front of his shirt. His other arm stayed careful because of the fresh tattoo, but the rest of him shifted toward you with unmistakable want.
A low sound caught in his throat when you parted your lips for him.
It was quiet, almost swallowed, but it went through you like heat.
You braced one hand on the back of the chair and kissed him harder. His fingers slipped into your hair, not pulling yet, only holding, grounding himself there as his mouth opened under yours. The studio’s clean medicinal scent clung to both of you. Green soap, rain, ink, his skin warm beneath it all. The place where you had spent months touching him professionally had narrowed into this single impossible difference: now he was touching back.
You drew away enough to breathe.
Jungkook followed without thinking, mouth chasing yours for half a second before he caught himself. His eyes opened slowly. They were dark, unfocused, and almost embarrassed by their own hunger.
You smiled. “Impatient.”
He huffed, breathless. “You kissed me first.”
“You reached for me first.”
“You came closer.”
“You stayed in my chair for twenty minutes after we were done.”
His ears flushed. He tried to look annoyed, but the effect was ruined by the way his hand had not left your neck. “You were counting?”
“I’m a professional.”
“Stop saying that right now.”
You laughed against his mouth, and he kissed the sound from you.
This time there was less caution. His hand tightened in your hair, still gentle but no longer tentative, and his knee pressed against the outside of your leg as he drew you in. You felt the restraint in him, the carefulness shaped around the fresh ink, around the chair, around the fact that this mattered too much to rush badly. But beneath it, want gathered fast and hot.
Your hand slid from his shoulder to his chest. His breath hitched under your palm.
“Still okay?” you asked.
He blinked at you, and for a second, something tender moved across his face. Of course you would ask. Of course he would notice.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rougher. “More than okay.”
Then, quieter, as if honesty had become easier now that his mouth had already betrayed him: “Don’t stop.”
So you didn’t.
You kissed along the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, feeling the muscle jump as he clenched it. When your lips reached the place beneath his ear, his fingers tightened in your hair and a soft, broken “mmh” slipped out of him before he could trap it.
You paused there. “Sensitive?”
He exhaled a laugh that trembled at the edges. “Don’t sound so proud.”
“You made a pretty convincing argument.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You did.”
His head tipped back against the chair as your mouth moved lower, and the clean line of his throat exposed itself under the light. He was beautiful like this in a way that felt almost unfair: rain-damp hair drying messily, lips swollen from kissing, eyes half-lidded and still trying to watch you, black shirt stretched over his chest as his breathing deepened.
When your fingers found the hem of his shirt, you stopped.
His gaze sharpened immediately.
“Can I?”
For a moment, he only looked at you. Then he nodded, once, serious now. “Yeah.”
You lifted the fabric carefully, mindful of his wrapped arm, and he helped as much as he could, a little awkward with one side restricted. The awkwardness made him laugh under his breath, embarrassed and real.
“This is not smooth,” he muttered.
“Good.”
He looked at you, startled. “Good?”
“I like you real.”
That silenced him.
The shirt came off slowly, leaving his hair mussed and his torso bare under the studio light. You had seen parts of him before, enough to place stencils, enough to tattoo, enough to maintain professionalism with a steady hand and a trained eye. This was different because he had given permission for you to look.
So you did.
His skin carried art and warmth, hard-earned muscle and softness in the places bodies stayed human no matter how many people admired them from far away. His stomach tightened when your gaze moved over him, and the reaction was so immediate that you looked back to his face.
He was watching you watch him.
There was confidence there, yes, but not arrogance. Under the want, under the heat, there was a flicker of vulnerability he did not bother hiding quickly enough.
You touched his chest with your fingertips.
His breath left him.
“Jungkook,” you murmured.
His eyes closed for half a second at the sound of his name, as if hearing it like this did something to him. When he opened them again, they were darker.
“Say it again,” he said.
The request was quiet, almost shy.
You stepped closer between his knees, your hand sliding down the center of his chest, over the firm jump of his abdomen. “Jungkook.”
His lips parted. A faint sound caught behind his teeth. “Fuck.”
It was not smooth. It was better than smooth.
