TROPES/WARNINGS -> biker!jungkook, blue collar!jungkook, ex criminal!jungkook, shy reader, age gap, unprotected sex, oral (male recieving), implied abusive relationship, reader is smol, street crime, implied violence, praise kink, size kink, nicknames (angel, doll, sweetheart)
WORDS -> 10.2k (so fcking long, i took a long time on this)
now playing: touchin' me - chandler leighton ⋆｡𖦹°‧
MAIN MASTERLIST
"Sweetheart, you lost?"
The voice came from somewhere behind the cigarette haze and neon glare—rough around the edges like gravel under boots, but with a warmth that didn't match the leather-and-knuckles crowd packed into the bar. You turned, slow, half-expecting some grizzled biker with a beer gut and bad intentions. Instead, you found yourself looking up—way up—into the sharpest brown eyes you’d ever seen.
He wasn’t smiling, but his posture was relaxed, one elbow propped on the sticky countertop like he owned the place. Which, judging by the way the other patrons gave him a wide berth, he might as well have. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing ink that coiled around his forearms like a warning in a language you didn’t know how to read.
"You don’t look like you belong here," he said, tipping his chin toward the door. "Place like this eats angels for breakfast."
Your fingers curled tighter around your drink—some watered-down whiskey you’d ordered just to look less out of place—but the condensation on the glass betrayed your nerves. "I'm fine," you lied, voice smaller than you’d intended. His eyebrow arched, and you swore his mouth twitched, like he’d caught you in something far more interesting than a bad poker face.
"Uh-huh." He leaned in just enough that the scent of motor oil and something faintly sweet—vanilla?—drifted over. Close enough that you could see the way his tattoo disappeared under the rolled cuff of his sleeve, the tail end of a snake or maybe a dragon. "Tell you what," he said, thumb brushing the rim of your glass, "you finish that, and I’ll walk you out. Sun’s been down an hour. Streets ain’t kind after dark."
You opened your mouth to argue, but the bartender—a gnarled man with a scar through his eyebrow—snorted and slid a fresh beer toward the stranger without being asked. "Listen to Jungkook, kid. Only idiot out here’s the one who don’t know when to fold."
Jungkook. The name suited him, all hard consonants and edges. You watched him take a slow drag from the bottle, the line of his throat working, and suddenly the room felt ten degrees hotter.
Your fingers twitched against the glass, the ice inside clinking like a nervous heartbeat. Jungkook’s gaze didn’t waver, steady as a sniper’s, and you realized with a jolt that he wasn’t just offering—he was waiting. Like he’d already decided how this would go, and the only variable left was how long you’d pretend otherwise. The bartender wiped down the counter with a rag that had seen better decades, his one good eye flicking between you two like this was the most entertainment he’d had all week.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” you muttered, but the words lacked bite, dissolving into the thrum of bass from the jukebox. Jungkook’s chuckle was low, a rumble you felt more than heard, and he set his beer down with a decisive clink.
“Didn’t offer to babysit.” His thumb tapped the glass near yours, a silent countdown. “Offered to walk. Big difference.” The dragon on his forearm flexed as he shifted, ink rippling under the bar’s sickly yellow light. You wondered absently if it hurt when he got them—if he’d bitten his lip like you did during flu shots, or if he’d laughed in the needle’s face.
The whiskey was terrible, but you downed the last of it anyway, if only to give your hands something to do. Jungkook’s mouth curled at the corner, approving, and he nodded toward the door. “C’mon, angel. Let’s get some air.” The nickname shouldn’t have sent a shiver down your spine. It definitely shouldn’t have made your stomach flip.
The night air hit you like a slap—cold and sharp, chasing away the bar’s stale heat. Jungkook stepped out behind you, his presence at your back both unsettling and inexplicably reassuring. The door swung shut with a thud, muffling the bar’s raucous noise into a distant hum. Streetlights flickered overhead, casting uneven pools of yellow onto the cracked pavement. Somewhere down the block, a motorcycle engine growled to life, then faded into the darkness.
“Where’s your ride?” Jungkook asked, nodding toward the mostly empty parking lot. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket, shoulders broad enough to block the wind. You hesitated, suddenly aware of how exposed you were out here—no car, no plan, just the lingering burn of cheap whiskey in your throat and a stranger who smelled like trouble and vanilla.
“Didn’t drive,” you admitted. “Walked.”
Jungkook’s expression darkened, just for a second. “From where?”
"Couple blocks over," you said, jerking your chin toward the dimly lit street beyond the parking lot. "Cheap motel with a flickering sign." The admission tasted like defeat, and you hated how small your voice sounded—like some lost kid instead of the grown woman who’d sworn she could handle herself.
Jungkook exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound almost a laugh but not quite. "That shithole by the old laundromat?" He shook his head, leather creaking as he shifted his weight. "Christ, angel. Place’s got more roaches than the city dump." The way he said it—like he knew exactly which peeling wallpaper you’d been staring at for the past three nights—made your cheeks burn.
You crossed your arms, suddenly defensive. "It’s temporary."
"Yeah? How temporary?" His gaze dropped to your shoes—scuffed sneakers that had seen better days—then back up to your face, slow, deliberate. Like he was adding up numbers in his head and didn’t like the sum. "You got someone waiting for you there?"
The question hung between you like a dare, and for a second, you considered lying. But Jungkook’s eyes—sharp as broken glass—seemed to see right through you. "No," you admitted, the word barely louder than the distant hum of traffic. "Just me."
Something flickered in his expression—too fast to name—before he sighed and scrubbed a hand over his jaw. The stubble there made a rough sound against his palm. "Motel’s a bad idea," he said, like it was a fact, not an opinion. "Landlord’s got a habit of ‘forgetting’ to lock doors. Especially for pretty girls traveling light."
Your stomach lurched. You’d known that. Had shoved a chair under the doorknob every night and slept with your keys between your knuckles like some DIY weapon. But hearing it out loud, in that gravel-cut voice, made it real in a way you hadn’t let it be before. "I can handle myself," you muttered, but the protest sounded hollow even to you.
Jungkook’s mouth twitched. "Yeah? That why you’re shaking?" You hadn’t even noticed, but your hands were trembling—slightly, just at the fingertips—and the realization burned like shame. Before you could snap back, he reached out, slow, giving you every chance to duck away. His thumb brushed the back of your hand, just once, warm and calloused. "Cold," he said, like he was offering you an out. "Let’s get you somewhere that ain’t got bedbugs."
His fingers closed around yours, not tight enough to trap, but firm enough that you couldn’t pretend you hadn’t felt it. The callouses on his palm rasped against your skin—rough in a way that sent an unexpected spark up your wrist. "You're not taking me home," you said, more to remind yourself than him. The words came out breathier than you’d intended, like your lungs had forgotten how air worked.
Jungkook snorted, steering you toward a parked motorcycle at the edge of the lot. "Didn’t offer that either, doll." The bike was all matte black and chrome, gleaming under the flickering streetlight like something half-tamed. He grabbed a spare helmet off the back—scuffed red, with a peeling sticker you couldn’t read—and held it out. "Got a couch at the shop. Springs’ll fuck your back worse than that motel mattress, but at least the locks work."
You hesitated, fingers hovering over the helmet. Common sense screamed that this was how people ended up in ditches, but the way Jungkook watched you—patient, like he had all night—made it hard to believe he’d bother luring you somewhere just to hurt you. Hurt took effort, and this man moved like every action was calculated to waste as little energy as possible. "What shop?" you asked, stalling.
"Auto repair. Two blocks north." He tilted his head, studying you. "You can call someone if you want. Or I can drop you at a bus stop." The offer was casual, but his fingers tapped once against the helmet—impatient, maybe, or just restless.
The helmet felt heavier than it should have, the weight of the decision settling into your palms. Jungkook didn’t rush you, just leaned against the bike, one boot propped on the kickstand like he had all the time in the world. His patience was almost worse than pressure—it made you feel like you were the one holding things up, like the night was waiting on you to stop being stupid.
"Bus stop’s fine," you said finally, because it was the sensible thing, the thing you’d tell a friend to do. But the words tasted like ash, and Jungkook’s smirk said he knew it.
"Uh-huh." He pushed off the bike, plucking the helmet from your grip before you could change your mind. "Bus left twenty minutes ago, angel. Next one’s at dawn." His fingers brushed yours as he strapped the helmet onto your head, adjusting the fit with a precision that suggested he’d done this before. The padding smelled like leather and something faintly citrus—clean, unlike the bar’s sticky air. "You wanna stand out here all night pretending you got options, be my guest. But that motel’s gonna smell worse the longer you wait."
The buckle clicked under your chin, snug enough to pinch. You opened your mouth to argue, but Jungkook was already swinging a leg over the bike, the engine growling to life beneath him like a living thing. He jerked his head toward the space behind him. "Up, doll. Unless you’re scared."
The helmet muffled your scoff, but Jungkook’s smirk widened like he’d heard it anyway. Scared. The word prickled under your skin—too close to the truth, too easy a taunt. You hesitated a second longer, just to prove you could, then swung your leg over the bike with more bravado than grace. The seat was warm where his body had been, the leather creaking under your weight. Jungkook glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow arched. “Hold on tight, angel. I don’t do slow.”
You barely had time to grip his waist before the bike lurched forward, the sudden acceleration pressing you flush against his back. The heat of him seeped through his jacket, solid and unyielding, and you caught another whiff of that vanilla-and-motor-oil scent as the wind whipped past your ears. The streets blurred into streaks of neon and shadow, the bike weaving through traffic with a recklessness that should’ve terrified you—but Jungkook’s hands were steady on the handlebars, his movements precise, like every turn was mapped behind his eyelids.
The shop appeared sooner than expected, a squat brick building wedged between a pawnshop and a boarded-up diner. A flickering sign above the roll-up door read Golden Hands Auto in peeling gold letters. Jungkook killed the engine with a twist of his wrist, and the sudden silence rang in your ears. You peeled yourself off his back, your thighs trembling—whether from adrenaline or the vibration of the bike, you couldn’t tell.
Jungkook dismounted in one smooth motion, plucking the helmet off your head before you could fumble with the strap. “C’mon,” he said, jerking his chin toward a side door. The key scraped in the lock, loud in the quiet street. Inside, the shop smelled like grease and old coffee, the air thick with the kind of warmth that clung to places where engines ran for hours. A workbench littered with tools ran along one wall, a sagging couch shoved against the other.
The couch groaned when you sat down, springs digging into your thighs through the thin upholstery. Jungkook flicked on a desk lamp—its orange glow cutting through the dimness—and tossed a folded blanket at you without looking. It smelled faintly of detergent and something earthy, like the forest after rain. “Make yourself at home,” he said, already shrugging out of his jacket. The motion pulled his shirt tight across his shoulders, the fabric straining over muscles that hadn’t come from gym reps.
You watched him move—efficient, unhurried—as he filled a dented kettle at a sink in the corner. The water sputtered from the faucet, loud in the quiet. “You live here?” you asked, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. The question sounded absurd the moment it left your mouth. Of course he didn’t. The place was half workshop, half storage closet.
Jungkook snorted, setting the kettle on a hotplate. “Nah. Got an apartment upstairs.” He nodded toward a door you hadn’t noticed, half-hidden behind a tool rack. “Shop’s mine, though.” The pride in his voice was subtle but unmistakable, like the gleam on the bike’s chrome.
The kettle whistled, sharp and sudden. Jungkook poured steaming water into two mugs—one chipped, the other with a faded superhero logo—and handed you the intact one. The tea inside was dark, bitter when you sipped, but warmth spread through your chest anyway. “So,” he said, leaning against the workbench with his own mug, “you gonna tell me why you were drinking alone in a biker bar, or am I supposed to guess?”
The mug burned your fingertips, but you clung to it anyway—something solid to ground you while Jungkook’s question hung in the air like a dare. You could lie. Invent some rebellious phase, a bad breakup, a dare from a friend. But his gaze was steady, patient in a way that made fabrications wither before they reached your tongue. "Needed to be somewhere loud," you admitted, tracing the rim of the mug with your thumb. "Somewhere that didn’t feel like four peeling walls and a broken AC unit."
Jungkook hummed, sipping his tea like he’d expected that answer. The steam curled around his lips before he spoke again. "And the whiskey?"
"Liquid courage," you muttered, the words bitter as the tea. "Thought if I looked like I belonged, I wouldn’t feel so…" You trailed off, suddenly aware of how pathetic it sounded—playing dress-up in someone else’s life.
Jungkook’s chuckle was low, more vibration than sound. "Sweetheart, you could’ve worn head-to-toe leather and still stuck out like a virgin at a gangbang." The crudeness should’ve made you bristle, but the way he said it—fond, almost teasing—took the sting out. He set his mug down with a clink, elbows propped on the workbench behind him. The pose stretched his shirt across his chest, the fabric pulling taut over the swell of his pecs. "So who’s got you running to motels and biker bars?"
The question landed like a punch to the solar plexus—direct, unexpected, forcing air from your lungs in a rush. Your fingers tightened around the mug, the ceramic almost too hot now, but the pain grounded you. Jungkook waited, his gaze unwavering, like he already knew the answer and just wanted to see if you’d lie.
"Ex," you said finally, the word sharp and small. "Not—not recent." A half-truth. The breakup was months ago, but the bruises—the ones that didn’t fade—still ached under your skin. You glanced at Jungkook’s hands, the knuckles scarred and calloused, and wondered if he’d ever hit someone who didn’t hit back first.
Jungkook’s expression darkened, a storm passing behind his eyes. He pushed off the workbench, the movement deliberate, and crouched in front of you, close enough that his knees brushed yours. The proximity should’ve set off alarm bells, but his hands—resting loosely on his thighs—were palms-up, open. "He know you’re here?"
The question was soft, but the implication wasn’t. Your throat tightened. "No. Left town." Another lie. You’d taken the first bus out with nothing but a duffel bag and the cash you’d scraped together, but you’d checked over your shoulder every block.
Jungkook’s jaw tightened, the muscle flexing under the scruff of his stubble. He didn’t call you out on the lie, just nodded once, slow, like he was filing the information away somewhere dark and dangerous. “Good,” he said, voice rough. His thumb brushed the edge of your knee—just a graze, but the contact sent a jolt up your thigh. “Means he’s smart.”
The couch creaked as you shifted, suddenly hyperaware of how close he was—close enough that you could count the faint scars along his collarbone where his shirt gaped open. The shop’s dim lighting painted shadows under his eyes, sharpening the angles of his face until he looked more like a warning than a man.
“You hungry?” he asked abruptly, pushing to his feet before you could answer. The sudden distance left you oddly unmoored, like you’d been leaning into a wind that vanished. Jungkook rummaged in a mini-fridge by the workbench, the hum of it drowning out the silence. “Got leftovers,” he said, tossing a plastic-wrapped container onto the counter. “Diner down the street makes decent pancakes.”
The mention of food twisted your stomach—you hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s gas station sandwich—but you hesitated. “You don’t have to—”
“—feed me,” you finished lamely, watching as Jungkook pried the lid off the container with a practiced flick of his wrist. The pancakes inside were slightly congealed, the syrup crystallized at the edges, but your stomach growled treacherously.
Jungkook shot you a look that said he’d heard it. “Yeah, well,” he said, shoving the container into a microwave that looked like it had survived a war. “You’re skin and bones, doll. Can’t have you passing out on my couch.” The microwave whirred to life, its dim light casting his profile in a sickly yellow glow. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and you caught the way his gaze flicked to your wrists—too thin, the veins too prominent—before darting away.
The microwave beeped, startlingly loud in the quiet shop. Jungkook tossed a fork at you without warning; you caught it by sheer reflex, the metal cold against your palm. “Eat,” he ordered, nudging the reheated pancakes toward you. They smelled like butter and cheap maple syrup, and suddenly you were ravenous.
You took a bite, the sweetness overwhelming after days of gas station pretzels and vending machine crackers. Jungkook watched, silent, as you devoured half the stack before coming up for air. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between amused and pissed off—but his voice was softer than you expected when he spoke. “How long since you ate a real meal?”
The fork scraped against the plastic container louder than you meant it to. You stalled, chewing slowly just to avoid answering. Jungkook didn’t rush you, just watched with that unnerving patience, like he’d wait all night if he had to.
"Couple days," you muttered finally, syrup sticking to your lips. The admission tasted worse than the lie.
Jungkook’s jaw tightened. He pushed off the counter abruptly, snagging a rag from the workbench to wipe grease off his hands—though they looked clean enough. The motion was too sharp, like he needed to do something with the tension coiling in his shoulders. "Motel have a fridge?"
You shook your head, staring at the half-eaten pancakes suddenly gone leaden in your stomach. The silence stretched, thick with everything you weren’t saying—the dwindling cash, the way you’d started skipping meals to stretch it further.
The rag hit the workbench with a dull thwack. Jungkook exhaled through his nose—slow, controlled—like he was counting backward from ten. “Right,” he said, and that single word carried more exhaustion than anger. He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, the stubble rasping against his palm. “Finish eating.”
The command brooked no argument, but his tone lacked its usual edge. You picked at the remaining pancakes, syrup congealing at the edges of the container. Jungkook moved to a cluttered desk in the corner, yanking open a drawer with more force than necessary. The sound of rummaging—metal clinking, papers rustling—filled the shop’s heavy silence. When he straightened, he held a key pinched between his fingers, its teeth glinting under the lamplight.
“Upstairs,” he said, tossing it toward you. You fumbled the catch; the key landed in your lap with a cold weight. “Door’s second on the left. Shower works. Towels in the closet.” He paused, jaw working like he was chewing over his next words. “Fridge is stocked.”