He pulled you down into another kiss, needier now, his hand at the back of your neck, his body lifting toward yours as much as the chair allowed. You could feel the heat of him, the tension, the restraint fraying in slow threads. When your fingers reached his waistband, he went very still again, but this stillness was different. Strained. Waiting.
You drew back enough to see his face. “Tell me.”
His jaw flexed. For once, he looked like words were the harder thing.
“I want you,” he said finally, low and direct. Then his eyes dropped, and a small, disbelieving laugh left him. “I wanted you for a while.”
The admission moved through you with a force that made the room feel smaller.
You touched his cheek, and he leaned into it before he could stop himself.
“I know,” you said softly.
His mouth twitched. “You keep saying that.”
“You keep making it obvious.”
He laughed, but the sound faded when your thumb brushed his lower lip. His gaze locked on yours, attention narrowing again, body quieting under your hand in a way that made your own breath thin.
“You’re okay with obvious?” he asked.
“From you?”
His hand slid to your waist, fingers firming there. “Yeah.”
You kissed him once, slow. “I like it.”
The last of his hesitation seemed to loosen.
He stood carefully, keeping his wrapped arm angled away, and the change in height shifted the air between you. He was close enough now that you had to tip your head back. The chair creaked behind him. The studio light caught along his collarbone, the curve of his shoulder, the dark edge of ink disappearing along skin. He did not crowd you carelessly; he waited until your hands settled at his waist before he moved.
Then he kissed you like waiting had become impossible.
His mouth was hotter now, less measured, and the soft sounds he had swallowed earlier started slipping free against your lips. A low “mm,” a rough inhale, a broken breath when your hands slid over his bare back. He backed you toward the counter with careful steps, one hand at your hip, the other braced near your shoulder when you reached the edge.
“Tattoo,” you warned against his mouth.
“I know,” he breathed, even as he kissed you again.
“Don’t mess it up.”
“I’m trying.”
“You’re doing a terrible job.”
He laughed into your neck, and the vibration of it ran through your skin. Then his mouth found the side of your throat, and you stopped teasing.
It was unfair how quickly he learned. One soft inhale from you and he stayed there, lips moving with patient pressure, teeth grazing only when your fingers tightened on his shoulder. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His hand on your waist flexed, and his mouth curved against your skin.
“There?” he murmured.
You hated how wrecked one word could make you feel.
“Yes.”
He made a low sound, pleased and focused, and did it again.
The counter pressed cold against your lower back. The rest of the studio remained painfully clean around you: sealed drawers, covered machines, labeled bottles, the sterile brightness of your station. But Jungkook was warm against you, breathing hard, mouth at your throat, his hair brushing your jaw. The contrast made everything sharper.
His fingers found the hem of your shirt and paused.
You drew back.
He looked at you, breathing through parted lips. “Can I?”
The question was soft. Careful. Him.
You nodded.
He lifted your shirt with his unwrapped hand, slow enough that your skin prickled under the studio air. His eyes followed every inch he uncovered. Not greedy in a careless way. Attentive. Almost reverent, though that word felt too polished for the raw concentration on his face.
When your shirt dropped aside, he stared for a second too long.
You touched his chin. “Hey.”
His eyes snapped back to yours, and color rose along his cheekbones. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I’m trying not to make you uncomfortable.”
“You’re not.”
He nodded, but the seriousness stayed. “Tell me if I do.”
Your chest tightened. You kissed him before tenderness could undo you.
He answered immediately, hand sliding over your waist, palm warm against bare skin. The first skin-to-skin contact pulled a quiet sound from both of you. His forehead rested against yours for a moment after, breath mingling, his eyes lowered as if he needed to gather himself.
“You’re warm,” he said.
“So are you.”
“I know, but—” He stopped, laughed softly at himself, then shook his head. “Never mind.”
“No, say it.”
He looked almost pained by the request, then gave in because he was braver than he thought. “It’s different.”
The words landed gently.
You understood. Touching during appointments had always been about angles, placement, cleaning, pressure, work. Necessary contact. Controlled contact. This was not that. This was his palm sliding up your side because he wanted to feel you, because he could, because you had said yes.
You covered his hand with yours and guided it higher.
His breath caught. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The sound he made then was small and rough, tucked low in his throat. He kissed you again, deeper, his hand moving with growing confidence as you arched into him. He was still careful, still checking your face, but desire had begun to overtake the shyness. His thumb traced your skin. His mouth left yours to drag along your jaw. When you said his name, his whole body seemed to respond.
“Again,” he whispered.
You smiled, dazed. “You like that?”
He pressed his forehead into your shoulder, embarrassed and laughing under his breath. “Don’t tease me right now.”
“Jungkook.”
A shiver moved through him.
“Ah, fuck,” he muttered, and the helplessness in it made heat coil low in your stomach.
He kissed lower, slow and testing, giving you time at every step. The studio disappeared by degrees. The rain became a dull hush beyond the glass. The bright lights became heat on your skin. His mouth became the center of everything.
When your fingers slid into his hair and tugged lightly, he groaned properly, a deep, involuntary sound that vibrated against you.
You froze for half a beat.
He lifted his head, eyes dark and slightly dazed. “What?”
“Nothing.”
His mouth curved, breathless and suspicious. “You liked that.”
“You’re very observant.”
“I’m learning,” he said again, but this time the words were rough against your mouth, threaded with confidence.
The charged silence that followed was broken only by breathing.
You let your hand trail down his chest again, slower than before. His abdomen tightened under your touch. When your fingers reached his waistband, his hips shifted forward before he could stop them. The movement was small, but both of you felt it.
His eyes closed.
“Sorry,” he breathed.
“Don’t apologize for wanting.”
He opened his eyes. Something raw moved through them then, gratitude tangled with hunger.
“I’m trying to be normal,” he said.
“You’ve never been as subtle as you think.”
That startled a laugh out of him, and for one second, he was familiar again in the sweetest way: amused, shy, caught. Then your fingers brushed the button of his pants, and the laugh broke into a shaky exhale.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” you said.
He shook his head. “I don’t.”
“Tell me anyway.”
His gaze held yours. “I don’t want to stop.”
So you kept going.
The button slipped free. His breathing deepened. He watched your hand like he had watched your needle all night, with trust and tension and that almost unbearable focus. When you touched him through the fabric, he sucked in a breath and gripped the counter beside you hard enough that his knuckles paled.
“Nnh—” The sound caught in his throat. His head dipped, hair falling forward.
You kissed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. “Good?”
He laughed once, strained. “You’re asking that like you don’t know.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
His eyes lifted, heavy and bright. “Good,” he said, voice low. Then, after your hand moved again, “Really good.”
There was no polished performance in him. No impossible confidence. He was responsive, warm, overwhelmed in increments and trying to stay present through all of it. When you touched him more firmly, his mouth fell open against your shoulder, and the groan that left him was quiet but unmistakable.
“Mmh—shit.”
You felt him smile afterward, embarrassed by himself.
“Cute,” you murmured.
He lifted his head immediately. “Don’t call me cute right now.”
“You are.”
“I’m trying very hard to be sexy.”
That made you laugh, and his expression softened with pride because he had made you laugh even like this, even with his pants open and your hand on him and his breathing unsteady. Then he kissed you again, smiling into it for half a second before the pleasure dragged him back under.
“You are,” you whispered against his lips.
His eyes searched yours.
“Sexy?” he asked, almost playful, almost needing to know.
You slid your hand past his waistband and took him in your palm.
His whole body went rigid for one stunning second, his breath punched out of him in a broken, startled sound that made the studio feel impossibly small. “Oh—fuck.”
His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and the hand at your waist tightened, fingers pressing into your skin with a restraint that shook at the edges. He was already hard, hot and heavy in your grip, the evidence of all those months of silence and glances and almost-touches finally stripped of any excuse. The intimacy of it hit you harder than you expected. You had held his arm steady through pain. You had cleaned ink from his skin. You had wrapped new work with careful hands and told him how to heal.
This was different.
This was him trembling because your fingers closed around him. This was his mouth open against your neck, his breath spilling hot and uneven over your skin. This was Jungkook, who sat through hours under a needle without complaint, losing composure because you stroked him once, slow from base to tip.