You stared at the key, its grooves biting into your palm. The offer hovered between you, unspoken but unmistakable: Stay. Your throat tightened. “I can’t—”
"—afford rent," you finished, the words scraping your throat raw. The key burned in your palm like a guilty secret. Jungkook snorted, kicking the drawer shut with his boot.
"Didn't ask for rent, angel." He leaned back against the desk, arms crossed over his chest. The movement pulled his shirt tight across his biceps, the fabric straining at the seams. "Place is paid for. You'd be doing me a favor—keeps the squatters out."
The lie was so transparent it almost hurt. You turned the key over in your fingers, the metal warmed by your grip. "Why?"
Jungkook stilled. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the hum of the fridge and the distant groan of pipes overhead. Then he pushed off the desk, crossing the space between you in three strides. His hand closed over yours, callouses catching on your knuckles as he folded your fingers around the key.
The warmth of his hand lingered even after he let go, the metal key pressed between your fingers like a promise you weren't sure you deserved. Jungkook didn’t step back, his boots planted wide enough that his knees bracketed yours. Close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow.
"Because I don’t like the way you flinch," he said finally, voice low, like the words were dragged out of him. His thumb brushed your wrist—just above the bruise you’d tried to hide under your sleeve—and the touch burned hotter than shame. "And because I’ve slept on that couch. Springs’ll fuck you up worse than whatever you’re running from."
You swallowed hard, the key’s teeth digging into your palm. The honesty in his voice hurt more than pity ever could. "I don’t—" Your voice cracked. You tried again. "I don’t know how to pay you back."
Jungkook’s mouth curled, something dark and amused flashing in his eyes. "Who said anything about paying?" He reached past you, snagging the half-empty mug of tea off the couch arm. His forearm brushed your shoulder, the contact fleeting but electric. "Consider it a favor between strays."
The key felt heavier in your palm than it should have. Jungkook’s gaze didn’t waver, steady as the hum of the fridge in the corner. You opened your mouth—to protest, to thank him, to ask what the hell he meant by strays—but he was already turning away, tossing the empty mug into the sink with a clatter.
“Shop opens at seven,” he said, shrugging his jacket back on with a single practiced motion. The leather creaked as he adjusted the collar, the sound oddly intimate in the quiet. “Don’t sleep through the noise.” He nodded toward the side door, the one he’d unlocked minutes ago. “Upstairs’s through there. Lock’s stiff—jiggle the handle.”
You stared at the key, then at his back as he moved toward the roll-up door. “Wait—you’re leaving?” The question slipped out before you could stop it, too raw at the edges.
Jungkook paused, half-turned, his profile sharp under the flickering shop light. “Got a bike to rebuild,” he said, like that explained everything. His boot scuffed the concrete as he shifted his weight. “You want a bedtime story too, angel?”
The helmet hit the couch with a dull thud when you chucked it at him. Jungkook caught it one-handed without looking, his smirk widening as the foam padding bounced against his palm. "Cute," he drawled, tossing it onto the workbench. The metal clattered against wrenches, the sound echoing in the shop's cavernous silence.
You stood too fast—the couch springs protesting—and instantly regretted it when the room tilted. Jungkook's hand shot out, steadying you by the elbow before you could faceplant into the tool rack. His grip was firm, calloused fingers pressing just above the bruise your ex had left three weeks ago. You froze.
Jungkook didn't. He let go like you'd burned him, stepping back with a roughness that didn't match the careful way he'd touched you. "Watch your step, doll." His voice was gruff, but his gaze dropped to your wrist—to the yellowing fingerprint-sized marks peeking from under your sleeve—before flicking away.
The side door groaned when you shoved it open, the rusted hinges screaming like a dying animal. The stairwell beyond was narrow, the steps uneven underfoot, the air thick with the scent of motor oil and something faintly herbal—like the tea he'd made you. Jungkook's shadow stretched long behind you, his presence at your back both unsettling and inexplicably steadying.
The key turned with a stubborn grind, the lock protesting until you jiggled the handle exactly as Jungkook had instructed. The apartment smelled like cedar and engine grease—lived-in, masculine. A single lamp cast amber light over a threadbare couch and a coffee table littered with motorcycle magazines. The fridge hummed in the corner, its door plastered with takeout menus and a yellowed photo of a younger Jungkook standing beside an older man, both grinning in front of a car with its hood propped open.
You toed off your shoes by the door, the floorboards creaking underfoot. The shower ran hot, thank god, and you stood under the spray until your skin pruned, washing away the bar’s sticky residue. His soap was unscented, utilitarian, but the towel you wrapped yourself in carried his faint vanilla-and-leather scent. It shouldn’t have made your stomach flutter.
The bedroom was sparse—just a dresser and a mattress without a frame, its sheets pulled tight as a drum. You hesitated before sliding under the covers, hyperaware of the way the fabric smelled like him. Sleep came in fitful bursts, punctuated by the distant rumble of engines and the occasional clang from the shop below.
At dawn, the roar of a hydraulic lift jerked you awake. Sunlight sliced through gaps in the blinds, painting stripes across the floor. You found a note taped to the fridge in messy block letters: EAT. DON’T TOUCH THE TOOLS. The fridge was indeed stocked—eggs, fruit, a six-pack of beer. You fried two eggs, the yolks bright as danger signs.
The eggs tasted like heaven and guilt in equal measure. You scraped the last of the yolk with your fork when the shop door buzzed open below—a deep mechanical groan followed by the familiar rumble of Jungkook’s voice, too muffled to make out words. The floor vibrated faintly under your bare feet, the rhythm of tools clinking and occasional laughter threading up through the boards. You washed your plate slowly, deliberately, listening to the cadence of his movements like it was a language you were trying to learn.
A sudden burst of laughter—deeper than Jungkook’s—made you jump. The sponge slipped from your fingers, hitting the sink with a wet slap. You hadn’t realized the shop had other employees. The thought of strangers down there, joking with Jungkook like this was any other Tuesday, made your skin prickle. You wiped your hands on the towel—his towel—and eyed the stairwell door. It stood slightly ajar, just as you’d left it.
The decision to go downstairs wasn’t a decision at all; your feet carried you before your brain could object. The steps creaked under your weight, each groan louder than the last, announcing your descent like a herald. The shop’s fluorescent lights glared brighter than you remembered, bleaching the concrete floor and the two figures bent over a motorcycle in the center bay.
Jungkook straightened first, wiping grease off his hands with a rag. His sleeves were rolled past his elbows, tattoos flexing as he motioned to the older man beside him—gray at the temples, built like a retired boxer. “Jimin, this is—” He paused, just for a heartbeat, and you realized he didn’t know your name.
"Y/N," you supplied quickly, stepping off the last stair. The concrete was cold under your bare feet, sending a shiver up your legs. Jungkook’s gaze dropped to your toes, then flicked back up with an unreadable expression—somewhere between amusement and exasperation.
Jimin whistled low, wiping his hands on an already-grimy rag. "Didn’t know you were keeping strays upstairs, Kook." His grin was sharp, but his eyes were kind as they flicked between you and Jungkook. "Cute ones, at that."
Jungkook chucked a wrench at him without looking. Jimin caught it with a laugh, the metal clanging against his palm. "Don’t scare her off," Jungkook muttered, tossing the rag onto the workbench. "She’s skittish enough as it is."
You bristled, crossing your arms. "I’m not skittish."
Jimin grinned, tossing the wrench back to Jungkook with a lazy flick of his wrist. "Sure you're not, sweetheart." The nickname rolled off his tongue with practiced ease, but his gaze—sharp beneath the casual charm—lingered on your crossed arms, the way your fingers dug into your sleeves. Jungkook caught the wrench one-handed, his knuckles whitening around the handle for half a second before he set it down with deliberate calm.
The shop’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting stark shadows under the bike’s raised chassis. Jungkook wiped his hands on his jeans, leaving dark streaks across the denim. "Jimin’s the reason the shop doesn’t burn down," he said, jerking his chin toward the older man. "Also why we’ve got a swear jar."
Jimin snorted, leaning against the workbench. "Like you’ve ever paid into it." His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the lines there deeper than they should’ve been for a man his age. You caught the way his gaze flicked to Jungkook—brief, assessing—before settling back on you. "So, Y/N. You sticking around, or just passing through?"
The question hung in the air like exhaust fumes. You opened your mouth—to say what, you weren’t sure—but Jungkook cut in before you could answer. "She’s staying." The words were flat, final, leaving no room for argument. Jimin’s eyebrows lifted a fraction, but he didn’t comment, just nodded and reached for a coffee mug perched precariously on a stack of invoices.
The coffee mug hit the workbench with a sharp clack, breaking the silence that had settled between the three of you. Jimin’s smirk was knowing as he took a slow sip, his eyes flicking between you and Jungkook like he was watching a game of chess unfold. "Staying, huh?" he mused, setting the mug down with deliberate care. "That so, Y/N?"
You swallowed, suddenly aware of how thin your borrowed t-shirt felt against your skin—how Jungkook’s gaze lingered on the way the fabric dipped at your collarbone before he looked away, jaw tight. "Yeah," you said, quieter than you meant to. "If that’s okay."
Jimin chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, it’s more than okay, sweetheart." He nudged Jungkook’s shoulder with his own, grinning when Jungkook didn’t react beyond a faint twitch of his brow. "Our boy here doesn’t bring just anyone upstairs."
Jungkook’s knuckles went white around the wrench he’d picked up again. "Shut up, Jimin."
The wrench clattered onto the workbench with a sound like a gunshot. Jungkook’s shoulders were taut under his grease-streaked shirt, the fabric clinging to the sweat at the small of his back. Jimin’s grin widened—sharp as a blade—as he leaned in to whisper something that made Jungkook’s ears flush crimson. You pretended not to notice, focusing instead on the way your toes curled against the cold concrete.
"Need help with the Kawasaki," Jungkook muttered, jerking his chin toward a bike in the corner—its engine exposed like an open wound. Jimin saluted, winking at you over his coffee mug before sauntering off. The shop’s fluorescent lights buzzed louder in the sudden silence, casting Jungkook’s shadow long across the floor between you.
He didn’t look at you when he spoke. "You sleep okay?" The question was gruff, like he’d practiced it in his head too many times.
You nodded, suddenly hyperaware of his scent on the borrowed t-shirt—motor oil and something faintly sweet, like vanilla sunk deep into his skin. "Better than the motel."
The silence stretched between you—thick with unsaid things—until Jungkook cleared his throat and jerked his chin toward the bike. "Hand me that torque wrench." His voice was rougher than usual, like he'd been chewing on gravel. You blinked, glancing at the tool rack behind you where a dozen identical-looking wrenches hung in neat rows.
Jungkook snorted when your fingers hovered uncertainly over the tools. "Silver one," he said, not looking up from the engine he was elbow-deep in. "Twelve millimeter." You grabbed it by the handle, the metal cool against your palm, and crossed the shop floor. The concrete was gritty under your bare feet, tiny shards of metal catching the light like discarded scales.
When you held the wrench out, Jungkook didn't take it. Instead, he straightened—slowly, deliberately—until you were close enough to see the sweat beading along his hairline, the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed. "Closer," he murmured, voice dropping to something low and rough that skated down your spine.
You took a half-step forward, the wrench between you like an offering. Jungkook's calloused fingers closed over yours—not taking the tool, just holding your hand there, his thumb brushing your knuckles in a way that felt anything but accidental. The shop's overhead lights buzzed like angry hornets, casting his face in sharp relief—the stubborn set of his jaw, the way his bottom lip caught between his teeth when he concentrated.
The wrench slipped from your fingers with a clatter, metal ringing against concrete as Jungkook’s grip tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to make your pulse stutter. His thumb traced the delicate bones of your wrist, rough skin catching on yours, and you realized he wasn’t looking at the tool at all. His gaze burned a path from your parted lips to the rapid flutter of your pulse, lingering where the borrowed t-shirt gaped at your collarbone.
“Jungkook—” His name came out breathless, barely audible over the hum of the shop’s fluorescent lights.
He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, before releasing your hand. The sudden absence of his touch left you oddly unmoored. “You’re in my light, doll,” he said, voice rougher than the engine grease staining his knuckles.
You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The air between you crackled with something unsaid, something taut as a wire about to snap. Jungkook’s jaw flexed, his nostrils flaring as he dragged his gaze back up to yours. The wrench lay forgotten at your feet.
The wrench lay forgotten at your feet, but neither of you moved to pick it up. Jungkook’s gaze was heavy, dark with something unreadable—something that made your breath hitch when he stepped closer, the toe of his boot nudging the tool aside with a careless scrape. The shop’s fluorescent lights buzzed louder overhead, or maybe that was just the blood rushing in your ears.
"You’re still in my light," he murmured, but his hands were already lifting, calloused fingers brushing your hips like he was testing the weight of you. His touch burned through the thin fabric of the borrowed shirt, branding your skin even as you swayed into him.
Jimin’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Kawasaki’s leaking oil, boss."
Jungkook didn’t flinch, didn’t step back. His thumbs dug into the hollows of your hips, holding you steady as he glanced over his shoulder. "Fix it," he said, voice rough as gravel.
Jimin lingered by the Kawasaki, wiping his hands on a rag with exaggerated slowness, his smirk widening when Jungkook’s grip tightened on your hips. "Might need your expertise," he drawled, tossing the rag onto a workbench. The fluorescent lights caught the mischief in his eyes as he nodded toward the oil spill. "Unless you’re busy."
Jungkook’s exhale was sharp, his breath warm against your temple. For a heartbeat, his fingers flexed—like he was debating whether to let go or pull you closer—before he stepped back, the space between you suddenly cold. "Stay," he muttered, the word rough as his knuckles brushed your wrist. Then he was striding toward Jimin, his shoulders taut under his grease-streaked shirt.
You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until it left you in a rush, your fingers trembling where they clutched the hem of Jungkook’s shirt. The shop smelled like motor oil and sweat, the scent clinging to the fabric as you inhaled shakily. Across the bay, Jungkook crouched beside the bike, his biceps straining as he tightened a bolt with quick, efficient twists. Jimin said something low and teasing—you caught the tail end of it, something about distractions—and Jungkook’s response was a grunt and a middle finger.
The wrench lay where it had fallen, glinting under the shop lights. You bent to pick it up, the metal cool against your palm, and hesitated. Jungkook’s gaze flicked to you—brief, searing—before returning to the bike. His jaw was set, the muscle there jumping as he worked. You traced the wrench’s grooves with your thumb, the ridges biting into your skin, and wondered how his callouses would feel dragging over your thighs.
The wrench clattered onto the workbench with a sharp metallic ring when Jungkook tossed it aside. His hands—grease-streaked and scarred—hovered over the bike’s engine like he was contemplating violence, but his gaze when it flicked to you was anything but angry. It was hungry. The kind of look that made your toes curl against the cold concrete, your borrowed shirt suddenly too thin against your skin.
Jimin whistled low from across the shop, tossing a rag at Jungkook’s head with practiced aim. “Quit eye-fucking the strays and help me with this gasket,” he drawled, wiping his hands on his jeans. The smirk he shot you was all teeth. “Unless you’re busy.”
Jungkook caught the rag without looking, his fingers curling tight around the fabric before he chucked it back. “Shut up,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it—just a rough edge that sent a shiver down your spine. His boots scuffed against the concrete as he turned, his broad shoulders blocking out the fluorescent lights overhead. “Go upstairs,” he said, voice dropping to something low and private. “I’ll be there when I’m done.”
It wasn’t a request. The command curled around you like smoke, thick and heady, and you found yourself nodding before your brain caught up. Jungkook’s mouth quirked at the corner—just a hint of a smile—before he turned back to the bike, his hands already busy with the engine. You hesitated, your fingers twitching at your sides, before Jimin’s chuckle snapped you out of it.
The stairs groaned under your feet, each creak louder than the last as you climbed back to Jungkook’s apartment. The air smelled like him—oil and something faintly sweet clinging to the wooden banister. You hesitated at the top step, your fingers brushing the doorframe where the paint had chipped away from years of careless shoulders bumping against it.
Inside, the apartment hummed with quiet. The fridge’s motor kicked on with a familiar rattle as you padded across the floorboards, still barefoot. Jungkook’s bedroom door stood ajar, the sheets rumpled from your restless sleep. You hesitated before stepping inside, your fingers trailing over the dresser where a spare set of keys and a half-empty bottle of cologne sat. The scent of it—spice and leather—made your stomach twist.
Downstairs, the shop’s hydraulic lift whined, followed by the distant thud of a toolbox hitting concrete. You could picture Jungkook’s hands—grease-streaked and sure—twisting a wrench with that same focused intensity he’d turned on you. The memory of his thumbs pressing into your hips sent a shiver down your spine.
You turned toward the shower instead, twisting the faucet until the water ran scalding. Steam fogged the mirror within seconds, obscuring your reflection as you peeled off Jungkook’s borrowed shirt. The fabric clung to your skin, damp with sweat and something else—something that smelled unmistakably like him. You pressed it to your face, inhaling deeply before letting it fall to the tile with a wet slap.
The water was still running when the bathroom door creaked open. Steam billowed out in thick curls, obscuring everything except the silhouette of Jungkook's broad shoulders filling the doorway. His boots were off—bare feet silent on the tile—but his shirt was still streaked with grease, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows like he'd come straight from the shop floor.
You didn't turn around. Couldn't. His reflection in the fogged-up mirror was hazy, distorted by condensation, but you felt his gaze like a physical touch trailing down the curve of your spine. The shower's spray drowned out everything except the hammering of your pulse.
"You left the door unlocked," Jungkook said, voice rough as gravel. He didn't move closer, but his fingers flexed at his sides like he was resisting the urge to reach out. The damp air clung to his forearms, highlighting every vein and scar.