“Ah—” His hips jerked forward before he could stop them, and he immediately made a rough, frustrated sound. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
You kissed the side of his head, your hand still wrapped around him. “Stop apologizing.”
“I’m trying not to move.”
“You can move.”
His laugh broke apart halfway through, turning into a groan when your thumb swept over the slick heat at his tip. “Don’t say that like you don’t know what it does to me.”
“What does it do to you?”
He lifted his head enough to look at you, eyes dark and unfocused, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from your mouth. For once, he did not deflect quickly. His gaze fell to where your hand disappeared beneath the loosened front of his pants, and his throat worked around a sound he almost swallowed.
“Makes me want more,” he said.
The honesty curled through you like smoke.
You kissed him, and he groaned into your mouth as you started a steady rhythm, firm enough to make his knees soften, slow enough to keep him aware of every inch of your hand around him. His skin was fever-warm, the glide growing smoother with each pass, and he reacted to every change with helpless precision: a catch in his breathing when your grip tightened, a low “mmh—yeah” when your wrist twisted near the head, a shudder that moved through his abdomen when you dragged your thumb over him again.
He was not quiet anymore.
He tried to be. That was the beautiful part. He pressed his lips together, breathed through his nose, turned his face into your shoulder like he could hide what you were doing to him from the empty studio. But the sounds kept slipping out anyway, low and breathy and wrecked, each one more honest than the last.
“Nnh—wait,” he gasped, though his hips rolled into your hand again.
You slowed at once. “Wait?”
His eyes opened, panicked by the possibility that you might stop entirely. “No, not—” He swallowed, fingers flexing at your waist. “Just slower. Please.”
The last word came out rough and quiet, scraped bare.
You gave him what he asked for, easing the pace until each stroke was deliberate. His head fell back, throat exposed, chest rising hard under the white studio light. The fresh wrap on his forearm crinkled when his fingers curled and he forced them open again, remembering your warning even now, even with pleasure pulling him apart by threads.
“You’re still trying to protect the tattoo,” you murmured.
His laugh came out ruined. “You told me to.”
“Good listener.”
“You have no idea.”
Then you tightened your hand, and his sentence dissolved into a low, desperate “ah—fuck, like that.”
There it was: the same focus turned inward, the same honesty his body gave before his mouth caught up. You watched his face as you touched him, watched the way his brows pulled together, the way his lips parted on each shaky exhale, the way his eyes kept dropping to your mouth like he needed the kiss as much as the friction.
You kissed him again, messy and warm, and his hand slid up your back, pulling you closer until there was almost no space left between you. His cock pulsed in your grip. You felt it. He felt you feel it, and the awareness made him groan against your lips.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispered.
“Like what?”
“Like you know exactly what you’re doing.”
You smiled against his mouth and stroked him harder.
His knees actually buckled.
For a second, he braced himself against the counter, breath leaving him in a sharp “hah—” as his head dipped. The vulnerability of it, the weight of his body leaning into yours while your hand worked him open, made heat flood through you. He was strong enough to hold himself together through almost anything, but he was choosing not to hide from this. Choosing to let you see him affected, needy, real.
“Jungkook,” you said softly.
His eyes squeezed shut. “Mm—don’t.”
“You told me to say it again.”
“I know.” His voice cracked into a breathless laugh, then a moan when your thumb circled the head. “That’s the problem.”
You kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, feeling the tremble under his skin. Your hand moved slick and steady, and every stroke pulled him closer to the edge he had tried to delay. His hips began to follow you in small, helpless rolls, controlled at first, then less controlled as the rhythm built. He was breathing hard now, no longer pretending he wasn’t, little sounds catching low in his throat.
“Mmh—yeah. Yeah, like that. Please don’t stop.”
The plea was so quiet you almost felt it more than heard it.
You did not stop.
His hand slid into your hair again, not guiding, just holding on. He kissed you with uneven pressure, losing the shape of it whenever your wrist twisted just right. His mouth dragged against yours; his breath broke into yours; the wet heat of his cock moved through your fist while rain blurred the windows and the locked studio held the secret of him falling apart under your hand.