You swallowed, watching his reflection blur further as more steam rose between you. "Didn't think you'd be up so soon."
The steam curled between you in slow, heavy tendrils, thickening the air until Jungkook’s reflection dissolved into nothing but a dark silhouette against the bathroom door. His voice, when it came again, was closer—low and rough, barely audible over the shower’s spray. "Told you I’d be here when I was done."
You didn’t turn. Couldn’t. The heat of the water pricked your skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze tracing the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips. The mirror wept condensation, erasing you both in slow, wet streaks.
A calloused hand touched the small of your back—just the barest brush of fingertips—and you jerked like you’d been shocked. Jungkook didn’t pull away. His palm settled fully against your spine, the roughness of his skin a stark contrast to the slick heat of the shower. "Still skittish," he murmured, more to himself than to you. His thumb swept a slow arc over the knobs of your vertebrae, pressing just hard enough to make your breath hitch.
The shower curtain rasped aside, the rings screeching against the rod. Jungkook stepped into the tub behind you, his boots—no, bare feet, you realized—planted on either side of yours. The water hit his chest with a dull slap, soaking through his shirt in seconds. The fabric went translucent, clinging to the hard planes of his stomach, the flex of his pecs as he reached past you to adjust the faucet.
The water scalded your shoulders when Jungkook nudged the faucet hotter—deliberate, testing—his knuckles brushing your hip as he adjusted the spray. Steam curled between your bodies like smoke, thick enough to choke on. His shirt clung transparent to his chest, the fabric straining over his pecs as he reached past you to brace a palm against the tile. Water sluiced down his arms, carrying streaks of grease from the shop into the drain between your feet.
"You're still dirty," you murmured, watching the oil swirl in the water. His laugh was a rough exhale against the nape of your neck, the sound vibrating through your damp skin.
"Not for long." His fingers hooked in the waistband of your borrowed sweatpants—his sweatpants—the elastic snapping against your hips before he peeled them down with a single tug. The fabric hit the tub with a wet slap, forgotten as his palm slid up your thigh. Callouses caught on sensitive skin, his grip firm enough to leave marks. "Turn around."
The command sent a shiver down your spine, but you didn’t move—just tipped your head back against his shoulder, your hair sticking to his wet shirt. Jungkook’s breath hitched, his free hand splaying across your stomach to pull you flush against him. The hard line of his cock pressed against the small of your back, separated only by soaked denim.
The water hit your skin like a brand—too hot, almost scalding—but Jungkook didn’t ease the faucet back. His fingers flexed against your stomach, pressing you harder into the heat of his body as his other hand slid higher up your thigh. "I said," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear, "turn around."
You shivered despite the steam, your pulse thrumming where his thumb pressed into the soft flesh below your navel. The command curled around you, thick as the humidity clinging to your skin. When you didn’t move fast enough, Jungkook’s grip tightened—not painful, just insistent—and he spun you himself, your back hitting the tile with a damp thud.
The shower spray hit your collarbones now, water sluicing down your chest in rivulets. Jungkook crowded closer, one hand braced beside your head, the other still tracing possessive lines across your hip. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower—lingering where the water darkened the patch of hair between your thighs. "Fuck," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. His shirt clung transparent to his shoulders, the fabric stretched taut over his biceps.
You reached for the hem—hesitant—but Jungkook caught your wrist, pinning it to the tile beside your head. "Don’t," he said, voice rougher than the engine grease staining his knuckles. His hips canted forward, the denim of his jeans rasping against your bare thighs. "Not yet."
Jungkook's fingers tightened around your wrist, the rough pads of his callouses scraping against your pulse point. The shower's spray pounded against your shoulders, hot enough to redden your skin, but the heat radiating off his body was worse—thick and suffocating where he crowded you against the slick tile. His other hand slid down your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh there as he ground his denim-clad erection against your thigh.
"You gonna be good for me?" His voice was a rough whisper against your temple, the words half-drowned by the water cascading around you. His breath smelled like mint and nicotine, sharp against the steam.
You nodded—too fast, too eager—and Jungkook's lips curled into a smirk. His grip on your hip shifted, fingers spreading you open with a single, firm stroke that made your knees buckle. "Words, doll."
"Yes." The admission came out breathless, barely audible over the shower's roar.
The shower's steam curled around Jungkook's shoulders like smoke as he pinned you against the tile, his breath hot against your temple. His fingers—rough from years of wrenching bolts and handling exhaust pipes—traced a slow, torturous path down your inner thigh, pausing just shy of where you needed him most. "Tell me what you want," he murmured, his voice rougher than the denim grinding against your hip.
You swallowed, your nails scraping against the slick tile as his thumb brushed your clit—once, twice, just enough to make your legs tremble. "You," you breathed, arching into his touch. "Just you."
Jungkook's smirk was dark as he hooked a finger under your chin, forcing your gaze up to his. "That all?" His free hand slid higher, callouses catching on sensitive skin as he teased your entrance. "You can do better than that, angel."
The pet name sent a shiver down your spine, your hips bucking against his hand. "Fuck me," you gasped, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Please—"
Jungkook’s breath stuttered against your temple—hot and uneven—before he crushed his mouth to yours. The kiss was rough, all teeth and desperation, his fingers tightening around your wrist as he pinned you harder against the tile. The shower spray hit your shoulders in scalding waves, but you barely felt it, not when his tongue was dragging against yours like he was trying to taste every inch of you.
"Say it again," he growled against your lips, his free hand sliding down to grip your thigh, hiking it up over his hip. Denim rasped against your skin, the damp fabric clinging to his legs as he ground against you. "Say it like you mean it."
"Fuck me," you gasped, arching into him, your nails digging into his shoulders through the soaked fabric of his shirt. "Please, Jungkook—"
The sound of his name punched out of him in a rough groan, his hips jerking forward like he couldn’t help it. His fingers flexed around your thigh, the blunt tips digging into your flesh as he dragged you closer, until there wasn’t an inch of space left between you. Steam curled around your bodies, thick enough to choke on, but you could still see the way his pupils blew wide—black swallowing brown—as his gaze dropped to your mouth.
The shower spray hit Jungkook’s shoulders in scalding sheets as he crowded you against the tile, his fingers tightening around your thigh hard enough to leave bruises. Steam fogged the glass until his reflection blurred into nothing but heat and muscle, his breath ragged against your lips. "Say it again," he demanded, voice rough as the denim rasping against your hips.
You gasped when his thumb brushed your clit—rough and fleeting—your back arching off the slick tile. "Fuck me," you begged, the words dripping like the water sluicing down his chest. "Right here—"
Jungkook’s growl vibrated through your sternum as he hooked his fingers in his waistband, shoving the soaked jeans down just enough to free his cock. The head brushed your inner thigh, hot as a brand even through the steam. "Look at you," he muttered, dragging his palm up your stomach to squeeze your breast through the drenched fabric of his shirt. "So fucking pretty when you beg."
The first thrust punched the air from your lungs. Jungkook didn’t ease in—just buried himself to the hilt with a single snap of his hips, his groan lost in the shower’s roar. Your nails scraped down his back, catching on the wet cotton clinging to his shoulders. He didn’t seem to notice, too busy mouthing at your pulse point as he set a punishing pace, the tile biting into your spine with every snap of his hips.
The water sluiced down Jungkook’s back in rivulets, tracing the ridges of his spine as he pinned you harder against the tile. His thrusts were relentless—deep enough to steal your breath, rough enough to make your toes curl against the porcelain. Steam fogged the shower walls until all you could see was the flex of his shoulders, the way his biceps strained with every snap of his hips.
"You take me so good," he rasped against your throat, his teeth scraping your pulse point. His hands slid down to grip your thighs, hiking them higher around his waist. The new angle dragged a broken noise from your lips, your nails biting into his shoulders through the soaked fabric of his shirt. Jungkook growled—low and approving—as he felt you clench around him. "Fuck, just like that. Squeeze me tighter, angel."
The pet name unraveled something in your chest, your hips canting up to meet his thrusts with a desperation that made him chuckle darkly. His fingers dug into your flesh, blunt and possessive, as he fucked into you with a rhythm that sent water sloshing over the tub’s edge. The shower spray hit your collarbones like a brand, but you barely felt it—not when Jungkook’s mouth was on your neck, sucking bruises into your skin like he was marking his territory.
One of his hands slid between your bodies, calloused fingers finding your clit with unerring precision. The rough pad of his thumb circled the sensitive bundle of nerves, his strokes deliberate and firm, perfectly synced with the roll of his hips. Your back arched off the tile, a broken cry tearing from your throat as pleasure coiled tight in your gut. Jungkook’s breath hitched, his thrusts turning uneven as he felt you flutter around him.
The water turned lukewarm before Jungkook’s pace faltered. His hips stuttered against yours, the tile biting into your shoulders as he pressed you deeper into the wall, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your throat. His fingers—still slick from your cunt—dug into your hip hard enough to leave crescent marks as he muttered, "Gonna come," like it was a warning, not a plea.
You arched into him, the shower spray hitting your closed eyelids as you gasped, "Inside—" just as his rhythm fractured completely. Jungkook’s groan was guttural, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he emptied himself into you with three sharp, uneven thrusts that made your toes curl against the porcelain.
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the shower’s spray and your mingled panting. Then Jungkook’s hands slid up your sides—slow now, almost reverent—his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the soaked fabric of his shirt. "Fuck," he muttered, lips brushing your collarbone. The word was rough, but his touch was oddly gentle as he traced the red marks his teeth had left on your throat.
Outside the shower, the shop’s hydraulic lift whined—a distant, mechanical groan—and Jungkook’s head snapped up. His gaze flicked to the fogged bathroom door, then back to you, his pupils still blown wide. "Jimin’s downstairs," he said, like you might’ve forgotten. His voice was hoarse, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he watched water sluice down your chest.
The shower spray cooled against your flushed skin, but Jungkook’s body heat kept you anchored—his chest rising and falling against yours, his breath uneven where it ghosted over your parted lips. His fingers lingered at your waist, tracing idle patterns through the water beading on your skin, as if memorizing the topography of your hips.
"You’re shaking," he murmured, his voice rougher than usual—wrecked in a way that made your stomach flip.
You weren’t sure if it was from the cold or the aftershocks still rippling through you, but you didn’t get a chance to answer. Jungkook’s palm slid up your spine, pressing you closer until your forehead bumped against his collarbone. His shirt clung to him like a second skin, the fabric translucent where it stretched over his pecs, and you could see the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath the damp material.
Downstairs, the shop’s hydraulic lift groaned again, followed by Jimin’s muffled curse. Jungkook’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t move—just exhaled sharply through his nose before tilting your chin up with two fingers. "You good?"
The bathroom door swung open with a groan, letting in a rush of cooler air that cut through the steam. Jungkook didn’t move—just kept you pinned against the tile, his thumb absently tracing the bruise forming on your hip. Jimin’s voice carried up from the shop floor, sharp with impatience. "Kook! Customer’s here for the Ducati."
Jungkook’s exhale was a warm gust against your temple. "Fuck," he muttered, his fingers flexing against your damp skin like he was debating whether to stay or go. The shower’s spray had cooled to a lukewarm trickle, but his body heat kept you anchored, the scent of his sweat and the shop’s motor oil clinging to his skin despite the water.
"You should go," you murmured, though your fingers curled into the soaked fabric of his shirt, holding him there.
His chuckle was dark, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "That’s not what you said five minutes ago."
The water ran cold before Jungkook finally stepped back, his fingers lingering at your waist like he was reluctant to let go. Steam curled around his shoulders as he reached past you to shut off the faucet, the sudden silence ringing in your ears. His shirt clung to every ridge of muscle, the fabric gone nearly transparent under the spray, and you caught yourself staring at the way it stretched across his pecs when he turned to grab a towel.
"Eyes up here, doll," he murmured, tossing the towel at your chest with a smirk. His voice was still rough, but there was something softer in it now—something that made your stomach flip.
You barely had time to catch the towel before Jungkook was crowding you again, his hands framing your face as he kissed you slow and deep, like he was savoring the taste of you. His thumbs brushed your cheekbones, gentle in a way that contrasted sharply with the bruising grip he’d had on your hips moments ago. When he pulled back, his lips were swollen, his pupils still blown wide. "Stay put," he muttered, pressing one last kiss to your forehead before stepping out of the shower.
The towel smelled like motor oil and Jungkook—that sharp, metallic bite mixed with something warmer, earthier. You pressed it to your face for a second longer than necessary, breathing him in as water dripped from your hair onto the bathroom tiles. Outside, the shop noises filtered through the steam-fogged door: Jimin’s laugh, the clank of tools, the rumble of an engine coughing to life. Normal sounds. Mundane. Like what had just happened in this shower hadn’t rearranged your entire nervous system.
Jungkook’s abandoned jeans lay in a soggy heap by the sink. You nudged them with your toe, your stomach swooping at the memory of how he’d shoved them down just enough to free himself—how the denim had scraped your thighs raw when he pinned you against the tile. The fabric was still warm from his body heat.
The bathroom mirror was fogged over, but you caught a glimpse of yourself in the sliver of clear glass near the sink. Your lips were swollen, your neck littered with bruises that stood out stark against your skin. Jungkook’s shirt clung to you like a second skin, the white fabric gone sheer under the shower spray. You looked wrecked. Owned.
A sharp rap on the door made you jump. "You alive in there?" Jimin’s voice was muffled but unmistakably amused.
You cleared your throat. "Yeah. Just—finishing up."
Jimin’s laugh was bright, cutting through the steam still clinging to the bathroom. "Take your time. Kook’s downstairs growling at customers like a feral dog. It’s hilarious."
You pressed the towel to your face, inhaling the scent of detergent and Jungkook’s sweat. The shop noises filtered through the door—the clang of a wrench against concrete, Jimin’s teasing drawl, the low rumble of Jungkook’s voice threading through it all like a bassline.
The floor was cold underfoot when you stepped out of the shower. Jungkook had left his hoodie hanging on the back of the door—black, frayed at the cuffs, smelling like motor oil and that same warm, earthy scent that clung to his skin. You pulled it on without thinking, the fabric swallowing you whole.
Downstairs, the Ducati’s engine roared to life. You peered through the bathroom window, the glass streaked with condensation, and caught a glimpse of Jungkook straddling the bike, his bare arms flexing as he revved the throttle. Sunlight caught the ink winding down his forearm—a serpent coiled around a dagger—and for a second, he looked every bit the outlaw his cut claimed him to be.
Then he turned his head, as if sensing your gaze, and smirked.
The customer—a middle-aged man in a too-clean leather jacket—flinched when Jungkook stood, tossing the keys at Jimin instead. "Take it for a spin," he said, already striding toward the shop’s backstairs. "Needs new rear shocks."
Jimin’s grin was wicked. "Sure that’s all that needs testing?"
Jungkook flipped him off without breaking stride. The stairs groaned under his boots, still damp from the shower, his shirt clinging to the ridges of his abs where he hadn’t bothered to dry off properly. Steam curled off his skin as he shouldered the bathroom door open, his gaze zeroing in on you drowning in his hoodie, your hair dripping onto the frayed cuffs.
His thumb brushed a water droplet trailing down your neck. "You’re still here."
It wasn’t a question. His voice had that rough undercurrent again, the one that made your knees weak.
You shrugged, acutely aware of Jimin’s laughter drifting up from the shop floor. "Didn’t say where to stay put."
The corner of Jungkook’s mouth twitched. He stepped closer, his bare feet silent on the tile. His shirt—your shirt now—slid off one shoulder when he reached past you to grab his jeans, his fingers lingering at the dip of your waist. "Smartass."
The word should’ve sounded harsh. It didn’t.
The hoodie sleeves swallowed your hands whole as you tugged them over your fingers, the fabric still warm from Jungkook’s body heat. He watched you with that same unreadable expression—half amused, half something darker—as he yanked on his jeans, the denim clinging to his damp thighs.
"You’re stealing my clothes now?" he murmured, stepping close enough that his bare chest brushed the soaked front of his hoodie where it hung off your frame.
You shrugged, suddenly aware of how ridiculous you must look—dripping wet, drowning in his clothes, smelling like his soap and the shop’s grease. "You told me to stay put. Didn’t specify naked."
Jungkook’s laugh was low, his fingers hooking in the hoodie’s drawstrings to tug you closer. "Keep it," he said, his breath warm against your forehead. "Looks better on you anyway."
a/n: this bar/biker idea is inspired by E85 - by gguksprincess | but its different i swear
requests will be irregular because i sleep like a normal person (unlike him.)
do not copy, repost, or translate without permission.
Jeon Jungkook x reader (one shot: soft angst, inspired by start over 5sos)
“Don’t leave..i don’t wanna start over..”
——
the rain in seoul always sounded softer from jungkook’s apartment.
soft against the balcony railing. soft against the windows. soft enough that if you closed your eyes, it almost sounded peaceful instead of lonely.
you stood in the kitchen staring at the tea growing cold between your hands while the city lights blurred beyond the glass.
behind you, the apartment creaked quietly.
then his footsteps.
you didn’t have to turn around to know it was him.
you knew every sound jungkook made without trying.
the uneven rhythm of his steps when he was tired. the tiny sigh he let out before opening the fridge. the way he cleared his throat softly after sleeping too long.
you knew him in the smallest ways possible.
and somehow that made this hurt even worse.
“you’re awake,” he said gently.
you nodded once.
silence settled between you again.
it had been doing that a lot lately.
not angry silence.
not cruel silence.
just the kind that slowly grows between two people when life keeps pulling at them from opposite directions.
jungkook stepped closer until he was standing beside you at the counter. his hoodie sleeve brushed your arm lightly.
warm.
familiar.
dangerous.
“you didn’t come to bed.”
your throat tightened.
“couldn’t sleep.”
he looked at you then really looked at you, dark sleepy eyes soft beneath messy hair.
and suddenly you wanted to cry.
because he still looked at you the same way.
like home.
even now.
especially now.
outside, headlights moved slowly down the street below.
jungkook glanced toward the window and smiled faintly.
“i know every light down there now,” he murmured. “every store sign. every crossing signal.”
you laughed quietly through the ache in your chest.
“that’s what happens when you live somewhere for years.”
“no.” his voice softened. “i think i only noticed because of you.”
your heart cracked a little.
because that was the problem.
everything had become because of each other.
his coffee order tasted sweeter because you made it.
your apartment didn’t feel right unless his shoes were by the door.
you knew every scar on his hands. every freckle on his shoulder. every expression he made when he was trying not to cry.
you knew every sound when he slept.
and now somehow you were standing here pretending you could leave.
“jungkook…” your voice came out small.
he already knew.
you could tell by the way his shoulders stiffened slightly.
the way his eyes dropped to the floor.
“don’t,” he whispered immediately.
your chest tightened painfully.
“we can’t keep doing this.”
“why not?”
“because you’re never here anymore.”
the words came out shakier than you meant them to.
“tour after tour after tour and when you are here you’re exhausted and i feel like i’m waiting for pieces of you all the time.”
he swallowed hard.
you hated the hurt that flashed across his face.
but you were hurting too.
“i’m trying,” he said quietly.
“i know.”
that was what made it worse.
if he were cruel, maybe leaving would’ve been easier.
but jungkook loved you gently.
completely.
even now, standing there half-awake in oversized sweatpants with sadness written all over his face, he looked at you like losing you would ruin him.
“tell me if i’m slipping away,” he said suddenly, voice cracking slightly. “because i can fix it.”
your eyes burned instantly.
“you can’t fix everything.”
“i can try.”
silence.
rain tapped softly against the windows again.
then jungkook stepped closer.
close enough that his hand brushed yours against the counter.
“don’t leave,” he whispered.
you looked down immediately because if you looked directly at him, you’d stay.
and maybe part of you already had.
“don’t make me start over.”
your breath caught painfully.
he sounded so sincere.
so scared.
“jungkook…”
“can’t you see i’d do anything for you?”
his voice broke on the last word.
and that was it.
the tears came instantly.
you covered your mouth quickly, turning away, but he was already there.
always there.
his arms wrapped around you carefully as if he was afraid you might disappear if he held you too tightly.
your forehead pressed against his shoulder while your tears soaked into soft grey fabric.
and jungkook just held you.
quietly.
his hand moved slowly up and down your back.
“hey,” he whispered shakily. “hey, don’t cry.”
but his own voice sounded ruined now too.
you could feel his breathing uneven beneath your cheek.
“i’m tired,” you admitted brokenly.
“i know.”
“i miss you even when you’re beside me.”
that nearly broke him.
you felt it in the way his arms tightened instantly around you.
“i’m here,” he whispered desperately. “i’m right here.”
you cried harder at that.
because he was.
he was here now.
warm hands. sleepy voice. heartbeat beneath your ear.
your jungkook.
the boy who fell asleep with his head in your lap after schedules. the boy who memorized your coffee order after hearing it once. the boy who kissed your forehead every single morning without fail.
how were you supposed to let go of someone who had become part of your entire life?
jungkook rested his cheek against the top of your head.
“i don’t wanna start over,” he whispered.
his voice cracked completely this time.
and suddenly all you could picture was life without him.
someone else in this apartment someday.
someone else hearing his laugh.
someone else learning all the tiny things about him you spent years memorizing.
the thought made you feel sick.
“look at me,” he whispered softly.
you pulled back slowly.
his eyes were red now too.
you hated that.
he brushed tears from beneath your eyes carefully with his thumb.
“if you wanna leave because you stopped loving me,” he said quietly, “i’ll let you go.”
your heart shattered.
“but if you’re leaving because things got hard…” his voice trembled. “please stay long enough for me to fix it.”
silence.
your breathing.
the rain.
the city outside.
jungkook looked terrified.
not idol jungkook.
not superstar jungkook.
just him.
your boy.
the one who still reached for your hand in his sleep.
you let out a shaky breath.
then finally whispered:
“i don’t know how to do this without you.”
the relief that hit his face nearly made him collapse.
he closed his eyes briefly before pulling you against him again like he needed to feel you there.
“then don’t,” he whispered into your hair.
your hands curled into the back of his hoodie slowly.
“i’m trying,” he murmured. “i know i’ve been gone too much but i’m trying so hard.”
“i know.”
“i’ll do better.”
you laughed weakly through tears. “you can’t promise that.”
“watch me.”
that made you smile for real.
small.
fragile.
but real.
jungkook noticed immediately like he always did.
he pressed a soft kiss against your forehead before resting his own there.
and for a while neither of you spoke.
you just stood together in the middle of the kitchen while rain painted the windows and the city glowed quietly outside.
his arms stayed wrapped around your waist.
yours stayed around his neck.
like neither of you trusted the other to let go.
eventually, jungkook mumbled softly against your skin:
“come back to bed?”
you closed your eyes.
and nodded.
because maybe love wasn’t always easy.
maybe sometimes it looked like tears on hoodie sleeves at three in the morning.
maybe sometimes it sounded like cracking voices and desperate honesty and two exhausted people trying to choose each other again.
but as jungkook intertwined his fingers with yours and led you softly toward the bedroom—
you realized something.
starting over had never been what either of you wanted.
SUMMARY. After a long, hellish week at work, the only thing you’re looking forward to doing is smoking a joint and winding down. But when you come up short on cash, your new dealer makes it clear he is as strict as he is dangerously hot. He only takes cash, and no, you can’t pay him back next time. Unless… you can find another way.
word count. 7.7k
warnings. dom!jungkook x sub!reader, nasty filthy smut, NSFW, penetration, oral sex, gun play, scratching, mention of drugs, jk and reader get very high, big dick jk, buying drugs, swearing, light blood mention, light impact play, use of weapons, size kink, praise + degradation, creampie
note. i bring to you dealer jk!! i hope you guys enjoy this fic, i am super excited to share this with you and thank you so much for all the love on thirst trap and the teaser. i was not expecting it to get as much attention as it did! you guys are the best. once again, no character in this story is based on anyone in real life, this is merely a work of fiction. also please make sure to read warnings before reading, there is consensual gun play. also, please leave a comment if you enjoyed the fic! it means a lot <3
You flipped through your wallet, then flipped through again, thumbs fumbling with the bills under the heated gaze pinning you in your seat. The low purr of the engine made it worse, like even his car was waiting on you. “I swore I had enough cash, I literally just went to the bank.”
Next to you, Jungkook sat silently, one hand steady on the wheel, the other rubbing at his chin. He didn’t say anything, staring ahead at the dimly lit street.
You cursed under your breath, hands flailing at your pajama pockets that you already knew would result in nothing at all. Between your legs was the little baggie that was supposed to transform your week—so in your grasp but slipping further and further as you realized your dire situation.
You looked up at him with an apologetic expression. “I-I don’t think I have the money.”
The tatted man took a deep breath, shutting his eyes, trying to regain composure. He chewed at his silver lip ring, in thought. “You made me drive 20 miles.”
“I know, I’m sorry! I really thought I had the cash.” Your voice cracked halfway through, palms clammy as you scrambled for excuses. “It’s just, this whole week at work’s been hell, and all I wanted was to wind down this weekend with some weed. My friend swore by you, and I guess I got too excited to check and…” You trailed off, eyes darting back to the baggie between your knees, taunting you. “And now I’m just, shit...”
Jungkook finally turned his head, eyes cutting to you. The harsh shadows of the streetlight carved into his sharp cheekbones, the strong slope of his nose, the metal glint of his lip ring. He didn’t look real. He looked like he belonged in some moody editorial. The sheer fact that this man was sitting next to you in a beat up car, jaw tight, cologne drawling in the air, made your words stumble even more than they already were.
“Can I… pay you back next time?” you tried weakly, the suggestion falling flat even to your own ears.
“Absolutely not.” His tone was flat and final. “I don’t even know you.”
You bristled, fumbling with your wallet again, your fingers trembling more from his stare than from nerves. “Okay, okay, but what about Venmo? Apple Pay? Anything?”
“I already told you.” He scoffed, low and humorless. “Cash. Only.” His eyes didn’t waver from your face, and it was unbearable, like he was dissecting every movement of your mouth.
You flipped through the same wallet again even though you knew it was useless, pretending to double-check. He didn’t even let you finish before cutting in, voice dark. “There’s nothing in there.”
Your head snapped up, heat rising in your cheeks. “So… now what?”
For a moment he didn’t answer. Then, slow as ever, Jungkook reached across the small space between your legs, his tattooed hand brushing low until his fingers grazed the baggie nestled between your thighs.
Your entire body jolted, face going bright red. “E-Excuse me!”
Unbothered, he plucked the weed back, knuckles grazing your leg with casual assertion, and leaned back into his seat. “Hit me up when you have the money.”
Desperation made your hand dart out before your brain caught up. You grabbed his wrist lightly, holding him in place. Not sternly, but just enough. The second you touched him, his gaze darkened, eyes flicking down to your fingers on his skin before returning to your face, heavier.
“C’mon,” you sighed. At the base of your neck, a deep heat settled as you took in his response to your bold move.
Silence pressed in like smoke. He didn’t move, his expression unreadable.
“You know what?” he said finally, voice measured. “Maybe there is something.” His thumb drummed once against the steering wheel before he nodded toward your building. “Let’s smoke first.”
The flight of stairs to your apartment was silent. Painfully so. The tall man loomed behind you, with arms crossed over his chest, watching you mess with your keys.
When you got into your apartment, his eyes darted around, narrowing at your sofa in the middle of your living room. “Smoke here?” he murmured, voice gravel-low.
You barely managed a nod before he was already lowering himself into the cushions, broad shoulders sinking into the fabric like he belonged there. He shrugged off his leather jacket, fluidly revealing curved colored tattoos.
You sat gingerly at the other end of the couch, a bit too far away, palms flat against your thighs. He didn’t look at you, not right away, just pulled the baggie out with casual ease, plucking at papers from his pocket. You watched in silence as he rolled with practiced precision, fingers deft and certain. When his tongue dragged a wet stripe along the paper before sealing it shut, you felt something strange ripple through your chest. He looked unfairly good doing it.
The blue flicker of his lighter caught the edge of the joint, and he leaned back, one arm slung over the back of the sofa. He offered it to you without a word.
You took it, inhaling carefully. The smoke burned hotter than you expected, clawing at your lungs until you coughed, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth.
Jungkook tilted his head, watching you with a faint curve at the corner of his lip. Then, without comment, he took it back and drew in deep, holding it with ease.
“This isn’t how I pictured my Friday night,” you admitted softly, voice scratchy from the smoke.
“Mm.” He exhaled slowly, smoke spilling like mist. “What do you do?”
You blinked, caught off guard. “Accounts. Paperwork, spreadsheets… boring stuff.”
One raven brow lifted. “Numbers?”
“Yeah,” you said with a hollow sigh. “Numbers, audits, invoices. Glamorous, right?”
The corner of his mouth tugged faint, almost like a smirk. “Kind of what I do.”
You glanced over out of curiosity, tucking a hair behind your ear. “What, balancing ledgers?”
His eyes cut toward you, sharp even under the fog. “Among other things.”
“What are other things?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
He just laughed, low and quiet, leaving the question hanging between you.
Your curiosity sparked, but you didn’t press. “I only do it occasionally, you know. To relax.”
Jungkook chuckled low, smoke curling from his lips. “Doesn’t look like you’re very relaxed, pretty.”
The word pretty hit you harder than the joint did. You swallowed, trying to mask it with another pull when he passed it back. The smoke burned, but you forced yourself to hold it, coughing only when you finally exhaled. Embarrassed at how much your body reacted. Relax, you told yourself. Calm down.
“Not much of a smoker,” he observed, voice roughened with amusement.
“Yeah, well.” You exhaled shakily, settling back into the couch. “Guess I need more practice.”
His chuckle was quieter this time, under his breath, but it stayed in the air between you. The conversation slowed after that, little pauses stretching longer, words softening with the high settling in. Your cheeks felt warm, your eyes half-lidded, red and tired. You knew the high was setting in when you felt a warm rush, a lazy sweet buzz that made you feel like your fingertips were tingling. When you glanced over, you noticed Jungkook’s gaze matched yours, darker now, glassed over, a light flush coating his dewy skin. He looked pretty, in an oddly soft way.
He cracked his neck slowly, the sharp sound cutting through the grey air. When you looked back at him, his eyes were already on you, lingering too long, tracing your features as though committing them to memory.
“What?” you asked, catching a lip between your teeth. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
His jaw shifted. Finally, his voice broke the silence. “You’re very pretty.”
Heat pooled in your cheeks, and you thanked him gently, the word barely above a murmur. He nodded back, but his eyes were subdued, softer. Something in you shifted, lightly, as though the smoke had tipped you off balance.
Your eyes couldn’t stop catching on his flexed body, particularly his half clothed arms. Without thinking, your fingers brushed over the ink spiraling down his forearm.
You traced the lines until they grew bolder at a wide petalled flower etched in blue and orange. “What does this one mean?” you asked, voice quieter.
His eyes dropped to where your fingertip lingered. If he was affected, he didn’t let it show. “Protection,” he said after a beat. “It’s supposed to keep bad luck away.”
“Does it work?” you asked. You ran a knuckle over a curved petal.
His tongue darted across his lips. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”
You let your touch drift upward, across the thick slope of his arm. His bicep flexed beneath your palm, solid and warm. The movement drew your breath shallow. “And this?” you pressed, brushing over a jagged black design near his shoulder.
His lip ring caught the light as he took a deep hit of the joint. “That one’s nothing. Just a doodle.”
“Kind of a waste,” you murmured, tracing it twice. “Feels like everything on you should mean something.”
That was when his hand closed around your wrist. Not tight, but just enough to pause you. His grip burned hot against your skin, as if he’d pressed the very joint between his lips against you.
His eyes flicked up to yours, decided. “What are you trying to do, baby?”
You froze, lips parting but no sound coming out. “I…”
He watched you like he had all the time in the world, not challenging your hesitance.
Your throat tightened, the words catching, so instead you let your pulse answer for you. You paused a beat, then tilted your chin up and pressed your mouth to his before you could overthink it.
His mouth was warm, unmoving at first, and for a split second you thought you’d made a mistake. Then his lips pressed back decisive, and the air left your lungs in a rush.
He tasted like nothing you expected. How could someone taste so brilliant? The musky taste of weed lingered on his tongue with the spiced freshness of cinnamon gum that it seemed like he had just recently chewed. The chilled metal sting of his lip ring danced across your lips. He tasted like magic, like a spell that was crafted just to lure you in. The kiss was anything but shallow. It was the deep depths of the ocean, the violent waves that broke apart even the strongest of ships. His tongue swirled in your mouth, his wet muscle exploring like no one ever had.
His palms pressed into your face, cradling you. Not forcefully, but stern. He kept you in place and cupped you close to him like you were the most precious thing he had.
Even through the lazy haze of what you had smoked, you couldn’t help but open your eyes to peer at the beautiful man you were kissing. His dark lashes crested his cheek and his eyebrows furrowed together in concentration. His eyebrow piercing caught the light and gleamed. The weed had your mind fucked, you thought, because you felt like you were kissing a Grecian statue, a man so handsome he could only be carved by an artist himself. You wanted him more than you ever had before. You nipped at his bottom lip and suckled at it, and in response he moaned into your mouth deeply. Your bite was strong enough to draw the smallest trace of blood, and the salty, delicious tang of his bleeding lip mixed into your mouth. Clearly, Jungkook liked the rough gesture quite a bit. He lowered a veined tattooed hand and gripped at your ass, kneading the clothed flesh with vigor.
When you finally pulled back to breathe, Jungkook seemed even higher than before. His eyes were heavy and glazed, and he ran his teeth over his bruised, swollen lip.
“You’re driving me fucking crazy,” he rasped. You didn’t even have time to respond before his mouth was on you again, this time suckling bruises into the thin skin of your jaw. He was greedy for you, leaving open-mouthed kisses over the side of your face, licking and sucking at whatever skin he could find. His mouth found your neck and he licked a thick flat stripe, savoring the taste. You shuddered deeply in response and clutched at his inked bicep.
“F-fuck,” you whimpered out as he found a particularly sensitive spot at the base of your neck. He relentlessly sucked blossoming bruises you could only find tomorrow. Your hands roamed down his arms, relishing the way his muscles rippled underneath as he tensed at your touch. His hand left your ass to sweep up under your shirt to feel the honeyed skin of your belly. He dragged his nails across your abdomen, leaving trails of heat over your skin that tightened beneath his touch. You arched into his sharp caress, letting out a shaky breath.
Jungkook pulled back from your neck, his hand still up your shirt, and reached behind your head, grabbing the joint. He brought it to his flushed mouth and took a drag before pressing it to your lips. Eager to not break the delicious haze you were in, you took a deep inhale, letting the smoke fog your brain again.
“That’s it, baby.” He encouraged, “Breathe it in.”
Baby. You warmed at the nickname, smiling shyly before pointing your head up and blowing the smoke out, creating a cloud over the both of you.
Jungkook’s fingers traced your neck, analyzing the mess he made on you. “Bet you’ll stare at these in the mirror later and think of me.”
“Make more.” You leaned away from him, dragging his warm hand out of your shirt. He watched intently as you pulled your shirt over your head, your tits bouncing free and hardening immediately at the chill in the air.