“You’re close,” you whispered.
He nodded, almost ashamed of how obvious it was. “Too close.”
“That’s okay.”
“I wanted—” He broke off with a sharp inhale, his stomach tensing hard. “I wanted to make you feel good first.”
The tenderness of that, said while he was shaking in your palm, nearly undid you.
“You are,” you said.
His eyes opened, searching your face with desperate focus, needing to believe it. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Let me see you.”
That hit him hard.
His lips parted, but no words came out. His gaze stayed locked on yours as you stroked him through it, faster now, firmer, feeling him throb against your palm. The flush on his cheeks deepened, spreading down his neck and chest. His breathing turned ragged. His hand at your waist gripped, released, gripped again, trying not to hold too tightly and failing by degrees.
“Fuck, I’m—” He swallowed a groan, then gave up on hiding it. “I’m gonna come.”
You kissed him once, deep and slow, your hand never losing rhythm. “Go on.”
His face crumpled with pleasure.
The sound he made was low and broken, a rough “ah—mmh, fuck,” pressed into your mouth as his body went tight against yours. He came in your hand in hot, pulsing bursts, hips jerking despite every attempt to stay still, breath shuddering through him while his fingers clenched at your waist. His forehead fell to yours, his eyes squeezed shut, and for a few seconds there was nothing composed left in him at all. Just heat, tremor, release, the raw little sounds he could not stop making as you worked him through it gently.
“Mm—ah, wait, sensitive,” he breathed, catching your wrist with a shaking hand when the pleasure tipped too sharp.
You stopped immediately.
He stayed there, bent toward you, breathing hard with his hand around your wrist and his forehead almost touching yours. His grip was loose, trembling. His lashes lifted slowly, and the look he gave you was wrecked, embarrassed, grateful, and so soft it changed the air more completely than the sex had.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then he laughed under his breath, hoarse and disbelieving, and dropped his face against your shoulder.
You smiled, running your clean hand into his hair. “Still trying very hard to be sexy?”
He groaned, mortified, but you could feel him smiling against your skin. “Don’t.”
“You were.”
“Was?”
“Are.”
He lifted his head enough to glare at you weakly, cheeks still flushed, lips bitten red. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I’m a professional.”
He shut his eyes. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
His smile softened before he could stop it. “No. I don’t.”
You reached for the paper towels on the counter, and he made an immediate sound of alarm when he realized you were about to move away.
“I’m cleaning up,” you said, amused.
“Right.” He released your waist slowly, then looked down at himself and exhaled a shy, breathless laugh. “Right. Sorry.”
“You apologize a lot after coming apart in my hand.”
His head snapped up, eyes wide. “You can’t just say that.”
“I just did.”
He stared at you for half a second, then laughed properly, quiet and helpless, running his clean hand through his damp hair while you cleaned your palm and helped him with the mess. The intimacy afterward was almost sharper: his blush when you took care of him, the way he looked away and then back because he did not want to miss anything, the careful way he tucked himself back into his pants while trying not to disturb the wrap on his arm.
“You okay?” you asked once he was put together again.
He leaned his hip against the counter, still shirtless, still flushed, still breathing a little unevenly. “Yeah.”
“The tattoo?”
He checked the film with exaggerated seriousness, pressing lightly near the edge without touching the fresh work. “Safe.”
“Good.”
“My dignity,” he added, mouth twitching, “maybe less safe.”
You laughed, and his eyes warmed at the sound. He stepped closer, slower now, and set his hand at your waist again, no urgency in it this time. His thumb moved once over your skin.
“I meant what I said,” he murmured.
“Which part?”
His gaze lowered, shy for half a breath, then returned to yours. “All of it.”
The rain kept sliding down the windows. The room smelled like disinfectant, green soap, and him, the clean edges of your professional life blurred by the heat still lingering between your bodies. Jungkook looked around the studio as if he were seeing it after a long dream, then looked back at you with a small, private smile.
“It’s really not only tattoos,” he said.
“I know.”
This time, he did not tease you for knowing.
He only bent to kiss you again, soft and lingering, his mouth still warm from everything he had given away.