“Holy fuck.” He admired, “Fucking divine.” His hands were quick to seize your tits, kneading them roughly as though testing their weight. His hand fit perfectly over them, as if they were made just to rest in the palm of his hands. He lowered his head, kissing over the swell before taking a nipple into his mouth with a deep groan. He sucked hard, his other hand twisting at the peak of your other breast. He was manhandling your tits like he owned them, like he was made to do this.
“Oh my god!” you gasped, leaning into his warm mouth. He hummed and clamped his teeth around one nipple gently and pulled. You hissed at the sweet sensation and squeezed his shoulder. A heartbeat grew between your legs, each pulse stronger than the last. Your eager hands kept roaming, squeezing wherever you pleased, greedy for every inch of him. You traced the way his shoulders curved like heavy mountains and how his triceps flexed with each teasing squeeze of your tits. Your palms slid lower, mapping the firm slopes of his arms before dipping into the surprisingly delicate curve of his waist.
Your fingers wandered further, hungry, until you brushed the thick muscle of his thighs. They were solid, unyielding, carved like rock under your touch. Heat radiated from them, and when you gave an experimental squeeze, the muscle twitched beneath your palm, alive, flexing as if in answer to your touch. This elicited a deep, primal groan from Jungkook. His thighs weren’t just strong; they were dangerous, made to cage you and hold you in place. The thought alone made your breath hitch and the ache in your core sharpen.
Your hands wandered further down, curious fingers tracing at the rough pockets of his jeans until you brushed against something cold. Solid. Surprised, you broke out of your trance and jerked forward as if you’d been burned. The haze of the smoke and lust cracked as you realized… Jungkook was armed. Your breath stuttered, your pulse went uneven. A thousand thoughts clawed at the back of your head. What the fuck were you really thinking, letting this man into your apartment? Of course he had a fucking gun; he was a dealer. How could you be so seduced by him that you didn’t even realize he could actually be dangerous?
Jungkook froze too, not because he was startled, but because he wanted to watch you. His hand stilled on your breast, lips hovering just above your skin, eyes dragging up to lock with yours. The knowing smirk he carried was gone, replaced by something darker, sharper. He didn’t say a word, just studied your face like he was waiting for your verdict.
“You really… carry that around?” you whispered, eyes glancing back and forth wildly from the thick metal and Jungkook’s unwavering gaze. Being in such close proximity to the weapon had your mind numb.
His hand never left your tits, his thumb flicking at your erect nipples with a surprising ease. “Yeah,” he rumbled. “Like I said, I do a lot of things, pretty.”
His words should’ve calmed you, but paired with the cold analytical steel of his eyes, they only made your pulse falter further. He tilted his head, catching the way your throat bobbed as you swallowed.
“Don’t look so scared.” One calloused hand reached up, fingers brushing your jaw, coaxing your face back to his. “I’d never hurt you. Not unless you ask real nice.”
“What?” You shivered.
His smirk curved slow and timed, like he was thriving off the shift in your body. You sat up. He leaned closer, lips grazing your ear with a snake-like precision.
“Maybe,” he whispered, “you could put those pretty lips to better use.”
His hand slipped over your wrist, guiding it back toward the cool steel. He flattened his palm against your smaller one, letting you feel the real weight of the glock pressed against his thigh.
“Bet you’d look so fucking hot with it in your mouth. Like you’re sucking me off.”
Want pressed heavy between your thighs, insistent and sticky, demanding to be touched. The sound of his twisted, menacing words hit you harder than expected, and your panties started to stick to you uncomfortably, the cloth becoming damp and sticky.
“Y-you want me to put that in my mouth?” Your eyes stayed heavy on his palm flexing your hand on the gun. He reached up again, brushing a spare lock behind your ear.
“Only if you want to.” He eased. He paused, drinking up your shaky breaths and widened eyes. “You wanna give it a try for me?”
The way he asked, you would give anything a try. You nodded, squeezing your clothed thighs, and he chuckled. He leaned over, pressing a chaste kiss to your bare shoulder before issuing his command. “Get on your knees, baby.”
You stood with a sense of urgency that you hadn’t had before, not even when Jungkook’s tongue was down your throat. You could feel Jungkook’s eyes trained on your figure. Your thumbs hooked into the sides of your pajamas as you shimmied out of them, leaving you in your sticky panties glued to your mound. You heard Jungkook inhale next to you, a sound so quiet and tender you almost missed it.
The fabric pooled at your ankles uselessly as you stepped out of it. The chilled apartment air prickled over your bare creamy thighs like the room was breathing with you. When you sank to your knees the carpet’s rough pattern dug into your knee, leaving a welcoming reminder that this was real. You were kneeled in front of Jungkook, mouth ready for anything you were given.
You folded your hands before you, like you were at the altar, and peered up at him through dark lashes. Wide-eyed, trembling, yet impossibly willing. Like a baby deer stumbling into a wolf’s den. A deceitfully innocent baby deer.
“Fuck…” Jungkook cursed under his breath, his tongue sweeping over his lip ring as he took you in. “Aren’t you fucking something.”
His hand dipped to his thigh, removing the dangerous cold steel. The gun came free, gleaming in the dim light the way he did. He leaned back into the couch, legs spreading wide in a deliberate manly sprawl. The weapon rose in his grip, angled down at you, thick and girthy like it was Jungkook’s own cock.
His gaze reeled you in, heavy and arrogant, as his words spilled like smoke into the space between you. “Open up.”
Your lips parted in desire, and you opened your little pink mouth for him to use. You drew your shoulders inward, the motion pressing your tits together and straining them upwards for him to admire. His grip on his gun grew tighter, and a little vein in his temple shifted. “Lick.”
You extended your wet tongue out and pressed it against the base of his knuckle and traced the length until your tongue reached the tip. Jungkook shivered as your tongue slithered lightly over his finger. The cool metal tasted acrid like iron and smoke, but you still savored the lingering taste like Jungkook was branding you inside out.
“You’re so fucking filthy,” Jungkook admired. He reached a hand out, patting your cheek before giving you a light slap. The sting was delicious, divine even, and you moaned softly, rutting into the carpet underneath you for sweet friction.
All fear you had was gone, replaced by withering, deep desire. Jungkook angled the barrel against your lips, nudging until you opened for him again. His hand guided the heavy metal into your mouth, sliding it slow, deliberate, in and out of your mouth. The weight of it pressed against your tongue obscenely, as he fucked your mouth with it.
“Just like that,” he groaned, eyes fixed on the way your lips stretched around it. You hollowed your cheeks obediently, sucking gently, giving him the same innocent gaze like you had no idea how filthy you looked. The sides of your mouth slicked with spit, warm trails running down to your chin.
Jungkook’s breathing hitched, his thighs flexing where he sat sprawled in front of you, cock straining visibly against his jeans. He looked as affected as you were, jaw tight, veins straining in his forearm as he kept the steady movement. “Fuck… you’re killing me,” he growled.
When your spit finally dripped down your chin and onto your breasts, he stilled you with a sharp tug of your hair. You moaned at the tug and at his intense gaze. Jungkook dragged the gun free from your mouth, slick and messy, and ran the barrel down your jaw, collecting the drool that clung there. His eyes darkened further, almost feral, as he brought the weapon to his own lips. Without hesitation, he licked the steel, tasting you, his tongue running over the wetness you’d left behind.
His eyes fluttered shut for a beat as he savored it, chest rising unevenly. When they opened again, they gleamed with something wild. “Fucking sweet,” he rasped, his voice basking on the edge of mania.
The act was so obscene you thought the rush you got from it was going to make you snap in two. Your jaw dropped in shock, and you swore you could cum untouched from the action alone.
“Jungkook…” you started, the name spilling out before your thoughts could catch up.
He rested the gun on his thigh, head cocked to the side as he drank in your fucked-out expression.
“I need you.” You weren’t even sure what you meant, what exactly you needed him to do. Only that your body demanded him, begged him, craved solace from the candle burning low in your belly and dripping onto the carpet beneath you.
Jungkook went quiet, his eyes locked on yours. For a moment, you thought he might haul you back onto the couch or throw you over his shoulder. But no, Jungkook was never one for the predictable. He rose, towering just long enough for you to tilt your chin up to follow him, before lowering himself to the ground beside you, like a predator crouching close to its prey. His proximity stole your breath, and you gaped at him, your need swelling until it burned the voice out of your throat. You pressed harder into the carpet, desperate to ground yourself against the slick heat gathering between your thighs.
Jungkook’s gaze flickered down, then back up, and he leaned closer, centimeters from your face. “What do you want me to do to you, baby?”
You felt like someone had strangled the air out of your lungs. Words tangled in your throat, your lips parted but no sound came out. The silence stretched, the only hum in the air the buzz of your freezer. Jungkook raised a sympathetic hand up to your face, cradling your cheek and running a thumb across the tender flesh.
“I said, tell me what you want me to do to you or I’ll leave you dripping.” The promise was sudden and harsh, sending a chill down your spine.
“N-no, no, no, no. Please touch me, Jungkook, please.” You shook your head frantically, words spilling out broken. You couldn’t be left high and dry — you’d die from desperation.
“Where, baby? How do you want me to touch you?” His voice softened as he caressed your face.
Your mouth opened, then closed, your throat catching on every word. “I—fuck, I want—I need…” You licked your lips. “Please, Jungkook. Please just—fuck me. I need your cock, I need it in me, please.”
Jungkook’s mouth curved, satisfied at your response. “That’s my girl.” His voice dropped so low it rattled through your chest.
He pressed a heavy palm to your torso and pushed lightly. “Lie down for me, baby. Let me make you feel good.” God, you wanted to feel good.
You obeyed without hesitation, laying back onto the carpet, knees up and hands resting by your side. You raised your head to watch Jungkook’s movements, not wanting to miss a single beat.
Jungkook admired you, pressing a tender kiss at your knee and running his hands up your soft thighs, squeezing the fleshiest part. “So smooth,” he huffed out.
You gasped softly as his fingers hooked into your simple cotton panties before he dragged them down your legs. The cool air hit your throbbing, heated core, and you leaned your head back, eyes fluttering closed in anticipation and relief from your ruined underwear. You glistened beautifully, your clit peeking out from your tender folds.
His breath hitched, and for a moment he stared at your arousal. His tongue fiddled with his lip ring, and he ran an experimental thumb up your slit, nudging at your clit.
“Oh!” You gasped, and he chuckled.
His palms anchored against the insides of your knees, prying you wide until you were stretched to your limit, spread helpless beneath him.
He let out a noise low from his throat. “Such a pretty fucking pussy.” His voice was wrecked with want.
You shivered and bit your lip, turning your face away to hide your heated cheeks.
He tutted. “Look at me, baby. Look at me while I make you feel good.” You locked your hooded eyes onto his.
Jungkook’s gaze was sharp and dark, so intense it pinned you to the floor more than his hands ever could. He leaned back onto his heels, one hand fumbling for the forgotten joint, the thin curl of smoke still glowing faintly. He brought it to his own lips, inhaled deep, then pressed it back to your mouth. “Take a hit, baby,” he murmured, voice smoky itself. “I want you high as fuck while I ruin you.”
You listened, of course, lips parting around the rough paper as you drew in. The burn scorched your lungs, mixing with the dizzy throb between your thighs. Before you could exhale, Jungkook pressed a lingering kiss just above your knee, then another closer to your heat, his lips trailing fire as they moved higher.
By the time he reached the softest part of your inner thigh, you were trembling, a whimper slipping out. His mouth lingered there, plush lips sucking a bruise into your soft flesh before he finally shifted, dragging his lip ring directly over your swollen clit. The sharp chill of metal against your most sensitive nerve sent you arching off the floor with a cry, the joint nearly tumbling from your fingers.
“Fuck!” you cried out, attempting to arch up, but his firm hands kept you in place. You reached one hand into his hair, not yanking but curling and intertwining with his soft locks.
That’s when he lost his restraint. Jungkook’s mouth sealed over you, tongue plunging deep, then circling back up to suck your clit with brutal pressure. He groaned into your folds like he couldn’t get enough, the vibrations rattling through your bones. Your hips thrashed, your thighs attempting to clamp him in, but he just held you open and devoured you like a starving man.
Every drag of his tongue was merciless, every suck harsher than the last. Your back bowed, your nails scraped his scalp, and the joint burned into the carpet.
The high of the weed and the high of getting devoured by Jungkook had your brain in a trance, your vision growing spottier as you babbled. “Feels s-so good, feels so good, thank you, thank you…”
His fingers dug deeper into your thighs, holding you wide open as if you were nothing but his feast. “Damn right it does,” he muttered into your folds before sucking harder, punishing and worshipping all at once. Your mouth fell open, unable to hold onto all the pleasure coursing through your body.
The fire in your belly grew, and Jungkook fed into it with each brutal caress of his tongue. The fire was so intense you could only relieve it by chasing and running away from his relentless mouth. But he kept you pinned, his well-crafted muscles and inked hands keeping you down with no effort at all. You bit down on your lip, swelling it beyond what Jungkook had done to your mouth. The fire built and roared until you were seconds from being ignited all over.
“Come on, baby.” He urged, still buried between your legs. You echoed his name as you came, every nerve engulfed in molten pleasure. The sparks of your orgasm froze your body, and your spine jerked wildly.
Jungkook eased your burning heat by detaching from your clit with a wet pop and pressing kisses on your plush folds, lapping softly at your sweet juices. When you finally calmed, your neck was covered with a light sheen of sweat and your chest heaved up and down. Your eyes squeezed shut, trying to regain control of your body.
Jungkook released your knees and shifted forward, settling between your legs. The weight of him, still fully clothed while you lay bare and wrecked beneath him, elicited a gasp from you. Your eyes fluttered open to watch his gaze run down your flushed, trembling figure. His tongue darted out, licking your essence off his lip ring.
“One orgasm wrecked you this badly,” he murmured in your ear. You whimpered weakly, rubbing your head into his. He drew lazy circles on your hipbone, the other hand resting by your head. His eyes were red and glassed over, the high taking over him as strongly as it had you.
“Jungkook…” You breathed out, reaching one hand into his hair again. He hummed in delight as you steadied yourself, letting your fingers entangle in the longer hair at the nape of his neck.
“Come back to me, baby. I’m not done with you yet.” The promise had you shifting underneath him, eyes going wide.
“Y-you’re not?”
“Mhm. Still gotta fuck you, pretty girl.” His nose nudged yours, the gesture gentle in contrast with his delectably dark gaze.
“Can’t waste a pussy that perfect on just my mouth,” he continued, his lip ring nudging at your lips.
Your eyes chased his before you lowered a hand, tugging at the waistband of his jeans.
“Fuck me then.” You weren’t sure if it was a plea, demand, or a prayer.
Jungkook’s mouth twitched into something darkly amused, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted back onto his knees, dragging the hem of his shirt over his head. The fabric peeled away slow, and your breath caught at the sight of him. His torso seemed like it was cut from marble, abs ridged and sharp. A colorful sleeve wrapped one arm, ink twisting over his thick muscle in bold mysterious strokes, somehow making you higher than you were.
His eyes didn’t leave yours as you reached up, fingers tentative, brushing along his chiseled torso. The muscles shifted beneath your touch, and Jungkook’s breath came out in shaky gasps, like he hadn’t expected your touch.
Then he pushed to his feet, making quick work of his jeans. His dark denim slid to the floor, followed by black boxers that clung to his well-defined waist. His cock sprang free, heavy, flushed an angry red that deepened to a beautiful blushed purple at the tip, veins pulsing thickly along the shaft. The sight alone had your mouth drying, your thighs pressing together in want. His cock was as gorgeous as him.
“C-can I…” Your voice trailed off, hand twitching upward.
His jaw clenched, the vein at his temple flexing. “Yeah. Touch me.” He lowered himself back to his knees in front of you.
Your hand wrapped around him gingerly at first, then with more confidence, stroking the velvety skin. Jungkook groaned low, head tipping back as his cock twitched in your hand. His hand caught your wrist, not to stop you but to feel your movements. Your thumb ran over his sensitive head, and you smeared the pre-cum down his shaft. He hissed in delight, his eyes shifting rapidly under his closed eyelids. You watched him, amazed like he was art itself. Jungkook’s eyes flew open when you leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to his hip bone. You weren’t sure where the softness came from, maybe from the shadowed aftermath of the hits you had taken of the joint.
“You’re killing me, baby,” he said through gritted teeth.
You blinked up at him before you flattened back onto the carpet, guiding his fat cock head to press onto your soaked folds. His breath tore ragged, and he muttered a curse so filthy it made you blush. He lowered himself over you, hands on either side as you continued to tease him lightly. You gripped his shaft and slid his cock up and down your slit, and moaned gently in his ear when it nudged your clit. Jungkook was evidently having trouble restraining himself, his breath fanning out on your face each time he tremored from the pleasure. Your slick coated him perfectly, his cock glazed over in his pre-cum and your juices.
He reached down, pressing his forehead to yours, sweat dampening his hairline. “S-stop fucking teasing me, pretty,” he said weakly, his hips bucking against your hand.
You reached a tender hand up and ran your fingers along the side of his face. “You promise to cum in me?”
Jungkook’s eyes widened for a split second before darkening into something primal, his jaw flexing as if he was trying to hold himself back.
He hissed out as you let his tip rest against your fluttering hole. “Fuck, I-I’ll fill you to the fucking brim.”
Satisfied, you pressed down on his tip. The fat crown popped inside with little resistance. You moaned at the light intrusion, the sting so good, so delicious, you needed more.
Jungkook finally had enough of your feather touches. Suddenly, he gripped the sides of your curved thighs. He lifted both your legs up and pressed down under the backs of your knees, letting your thighs press into your stomach. Your ankles were in the air, on either side of his ears. Jungkook slithered between your lifted legs, hands firm at the back of your thighs, and savored the sight of your thick pussy in his clear view, glistening with evidence of how he’d wolfed down on you just minutes ago. Your swollen pink clit peaked out, and your hole fluttered in anticipation.
“Jungkook—” You didn’t have to finish your sentence as Jungkook started pushing in, knocking the air out of your lungs. The noise that ripped out of your throat was something you’d never heard, an erotic cross between a whine and a moan. To say Jungkook was stretching you out was an understatement — he was ripping you open, tearing you apart to make a mold out of you. A place in your sopping core only meant for him. The sting was so good, so filthy, so deliciously painful all you could think of was him. Jungkook hissed as he met resistance and released one thigh for a quick second to pinch at your abused clit.
“Oh my god!” you yelped, head shooting back into the rugged carpet.
“Your cunt’s choking me out,” he said through gritted teeth and pushed in more, shifting his hips side to side to make space. You were euphoric, enjoying every moment of being speared open by the handsome, inked deviant. Soon, your greedy hole started trying to suck him in, clenching and gripping around him with such intensity that Jungkook’s jaw dropped.
“F-feels so fucking good, pretty,” he groaned out, and bottomed out. His balls slapped against your ass, and he stilled, needing a second to ground himself.
“Fuck, Jungkook—you’re so fucking big,” you moaned loudly, eyes rolling back. You were so full that you thought you were going to burst. Your lower belly bulged with his cock, and Jungkook could see his own imprint perfectly. He couldn’t take it anymore; he shifted his hand back to the back of your thigh and pulled out till his balls slapped your ass.
“Say it again,” he demanded, his voice ragged.
“You’re so fucking big, my god, you’re splitting me open,” you sobbed, clenching tighter at the filthy confession.
Your hands flew to his shoulders, gripping tight, dragging your nails over his skin. He started pummeling into you with a force you had never felt before. Your body rocked underneath him, the burn of the carpet stinging your shoulder blades and spine, but you didn’t care. Nothing mattered when Jungkook was burning his mark in you. Your tits bounced with each weighty thrust, and your tummy was taut in pleasure.
“Look at these,” he rasped, slapping one tender mound hard enough to make you squeak. The slap shot straight to your core. He palmed both breasts, squeezing, twisting your nipples between his calloused fingers. “Obsessed. I’m fucking obsessed. Gonna ruin them, mark them up till they ache.”
Your back arched into his greedy touch. You were for sure going to have marks tomorrow. He licked a stripe over one peak before sucking it harshly into his mouth, teeth grazing your pebbled nipple until you gasped out again. Your eyes squeezed shut so tight you could see geometric patterns, and your lips pouted out, savoring each filthy jolt of him fucking into you.
Jungkook let out a shaky breath, seeing your euphoric face. His pace turned relentless and punishing, pulling out with each stroke and shoving back in with full force. His mouth started pouring out filthy promises, causing a blush to rise off your neck.
“I’m gonna cum in you so deep, you’ll feel me for days, baby,” he vowed.
Tears pricked your eyes, the sensation of being stretched and his filthy words too much for you to handle.
“Jungkook,” you gasped, suddenly remembering. “Jungkook, the gun.”
His hips stuttered to a pause, and he stayed buried in you, analyzing your face. He panted over you, quirking a raven brow.
You let your hands roam down his solid torso and stopped where you both joined, letting your fingers brush against him. “Please, I wanna feel it again.”
The sentence and your gentle brush pulled a feral noise from his chest. He reached for it, understanding what you wanted instantly, and pressed the cold barrel against your throat. Your pulse jumped under the steel, heat and fear twisting into something intense. When he resumed his thrusts, your eyes rolled back, savoring the feeling of the dangerous object holding you down along with him.
You had to be crazy for letting a stranger point a gun at your throat, but your rational side had taken a backseat ages ago. Jungkook’s punishing strokes did the deed of pushing away any sanity, any reasoning, any thoughts you had.
Each time you leaked around him or let out a pleading gasp, Jungkook forced the gun harder against your tender throat and savored the way your head leaned against the carpet and your eyebrows knitted together in desperation. You were a mess, a shaking fragile version of yourself about to snap in half at any second. You had no doubts he could feel how close you were, and his plump cock head kissing at the spongy spot deep in you wasn’t helping. You curled into him, running away from the raw scrapes of the carpet burn starting to form on your figure, and he accepted you gladly, burying his face into your neck.
“You’re about to cum, aren’t you, baby?” he breathed out, his veined length driving into you as if it was made for you.
You nodded vehemently, arms wrapping around him and scratching down his back. Jungkook hissed in delight. The ceiling swam above you, clouded by his broad shoulders hovering and blocking anything in your field of vision. The coil in your belly was getting tighter and tighter, and your toes curled out. Salty tears ran down your chin as you felt yourself snap, a wave of unbridled, pure pleasure coursing through your body. You grasped at anything and everything he gave you, your nails digging into his lower back, his shoulders, his biceps, his jaw. His jaw clenched and he closed his eyes, enjoying the piercing prick of your nails as they branded him like proof. If your vision wasn’t darkened by your raging orgasm, you would have seen the red trails blooming on his olive skin.
“Fuck, good girl, that’s it, I’ve got you.” He eased, letting his gun run down the side of your face. His thrusts slowed but deepened, and his eyes trailed over your knitted face and then his own scratched arms.
“Marked me up real fucking good when you came, baby.” He said it with a low, half-broken laugh.
You couldn’t even reply, so fucked out from your brutal peak. His powerful thrusts bounced you up and down on the carpet, and your face lulled to the side, lying flat with closed eyes. He dropped his gun by your head and grabbed your jaw with his hands, squeezing your cheeks together so your lips formed a swollen pucker.
He leaned down and kissed you, with an unexpected softness. You moaned softly and kissed back, returning from your haze. “J-Jungkook…” You trailed off.
“Tell me, baby.”
“I want you to cum.” You urged, your eyes glazed over and bearing into his.
Your shudders barely faded before he was chasing his own high. He drove forward into you, greedy, using your limp weight as his own little toy. You watched him through half-lidded eyes, his jaw locked tight, chasing a peak with the kind of hunger that looked like it might consume him.
He pumped into you rabidly, hands balled up by your head and teeth gritted like he was hanging on his last thread of control. He used one hand to hoist your leg on his hip like you were some sort of glorified doll and drilled into you. He groaned out loudly, sweat beading and collecting at his forehead as he bullied your tight heat.
“Oh my god!” you squealed weakly as he angled into you. “Cum in me, please, please, please.” You begged.
“I’m gonna—” Jungkook couldn’t finish his warning before hot ropes of his release shot inside you.
“Holy fuck.” You gasped out and lowered your eyes, watching your sopping heat get filled up. Jungkook’s mouth opened in a beautiful O-shape, and his hips shifted as he fucked out his orgasm.
“Take it all,” he rasped, voice ruined. “Every drop.”
You were helplessly sensitive, feeling your sopping hole filled to the brim. His body rocked against yours lazily as he made sure every drop of him was squeezed out into you. He kept himself plugged in, making sure nothing went to waste. You could feel the thick veins of his length drag against you.
Finally, Jungkook stilled, resting his forehead against yours and panting, trying to catch the life that had escaped him from drilling into you at a manic pace. He slipped out, and you flinched at the sudden loss of fullness. You felt his lashes flutter against your eyelids, and he ran a large hand down your body and cupped your heat.
“Filled you all the way up like you wanted, pretty.” His voice was mesmerizing, dripping with honey, so contrary to his roughness that was on display just seconds ago.
You whimpered as his palm pressed against your swollen folds and clenched your thighs around his hand, keeping it trapped between your fleshy curves.
He chuckled at your silence. “Not gonna thank me?”
“Thank you,” you panted, words tumbling out shamelessly. “Thank you for filling me, f-fuck, thank you.”
He pressed his palm flatter against you. “You’re so welcome, baby.”
You clenched tighter around his hand until the tremors dulled, until all you could do was collapse against the floor, boneless and wrecked. His laughter brushed over your skin, low and smug, before he finally pulled back, leaving the simmer of absence everywhere he touched.
The silence after was heavy but not awkward, only your panting filling it, and then his voice cut through smooth and unbothered, as if he hadn’t just ruined you.
“So,” he drawled, brushing his thumb over your hip like punctuation. “You wanna smoke again?”
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.
jungkook had known that apartment long before you ever even stepped foot into it.
unit 4b.
as the resident’s on sight handyman, he had been inside it years ago. the building had been past saving then, but still pretending otherwise - he couldn’t even imagine what it was like now, but luckily, it had been unoccupied for so long that he had forgotten all about it thankfully.
he had fixed a pipe in there once, replaced a fuse another; every visit had left him with grime underneath his fingernails and a sour taste in his mouth. the place was a hazard waiting to happen, damp beneath the walls and faulty wiring. it was a display of neglect that didn’t show itself all at once.
when he had seen your name on the new tenants list, next to the apartment, something inside him had gone still.
he hadn’t bothered to knock on your door when you moved in. never introduced himself, that wasn’t how things were done in this place - it was rough living for rough people. you asked when you wanted something, weren’t just given it.
he, however, had met fragments of you.
coming and going whilst he fixed stair rails, brow collecting sweat as he watched you shuffle beside him to take the rubbish out. you moved like someone permanently bracing for impact with your shoulders curled in, bag clutched tight, steps uneven with exhaustion. sometimes you couldn’t even bring yourself to look up, but he could see the glassy mess of your eyes.
he doubted you had ever even seen him. that should have been the end of it, but it wasn’t.
because once he noticed you, he couldn’t stop.
it wasn’t an immediate desire - it wasn’t that simple or crude, no. it was something slower, heavier. it carried in the way his attention snagged every time he saw you stumble slightly on the stairs. the way his jaw would lock tight when he noticed how late you’d leave and come home from your night shift, or the way his chest would tighten inexplicably whenever he imagined you unlocking your door and stepping foot in that fucking apartment all alone.
he didn’t like the thoughts that manifested because of you.
they were intrusive - possessive to the core. he felt sick at the thought of you. wanted to sink his teeth into your arms and legs, anything to grab your attention so you’d notice him head on. his brain was fucked up, wrong in the way that had less to do with morality and everything to do with intensity. jungkook had always known there was something twisted about the way he wanted - not in excess but in pure depth.
he didn’t give a fuck about the idea of all of his past girlfriends leaving him - they weren’t what he craved. they weren’t the missing puzzle piece he had been looking for, all differently shaped to the specific hole in his life.
he fantasised about his dream woman. fantasised about making her stay, making her feel good, providing something he knew he yearned to give.
wanted to provide until there was nothing left for them to worry about. wanted to make money irrelevant in their brain. rest would be mandatory - he wanted to come home dirty after a long day of work to his sweet girl cooking for him, just so he could breed her all fucking night.
it didn’t stem from kindness, but mere vice.
and watching you wear yourself thin inside a place he knew should’ve been condemned made that vice burn hot and ugly in his chest.
he started recognising the patterns. the way you always opted for the stairs when the elevator had broken down, despite it being incredibly dangerous in a messed up building like this one. it was the way you paused on the landing, trying to catch your breath after a long day of not eating enough and feeling a level of exhaustion that had settled into your body like home, your fingers tightening against the very metal he had worked on prior.
you never complained, never flagged anyone down, never even asked for repairs - he was marginally cheaper than anyone else you could hire considering his contract with your building and yet still, you lived in squalor.
jungkook had never been good at ignoring the things he wanted most. especially not when they had him hardening, balls tightening at the mere sight of you - the perfect candidate for the life he wanted to build. at first, he tried convincing himself it was normal to worry about any woman like this, tired and exhausted living in a bad area but he knew his motivation was anything but innocent.
this was a fixation. a maddening, obsessive one.
he could feel his brain warping, dripping in need whenever he’d catch you walking back to your place. couldn’t help the thoughts from straying, wanted to protect you, save you, he’d do it in anyway possible.
you shouldn’t be living like this, and one day soon, something had to give.
he’d make fucking sure.
—
the stairwell smelled like damp concrete and old cigarettes.
the elevator was broken again, and this time it had been down for weeks. you didn’t know if you were allowed to complain to anyone, didn’t have half the energy the act required and frankly, neither the time. your bag dug into your shoulder as you opened the door to the staircase, sighing quietly, beginning your painful ascend to the fourth floor.
your vision swam from your shift you had just finished with, whimpering lightly as your aching legs took you to your place, so you could get dressed for your night shift.
as you climbed, your keys fell from your hand, your hair falling into your eyesight, blurring it even more.
you watched as they clattered down the stairs, another small noise of complaint leaving you at the sight. the sound was jarring in the empty space, as you stumbled down to collect them, hand darting outwards whilst you swayed.
your body lagged behind your mind, causing you to slip, a squeak escaping as you began to fall forwards, bracing for impact.
an arm caught you.
fast. firm. heavy. rough.
fingers clung to the skin on your waist like they had been there before, pulling you harshly into an equally hard chest, the contact knocking air away from your lungs.
“steady.”
a single word. low.
you froze.
your bag had slipped from your shoulder to the ground, your soft palms pressing gently against a set of shoulders, heart pounding. the first thing you noticed when looking up was how big he was, wide shoulders, large pecs, biceps bursting from the t-shirt that sat on top of his body. his grip hadn’t loosened, it had even tightened, his thumb pressing in further to make sure you were steady on your feet.
you nodded quickly, coming out of your daze. “i..i-i am so..sorry.”
he didn’t answer.
instead, he manoeuvred you to his other arm, whilst he bent down to pick up both your bag and your keys, moving in a way that felt easy, controlled. he was blocking the narrow landing, making sure you were pressed firmly against him despite it being intense. you hadn’t been this close to anyone, regardless another man, in years.
his forearm flexed when it straightened, veins standing out underneath worn skin. he held them out to you.
your eyes were hazy, a mixture of exhaustion and the heat of the situation, lips parted as your eyes met with his. you felt suffocated by his gaze, you felt completely naked, as though he as looking at every crevice you tried to hide with mere ease.
“you live here.” he said. not a question.
you shrugged weakly, nodding, shamefully looking away from his gaze, unsure of what to say and not being able to stomach his stare.
something shifted in his expression at that. not sympathy. irritation, sharp and contained. his jaw tightened.
your fingers brushed his as you took your stuff, despite being held almost intimately still. the contact was brief, and accidental, and yet it held even more weight than the heavy arm around your waist, as though it meant something else entirely.
“late.” he gruffed out.
you nodded again, hands against his chest. “yeah.”
his touch loosened, but he remained inappropriately close. tired eyes, scuffed shoes, the way your shoulders were sagging from exhaustion.
“you shouldn’t be out at a time like this,” he said.
not gently.
your stomach twisted. “i don’t really have a choice.”
he looked at you for a long moment. his gaze flicked down the stairwell, listening, calculating, and when he looked back, he stepped closer, close enough that you felt it in your chest.
“pretty thing like you,” he said quietly, “working nights in a place like this?”
your heart fluttering was a shock to you. you could feel a stampede in your stomach, curling further into the warmth he was providing without even realising it, voice tough enough to carry heat. his words weren’t necessarily a compliment, but a mere observation, one that had you reeling regardless.
you nodded for a third time, small. “i have to.”
his hand on your waist squeezed, grunting vocally in response. he could feel his cock hardening, and he knew it was fucked up, but the prospect of such a pretty damsel in distress like you? you were out of his wildest dreams, an anomaly that only came once in a lifetime.
he held you for another moment, the two of you simply looking at one another. he liked watching you cower a little, knowing that there were bad people all over in the complex, and though he evidently wasn’t one, his sheer size alone had you hesitant. knew it made his brain fucked up, but he enjoyed it regardless.
“get inside.” he muttered slowly, arm slipping away from your waist.
your too large eyes blinked up at him, uncomfortable with the feeling cold seeping in. you wanted him to touch you again.
“okay.” you nodded through a whisper, pulling your bag further onto your shoulder more firmly. he admired you for another moment before nudging his nose up to the rest of the staircase, where the door to your floor sat. “lock your door.”
your cheeks were a deep pink, as you turned and walked up the rest of the stairs, nibbling away at your lip, heading through the final door, and rushing into your apartment.
you leaned against your door, locking it exactly as he ordered you, before sliding down the cold wood, legs giving out beneath you.
who was he?
so tall and so broad, his face alone had your thighs trembling but it was more so how manly he was.
you knew it was ridiculous, but just meeting someone like that had your stomach in knots. you assumed he was just being kind, if a man like that was even able to process that emotion - he was calloused all over, rough without meaning to. the type of guy to take up as much room as physically possible because he could.
you had no idea that as you sat pooled on your floor, eyes closed and lip bitten, jungkook stood on the other side, quiet, listening to make sure you had locked it. to make sure you were safe.
only then, did the loud sound of his boots echo into the hall, cause you to gasp.
—
the knock came too early.
it was the kind of early that felt cruel - sunlight barely stretched through the thin, stained curtains, your body still sunk deep into that half-sleep where breathing ached and nothing felt real yet. the sound cut through the quiet of your apartment too harshly, your brain short circuiting despite your legs carrying you out of the little warmth of your bed.
you were startled. no one knocked on your door. people kept to themselves around here until, well, they didn’t, like your neighbour on the left. his door had banged a few weeks ago just as you had come home, and you hadn’t heard or seen from him since, a thought that was now presenting deep in your mind.
with trembling hands, and aching feet, you padded your way over to the door whilst all remnants of sleep fell from you like droplets. your toes curled against the cold floor, grabbing a cardigan on your way over to shield your indecent outfit that consisted of a too thin, too see through tank and shorts set.
by the time you had opened the door, the person behind it had already knocked three separate times, raising the level of urgency and only adding to the stress on your shoulders. you had a rare day off from your night shift, meaning you were only heading out to your day job in a few hours. this was supposed to be decompression time.
your fingers finally slid against the cool handle, hesitating at the lock before opening it up, eyebrows furrowed lightly.
you froze.
it was him.
your brain stuttered for a moment as it took in his broad frame, shoulders wider than you’d seen on any man, with muscles in places you had only ever dreamt of. his biceps were practically spilling out of his uniform, which despite being sat seamlessly, showed signs of wear, indicating he had been working all morning. boots were planted solidly against the chipped hallway tile, sunlight shining onto the highest parts of his cheeks.
daylight did him no favours - made him worse. heavier. darker. stronger. the kind of man that felt realer than anything you’d ever experienced.
the kind of man that worked to an inch of his life.
his work belt sat low on his waist, sleeves pushed up, tatted forearms already streaked with things like grease and dust, and hair still damp from his morning shower. despite the hour, he looked awake and alert, something you knew you lacked in that very moment.
his eyes flickered over you, slow. real slow.
you felt it everywhere.
jungkook met your gaze as you finally looked up, your chest tightening.
“morning.”
his voice was even rougher in the daylight, like gravel dragging over concrete. you could feel it in your stomach.
“hi.” you whispered, barely audible.
“inspection.” he lifted his clipboard whilst staring you down. the eye contact was heavy. “pipe issues in this unit.”
you frowned faintly, confusion pulling at your features. “i..i didn’t call anyone..”
his mouth twitched. you were even cuter when you just woke up. he liked that.
“i know.”
his comment should have unsettled you, should have had you closing the door in his face, locking it immediately and ignoring him.
instead, jungkook took it upon himself to set forward. the door brushed your arm as he passed, your already too small apartment feeling somewhat suffocating as it became swallowed by his mere presence.
you hovered near the door, against the wall as he began to move around with a sense of familiarity that had you stomach churning again.
first, he crouched beneath your sink before checking taps, looking inside your cabinets for any sign of water damage, inspecting the dampness that clung to certain walls. he was efficient, practised - it was clear he was good at his job. he moved like a man who knew what he was doing, as though this was another task on his list that he had to get through.
not like he had been thinking of you in this wretched apartment all fucking night.
he was in your bathroom now, writing something down whilst you continued to hover, half out of curiosity and the other half merely weary. you had every right to be given where you were, the fact you hardly knew him if at all, and of course the knowledge he had simply let himself in.
suddenly, water began sprouting from your tap the way it usually did but judging from the small grimace on his face, you knew it wasn’t something normal despite it being that way from day one.
“this place is so fucked.” he huffed, with a shake to his head. “they shouldn’t be renting this unit out. it’s a biohazard.”
your fingers intertwined together nervously; as though the problem at hand was your fault. “i keep a towel..under there..”
he paused. slowly, he turned to look at you, savouring the way your cardigan was leaving little to his imagination. your nipples had pebbled, and a better man would have looked away, but jungkook was hardly good - assessing them for a moment longer before meeting your gaze.
“you shouldn’t have to.” his voice was hard.
the way he said it, flat, certain, unyielding. it made your stomach ache and your chest tighten, as though someone was looking directly through you.
he stood taller then, raising from his once crouched position. he towered over you, a reminder of the sheer size difference between you, something both of you secretly felt aligned on.
he wiped his hands on his rag, cleaning them before moving past you to the breaker panel. his arm brushed against your shoulder deliberately, watching the way you shuddered.
“power cuts at night?” he asked.
“sometimes.” you answered honestly.
he looked over you again. “figures.”
he opened the panel, taking his time with inspecting it before closing it off. he turned back around to face you once he was done, not bothering to walk away, but instead taking up more of your personal space.
he looked at you properly.
the sag of your shoulders and the shadows underneath your eyes, the way you stood hoping not to be noticed. too small for even the cramped space of your apartment. it made his head swirl.
“you eat?” he gruffed out, a slight edge to his voice.
you were shifting from foot to foot. “what?”
“food.” he clarified with narrowed eyes. “you eat it?”
“i-..when i can.”
you weren’t sure why you were being so honest with him and yet the worlds tumbled out before you could think. you were nibbling on your lip.
he wasn’t done with his line of questioning, finding himself stepping closer to you resulting in you stepping back.
“how old are you?”
“24.”
he exhaled through his nose. he seemed angry, or something adjacent, as though your words were aggravating him. “too young to look this tired.”
you looked down with heat creeping up your neck and cheeks. “it’s fine.”
“don’t say that.” his eyes narrowed once more. he ran a hand through his hair before exhaling deeply. “i’ll be around today, gotta fix some shit around here. don’t go out.”
your mouth opened and closed a few times, unsure of what to say. you watched as he walked towards the entrance, the warmth radiating from his body suddenly gone.
he paused at the threshold, one hand braced on the frame whilst looking back at you, watching the way your chest rose and fell, your sheer pyjamas doing nothing to hide the way your body subconsciously leant towards him.
“next time something breaks, you call me.” his voice firm.
“i don’t have your number.” you weakly replied, as though it was anything to deter him. secretly, you hoped it wouldn’t.
he didn’t respond, simply running his eyes up and down you once more as though he was savouring the sheer look of you, all soft and pliant. it made that sick part of his brain swirl, the thought of you being all his, the side of him that tried to rationalise a man ten years older being with a pretty little thing like you. he’d fucking ruin you and he knew you’d be thankful for it too.
jungkook turned around, cock half hard and head swarming, veins popping out of his arm, leaving you be for a few moments.
—
working the diner on a late shift meant two things. first, it meant you would have to deal with cleaning the entire place top to bottom, which was easily your least favourite task of your entire job. second, and more importantly, it meant you would be forced to deal with the filthy, sleazy men that would come in hopes of riling you up in anyway they could.
you were pliant, too soft for a place like this, too clean, too scared. all the girls before you had been ran away with ease after experiencing a single shift, and here you were, tiny little diner dress that sat too high on your thigh as men ogled at you.
you knew it was going to be a long night by hour two when you had already been harassed by two newcomers, the cooks in the back not able to back you up as much as they wanted considering it was a busy shift. you had been fighting tears back the entire night, but this was borderline insane. it felt targeted, and you felt exhausted already - this was hardly helping.
the smell of burnt coffee and grease was all you could think about as you walked around the diner, filling coffee mugs everytime a man would smash it hard against the table to get your attention, ignoring disgusting comments like they had never even been uttered, eyes down.
you felt it before you saw it.
him.
a regular. late 40’s, unshaven, dirt under his fingernails. kind of guy to make you uncomfortable just to get him off. he made your skin crawl. made you want to hide forever and never appear again, but alas, you were a young, poor, twenty something year old fighting for the very will to live.
you felt the slow drag of attention on your legs, dragging up and settling on your tits. your dress was buttoned, and though you knew there was nothing to even ogle at, the shape of your breasts against your dress was enough for dirt like him to get riled up.
“there she is, about fucking time.” he grunted out, breath hot and legs spread underneath the booth table. “fetch me a coffee. make it good.”
you simply nodded, not trusting your voice as you grabbed him a mug before pouring it in in front of him, eyes trained on the drink.
“what time you finish tonight, sweets?”
your shoulders bristled immediately. he always did this, but it never made you feel any better.
“late.” you murmured quietly, but he was perceptive enough to hear you. didn’t like the bite in your voice.
“walking home alone again?”
your body went cold.
your stomach tightened uncontrollably, and though the line of questioning wasn’t anything new, it still messed with you more than you wanted to admit. you could feel the thin layer of threat coated in each word, and it scared you to know you were utterly defenceless.
you had been feeling watched recently too. on the staircases, when entering your home, walking through hallways. your building was shady, yes, but this was different - it felt charged. felt scary enough to notice, and paired with a line like that? this didn’t feel normal anymore.
you shake your head before you could even think it through. “no.”
“no?” he repeated with a smirk.
you swallowed nervously.
“i’ve got someone..so.”
your words surprised even you, and you tried your hardest to hide it, especially when his own was formed perfectly upon his features. he leaned back, drinking the coffee with his darkened features.
“yeah?”
“yeah.”
you shifted from foot to foot. he didn’t believe you, you could feel it.
“he works in construction.” you added, nervously, breathing through your words to sound firm but instead, coming out like a fawn. “does long shifts too but takes care of me and..and he doesn’t..like men talking to me..so.”
your pad suddenly looked so much more interesting, shuffling it between your fingers as he stared you down, secretly seething at the idea of the pretty plaything at the diner no longer being accessible to mess with.
“he’s protective too. big cause he works with his hands.” you kept rambling on, describing the very protector you needed.
describing jungkook.
subconsciously, of course.
the sleazy man narrowed his eyes at you, tilting his head slightly. “don’t look like you have a man like that. you sure you’re not lying to me, sweets? cause i don’t like liars.”
“i do..i really do.” you nodded immediately but you were blinking fast, almost about to burst into tears from your lie that you begged wouldn’t come back to bite you in the ass.
“yeah? what’s his name?”
your throat constricted. you wanted to run away.
“he wouldn’t like me giving his name out.” your voice came out a whisper.
you knew he had you. knew he could see right through you.
he drank from his mug once more, filthy stare looking over you once more as though he had every right. his fingers tapped against the table for a few seconds before he leaned back.
“say hi for me.”
you didn’t respond. you couldn’t. you simply walked away.
later, once the diner had closed and every inch had been mopped to perfection, you finally grabbed your bag and your coat with a loaded sigh. the exhaustion was heavy today, you could feel it in the way your bones screamed with every passing movement. you had been shouted at non stop all night by customers, and though you weren’t doing anything wrong, it still was never good enough.
stepping out after you had locked the doors was stark, the cold air hitting you in your face causing you to wrap your coat even tighter around you, beginning the ten minute walk to your apartment block. you had long become used to the journey, and despite the late hour being terrifying at this time of night, it was one of the only chances you had to feel the wind hit you. to remind you that you were alive.
the streets felt different tonight, with the stark lighting above flickering with each and every step. you could feel a knot begin to form in your stomach, and you knew it was anxiety, you knew you were being ridiculous but that didn’t make the thoughts go away.
it only took another 30 seconds for your thoughts to be confirmed.
you could hear it. footsteps just a few metres away from you, and considering it was the early morning, the streets were completely bare save for yourself and whatever was trailing you from behind. you felt your legs quicken despite the tiredness in your body screaming at you, openly telling you it could take no more for the night and yet you were doing a full blown run home within seconds.
you could still hear it behind you, and it was real, wasn’t a figment of your imagination - someone was trying to get you, to hurt you.
you could see your apartment, could see the heavy doors, the rubbish bins all empty and random waste littered around on the floor. the most noticeable thing of all, however, was the beaten down truck, where a tall and bulky man stood, smoking his cigarette with furrowed eyes as he leaned against it.
you recognised him immediately.
he seemed to notice you too, watching as you all but ran over to him, your eyes wide and breathing heavy, your chest heaving up and down.
jungkook’s head tilted just slightly, grabbing you with one of his arms as his cigarette sat on his lip, watching as you burst out into crushing sobs almost instantly from the feel of his touch.
it was safety personified.
his arms wrapped around you as though it was second nature, one hand on the back of your head, the other harsh on your waist.
his cigarette fell to the ground, extinguished by a heavy boot whilst you sobbed in utter fear, clutching him like a lifeline, as though he was the only thing that could protect you from the outside world.
he was.
his touch wasn’t gentle, or firm - it was mean, harsh against your skin, grabbing and forcing you to look up at him as it did exactly what it needed to. it grounded you, enough to sedate the fear, just slightly, fingers pressing into your uniform.
“what happened?” his voice was equally as rough, as though he had barely used it all day, a man used to using his hands as opposed to his words.
you couldn’t get your words out, too big eyes staring up at him almost desperately as broken sounds and wet breaths fell into his chest, your hands bundled against his pecs.
his jaw tightened. he looked past you, eyes narrowing as he assessed the street, shoulders square. it was far too quiet considering the state you were in, and he could only assume whatever had made you so scared had quickly ran away the moment they realised you had sought shelter in him. he was a pretty intimidating guy, all height and muscle, a right hook that had people passing out in seconds.
“did someone touch you?”
you shook your head fast against him, sucking in a breath.
“n-n..” hiccup. “no.”
his hand travelled from the back of your head, running through your hair until it reached the back of your neck, eyes narrowing harshly. he was grounding you still, keeping you safe in his arms as you shook violently, a mixture of the cold air and the fear of what could have been had jungkook conveniently not been stood outside.
you had no idea that he had been waiting for you, almost aggravated at how late you were coming home.
“use your words.” he uttered, fingers digging into your skin just enough to leave pressure, something you found grounding. “talk.”
“was a m-man..at the..at the diner and..but he keeps..and then..” you were choking out words, hardly making sense but it was enough for him to gather the general gist of what was happening.
you watched as his face went completely cold.
“regular?” he asked.
you nodded, not trusting your voice through your sobs.
“he fucking follow you?”
you took a deep breath, shaky air leaving your lips. “i don’t know- i think..someone foll-followed me..” hiccup. “so i ran.”
he looked angry.
you barely knew the man, but from the emotions he had given you, you could tell it wasn’t directed at you whatsoever. you could feel it in the tension of his arms around you, the warmth his body exuded - it was fury.
“alright.”
decision made.
he pulled your face back, the hand on your neck forcibly tilting your head, so he was looking down at you. you shamelessly had never felt so protected ever before. he wiped the mascara underneath your eyes, despite the constant stream of tears, making sure to rid you of the blotchiness on your skin.
“listen to me,” he began, watching you nod like the good girl he knew you were. “you’re not going upstairs.”
your lip trembled again. did this mean you couldn’t go home?
“b-but..”
“if he knows the building, you ain’t going up there alone.”
you let out another sob, this only adding to the pile of problems you were already drowning in. you couldn’t handle this. could feel your brain splitting from the stress of it all.
“i’m scared.” you admitted in a small voice, fingers curled into his work jacket so delicately. “what if he knows which one is mine?”
that fucking killed him.
jungkook rolled his shoulders before letting go of your neck, grunting lightly as he pulled you even tighter against him. suddenly, you were turned towards the entrance of the building, his heavy hold on you guiding you inside.
“where a-are we-“
“my place.” he cut you off immediately as he walked you inside, head turning back to make sure no one was following him.
“you live here?” you asked through a hiccup, desperately still clinging to him, giving him no option but to hold you intimately as he guided you downstairs instead of up, where you and the other residents lived.
everything moved so quickly as you were ushered into an apartment, your eyes hazy as they began to blink away tears to register what was in front of you.
jungkook’s place was clean, tidy, meticulous. the furniture looked expensive, everything crafted perfectly, open plan living room and kitchen with a dining table sat as though he had a family he could dine with. dark wood floors and a couch so plush you were sure it was softer than anything you had ever sat on in your life.
you heard the clink of the door behind you, even watched him lock the door, bolting it for your comfort as opposed to himself.
he turned to face you again, observing you clearly.
you stood, shaking still, body slowly calming down from the sobbing you were doing earlier and instead replaced with a string of hiccuping breaths. you looked so small, so defenceless - a sick part of his brain wanted you like this always so he could play the knight in shining armour. wanted you to need him.
he exhaled through his nose. “sit.”
you obeyed instantly, moving to the couch and taking a seat on the edge as though you were terrified to touch anything. he walked over to the kitchen, where you could still see him before he returned to you, glass of water in hand.
he handed it to you, watching you take it with both shaky hands and take small sips.
he suddenly crouched in front of you. his calloused hands took a hold of either side of you, fingers digging into the sides of your thigh as he situated you on the couch properly, your bare legs brushing against him with ease due to the position he had now put you in.
“look at me.”
and so you did.
his shoulders were tight against his work jacket, frame so large you longed to be underneath it, just to know what kind of warmth would seep into your skin and bones. his forearms were thick, veins visible and tattoos on show, with bruised and bloody knuckles showing signs of scarring display too.
“is he going to try something?” he asked you, eyes trained onto your own.
“i don’t know.” you answered honestly, and the acknowledgment of being uncertain had your anxiety spiking again visibly, causing him to hold you even firmer.
“recount the conversation for me.”
“he a-asked when i finish..and then..something about if i-i was walking home alone..”
jungkook’s jaw was ticking; his shoulders rolling as he ran a heavy hand through his hair. he met your fearful gaze, your fingers intertwined in your lap shaking.
“what’d you say?” his voice was direct, and his presence felt calming.
“i..told him i had a boyfriend.” you admitted through a sniffle, rubbing underneath your eyes. “made him sound scary.”
the silence between you became thick, jungkook’s fingers digging into your skin. not painfully, but enough to certainly remind you of his hold, with his gaze never leaving your own.
his face remained stoic, but his actions gave him away.
“yeah?” he quietly responded; to which you nodded. “mhm.”
“how’d you describe him?”
“well..” you sniffled again, making jungkook wipe under your eyes for him, the harsh skin on his hands a stark difference to the soft surface of your face. “said he works in construction..and that..that he’s big and he doesn’t like guys talking to me.”
his tongue began poking his cheek, eyes closing for a mere second before his fingers then moved to sit on your hips, pulling you into him, making sure you were much closer than you initially were sitting. your hands situated on his shoulders through hiccups, sniffling away as you tried to ignore the severity of the situation.
“construction.” he repeated.
you nodded, the intake of your breath shaky.
“don’t like men talking to you.” he repeated again, but his fingers gave him away again. he was being prodded by you and you didn’t even realise it.
you nodded again, realising then that you had just been openly describing him, a beat of acknowledgment filling the room as silence filled the empty cracks between you.
there was something dark shining in his eyes, something that wouldn’t soften no matter how hard you sat there and tried. jungkook was a hard wall, but it didn’t mean he was unfeeling. emotion swirled deep in his stomach, igniting an internal need to take you for himself, to keep the door locked and protect you forever. how could someone be so oblivious to their own nature? did you know how sweet you were? his jaw ached at the mere thought of how you’d taste, so sugary he’d get a fucking toothache just imagining it.
“you lie good?”
your stomach dropped. “i-i don’t usually..”
“did he believe you?” his gaze dropped to your mouth, before returning to your eyes, lip curled.
“i don’t think so.” you whimpered then at the memory, the feeling of suffocation running back as you remembered the implication of the situation. you weren’t safe anymore.
silence settled between you once more, a norm considering he was hardly a man of many words. his hands on your waist tightened before sliding up and down, soothing you subconsciously, your bodies so close.
“if he comes near you again,” he said, voice low and void of overt emotion, “don’t engage. don’t talk. call me immediately.”
you blinked through a hiccup.
“but i don’t have your num-“
you were cut off immediately as he stood up to his full length, towering over you as he grabbed his phone, unlocking it and opening his contacts app.
“give me yours.”
you fumbled for your bag, hands still shaky, pulling out your phone before handing it to him.
he grabbed it, inputting his number and making sure it sat at the top of your contact list. there were no frills, no emojis, just his name staring at you as he handed your phone back to you, eyes sweeping over your face.
“don’t let him scare you so easy. guys like that thrive on this shit.” his words came out gruff, and you blinked up at him quickly.
“i know, i just-“
“i know.” he cut you off again, shaking his head.
that did something to your chest. he knew. he didn’t need the details, didn’t want to hear you make an excuse for how you were feeling because you didn’t need to, he had seen enough for himself. he had watched you long enough to know you liked to pack yourself way in too small boxes in hopes you’d go unnoticed, in hopes you wouldn’t be a bother.
the intimacy of him simply cutting you off to remind you he didn’t need to hear an explanation, he understood. it was music to you.
he was still looming over you.
“you don’t eat.” his thumb suddenly pressed down on your bottom lip, as you hiccuped, big eyes staring up at him. “don’t sleep enough, work too much, walk home on your own in the middle of the night. live in a unit that should be fucking condemned.”
your throat tightened, but his thumb was firm, the tip of your tongue slightly grazing it. he liked it.
“not anymore.” he shook his head.
the way he said it wasn’t intended for romance, it was ownership. you could feel it deep in your stomach, inbetween your thighs and in the traitorous thump of your very soul.
“you’re staying here.” he suddenly dropped his thumb from your lip, your brain a buzzing mess as his words began to register in your brain, your eyebrows shooting up on your face.
“what?”
he didn’t respond, simply walking over to the kitchen area and grabbing a beer can, rolling his shoulders gently. you found yourself standing then, shaky legs taking you over to him, big eyes capturing his as he took a swig despite the late hour, his adam’s apple capturing your eye.
your smaller fingers tugged at his jacket lightly, capturing his attention as his own stomach pinged at the sight of you, yearning for him to address what he had just said.
“you eaten yet?” he simply uttered.
your mouth opened and closed, nodding your head lightly making him do the same.
“don’t want you going up. not safe. bathrooms down the hall to the left,” he put his beer down. “you can wear one of my t-shirts to bed.”
your shoulders were slowly dissipating before his very eyes. you had never been taken care of, not for a moment in your full 20 odd years of living and you were almost unsure of how to act as your fingers remained on him, large eyes still glassy from your earlier emotion.
jungkook wanted to take care of you, wanted to dominate every negative emotion in your head until you were nothing but lullabies and sweet nothings, no more echoes of stress or negativity. what he hadn’t expected was to see you utterly melt at the prospect, as though the very notion was the one thing you had always wanted.
oh.
you were perfect for him in every way - that he could see clearly.
you made no effort to move, the act alone feeling like it would take too much out of you and so jungkook took one last swig, before grabbing you by your waist. his rough hand sat low on your back, half on your ass in honesty, as he lead you there himself, dark eyes trailing over your much shorter figure against him.
within seconds, you were in the bathroom, fresh clothes given to you, and the shower already on awaiting you. the first step into it had you moaning quietly, the patter of warm water being completely foreign to you considering you were so used to cold shooting bursts that brought no comfort whatsoever. you helped yourself to his shampoo, his body wash, his products just as he intended and were taken aback by how familiar it smelled to you.
there was a sense of protection in carrying his scent that was messing with your brain, and as you washed yourself, you couldn’t help but recognise your situation properly.
you, who had only met jungkook twice before, were now naked in his shower, using his products to wash yourself, imprinting his familiar scent into your skin like it was a lifeline. you were in a stranger’s home, seeking refuge from a bad man and yet you knew secretly, the big bad wolf was merely a few metres away from you - not that it deterred you.
the protection. the safety. it felt like a drug. you couldn’t bring yourself to reason with the fact it was batshit insane to be sleeping over at his home, your handyman for goodness sake, instead of going to the police or any other normal avenue.
no, instead, you pattered out, towelling your body down before putting on his t-shirt, eyes closing at the even stronger scent of his cologne. your uniform and underwear sat in a neat pile, ready to be taken away when you woke up in the morning, leaving you utterly naked underneath the way too large top that sat just below mid thigh.
once you were completely refreshed, all remnants of fear stolen from you by the warmth of the water and the comfort of his presence, your bare feet padded back to the living room. he wasn’t here, causing your eyes to narrow slightly in confusion before hearing a noise in the room adjacent, making your way over.
walking in, you were greeted by two things.
first, jungkook’s bedroom, which like him, was as manly as you imagined it to be. clean, precise, darker in colour and void of any real personality - a nagging, desperate little voice in your head practically screaming that it needed a woman’s touch. if only you knew the thought alone would have him cumming.
the second? jungkook’s naked back, littered with scars and muscle in places you didn’t even realise one could have. to say he was big was a gross understatement, for he defined the very meaning of buff - wide shoulders, insane biceps, back rippling with every move.
you could feel yourself growing wet at the mere sight of him, a quiet little gasp leaving you, causing him to turn around, only for you to see his pecs, his abs. god, he was just massive all over, a sight for your already sore eyes indeed.
jungkook didn’t say anything immediately, but he let out a deep grunt of appreciation at the sight of you. your bare legs, your wet hair; the way your hands were shuffling together. you looked like a vision.
had he been a better man, he would have guided you to the bed and walked out, designating to sleep on the couch but he had no intention of doing so. especially not when he could see your nipples poke straight through the cotton of his shirt, no doubt suggesting you had nothing underneath. his mouth watered at the thought of the sugary nectar inbetween your legs, could feel himself growing hard at the prospect.
“where do you want me to sleep?” you softly asked him, voice so gentle he wanted to ruin you.
that broke him from his trance, realising he was half hard just from looking at you. he felt like a fucking teenager, but could you blame him? you were his dream woman, circumstances and all, dolled up in his room like a present just for him.
“bed.” he muttered, nodding towards it which made you shyly play with your hair, watching him leave the room to no doubt go to the bathroom, his body brushing firmly against yours purposefully on the way out.
you closed your eyes for a moment once you were alone, heart beating fast, before walking over to the bed. you felt bad thinking he would take the couch, a little frown forming on your lips as you settled into the plush covers. another soft moan escaped you at the feel of such softness, the mattress delicate underneath you as you settled into it, feeling more comfortable than you ever had.
jungkook was back in a few minutes, also sporting wet hair suggesting he had just showered. this time, he returned merely in his boxers, a towel running through his locks as he examined you, all curled into the covers, not asleep just yet, as though you were waiting for confirmation from him.
fuck. he liked that. liked having you wait for him so he could decide your next move, like you were a little fawn unsure of what to do unless someone told you. he’d be that someone.
he watched as your eyes instantly fell to his bulge, eyes widening at the sheer size of it, your thighs pressed tightly together under his sheets as he approached you. he watched you stare at it, cock only hardening further at the attention, before pulling back the covers.
“oh..a-are you..sleeping here?” you managed to choke out, your tshirt having ridden up to sit at the tops of your thighs, big eyes peering up.
“not sleeping on a couch in my own home.” he grunted back at you, before sliding in beside you.
a once massive bed suddenly felt claustrophobic as you realised why he needed the space, though you managed not to touch him, you shyly moved to your side, your back to him to give him his privacy, your cheeks painted pink at the implication.
you were sharing a bed with a stranger. a big, tall, tatted stranger who was currently hard as fuck, whilst you laid on your side, pussy soaked from his attention, body quivering.
he was on his back, body taking up a massive majority of the space in the bed and he was utterly shameless about it. you, however, had tried to make yourself as small as possible in the corner, body scrunched up, unable to sleep as your brain worked round and around and around and around and arou-
big, beefy arms suddenly were grabbing you, one on your leg, the other on your waist as you were suspended in the air for a moment or two. you squeaked loudly, stomach dropping at the confusion of being moved and in the air.
jungkook was grunting at you, his preferred method of communication as you were finally placed firmly onto his chest, stomach first. your t-shirt had ridden up to the middle of your back, meaning your bare ass was on display, causing jungkook to place his hand on it as though it was the most normal thing on earth.
the position also meant you were pressed against him intimately, with your wet cunt now pushed against his too large bulge, causing a soft whimper to escape you, right into his ear. your breasts we’re pushed against his chest, your head resting into his shoulder as you both settled in as though this was the most natural thing on earth.
“sleep. you’ve had a long night.” his voice was rough, coarse, as though he too was fighting something.
as though the hand on your ass and the push of his weight, making you feel him intimately in every single way, was just as much punishment for him as it was for you. it was suffocating and you needed more, yearned for it.
your hands settled on his chest, your nose nuzzling into his neck as you nodded, eyes snapping shut. you truly were the picture perfect definition of obedience.
you weren’t sure how long either of you stayed like that, unmoving, unspeaking, just the understanding you were truly no more than strangers seeping in as sleep finally took both of you.
—
the diner was equally as busy the next day, with a particular scent that wouldn’t escape your skin no matter how hard you tried.
burnt oil soaked through the cracking walls, whilst the coffee that had been brewing for far too long sat in its pot, in your hand as you walked around the dining floor, filling mugs to whoever demanded more. you had disinfected the entire place with a cheap lemon solution that morning, the scent lingering slightly, causing you to feel nauseous.
you had been out of it all day.
you had woken up still in the same position as you had fallen asleep in, only this time, jungkook’s arms were hugging you tightly to him. one hand was curled into his hair, the other pressed into his chest, whilst you both slept deeply, safely.
you had slept better that night than any other in your entire lifetime. the feeling of protection was immense, and for the first time, your brain wasn’t racing in anxiety all night - you were able to rest comfortably.
that only made it so much more jarring once you had left his apartment whilst he was still sleeping, wanting nothing more than to stay in his arms, sleep a few more hours, relish in the warmth he was so happily providing for you. you felt guilty leaving like that, but the constant thump in your head brought you back to reality.
you did not know him. he was a stranger.
that was what you were telling yourself anyway, knowing that the traitorous thump of your heart gave you away. you hadn’t been focused all day, spilling drinks, dropping plates of food - your manager had been on your case your entire shift, the cooks even shouting at you at one point. you were utterly overwhelmed with jungkook and he wasn’t even there.
your feet were aching, but you knew you only had 20 minutes left. 20 minutes and you could go home, no night shift, just a long day that would be over in less than half an hour. that gave you a sort of excitement you rarely afforded yourself, and despite the fact your cheap flats were digging into your feet, and your apron felt too tight, you couldn’t wait.
that was until you heard a voice.
“are you fucking deaf? asked for a coffee 3 times now.”
you looked up from your spot behind the counter, meeting the gaze of the horrible, sleazy regular from yesterday, your blood running cold.
he usually only showed up in the late hour, and this was the first time you had see him during the day. it felt like a confirmation of some kind, one in which you had gathered he had either been watching you or was now looking closely, something that unsettled you. how else would he be here? why else?
you swallowed the thump in your throat, shaking hands grabbing the coffee pot and filling his mug as he sat at the diner bar, your eyes avoiding his at all costs.
“you look tired.” he said through a yawn, making no attempt to hide the fact he was ogling your tits. “your ‘boyfriend’ keep you up?”
you flinched at his words, knowing the implication - he still didn’t believe you. that made you feel sick. you chose to ignore him, tending to something at the till, in hopes he’d leave you alone.
“don’t know if i believe ya, sweets. been thinking about what you said about him, construction guys don’t go for girls like you.” he mused, as though he was the smartest man in the world, watching the way your hands shook lightly. “you’re all shy and shit. what you know about pleasing a man?”
you felt heat crawl up your throat and down your spine, feeling a level of shame you couldn’t quite place. you hated it. even reacting to a man like him was giving him power, and he relished in it.
“you better be usin’ what you got.” he leaned back, hand openly palming himself as he grinned, dirty teeth on display. “tight little ass like yours? should let him use it or he’ll start lookin’ elsewhere.”
you flinched once more, this time harsher.
“that’s inappropriate.” you found your voice, though it was shaky, desperately looking over at your manager who was conveniently pretending like he couldn’t hear a thing.
“i’m helpin’ you, sweets. should be grateful.”
your eyes narrowed. “you don’t know anything about me.”
at that, he leaned forward, grin even wider. it was sinister. “yeah? know you walk home all alone.”
your heart dropped.
“i see you.” he added. “late. every night.”
you couldn’t breathe. it felt like someone had grabbed your lungs, suffocating you from the inside and out, a confirmation of your wildest fears before your very eyes.
“see, i like to watch who goes in and out of that building. got some buddies, and you know..bad area. should be careful.” he was all but fucking gleeful. “pretty girls like you, they’re the most fun to play with.”
your hands were beginning to shake violently, as one reached for your phone, clumsily putting your password in, not being able to think.
“you sure your boyfriends real?” he asked lazily. “or you just sayin’ that to throw me off the scent?”
“i have one.” you immediately interjected, panic visible in your voice, desperate to be believed. “he doesn’t like when i talk to other men, so..” you pathetically whispered, turning on your heel and immediately going into the back, where the staff room was located.
you didn’t come out for the rest of your shift, your chest in a panic, hands shaking and eyes leaking tears once more. he had been watching you? did that mean something could have happened had you returned to your unit last night, instead of staying with jungkook?
you couldn’t believe this was a reality, and the fact you knew you had no escape plan was even worse. you couldn’t move out, you didn’t have the funds, and it was a terrifying thought to know you were simply waiting to be violated. the thought alone had you crying into your hands, shakily hovering over jungkook’s contact.
you didn’t want to bother him. he owed you nothing, and you had already taken so much from him.
with that, you grabbed your things and snuck out the back, beginning the 10 minute walk back home.
jungkook had been in the same position as you all day. his work was rendered useless, and considering he had well paying clients, it was enough to drive him to the point of anger. every thought, every crevice of the world around him brought him back to you, how you’d slotted against him so easily last night, so pliant and ready. to then wake up to an empty bed and a wet patch on his boxers from where you were both pressed together was frustrating to say the least - he wanted to wake up to the sight of you.
he had every intention of sitting you down, telling you to leave your job, telling you exactly what he could offer you if you just let him. hell, he would do it against your will too if you kept this shit up, more than ready to fund a lifestyle you had only ever dreamt of.
he was outside the building now, loading up his truck with shit he had been using all day, his tools, extra pieces of wood he had no use for at the minute and what not. his hands were beyond rough, calloused from daily use but that was the payoff for working with them carelessly. he couldn’t help but remember the feel of them on your ass, squeezing all night, sometimes dipping lower subconsciously just to hear you whine in your sleep.
fuck, he was half hard again just remembering it, but half annoyed recalling the way you had just left.
he was taken out of his thoughts when he looked to his right, just as you walked into the apartment complex, not seeing him, tears streaming down your face once more and shoulders sagging as though walking alone was too exhausting for you. he felt his chest break into tiny little pieces at the sight, it was enough to anger him for a completely different reason.
he was walking towards you before he could even rationalise it, a hand slipping over your waist within seconds and pushing your back straight into his chest, his bigger frame engulfing you. you let out a strangled gasp, looking down and visibly melting fully as you noticed the tattoos on his hand, letting out a quiet whimper.
“what happened?” jungkook immediately asked, the two of you stood in front of the building.
your tears wouldn’t stop streaming, your breathing already difficult as your bag dropped from your shoulder. your hands instantly went to cover your face, as you broke out into quiet sobs, body raking in his arms. the exhaustion had finally got to you.
your brain had broken.
jungkook didn’t waste any time. he grabbed you fully, picking you up with a single arm, to which you immediately hid your face in his neck, holding onto him as you ruined his uniform with your body shaking sobs. your bag was in his other hand whilst he made his way to his own apartment, not saying anything but simply allowing you to get the bulk of your emotions out, before walking in, and settling you down onto his couch.
“talk to me.” suddenly, you were in his lap, completely cradled by the older, bigger man as though you were a little baby, and your body moved closer in hopes of more comfort.
it took you a while until you were able to speak, holding the sleeves of his jacket desperately, his large hands on your back and cupping your legs to him. he was soothing you with his presence, patting gently to get you to calm down and soon enough you did, unable to look him in the eye, feeling embarrassed enough that you had done this two days in a row now.
“the guy from the diner came..came back and..” you breathed deeply through your hiccups, his forehead now against yours, making sure you could feel him. “told me he watches..the building..knows i walk home alone and, said he knows..said he knows people from the building.”
the more you recounted, the more restless you became as you began to sob once more, your hands covering your face again. his anger was beyond anything he could describe, he could feel it coursing through his veins as though it was part of his dna, the need to protect you stronger than every other emotion.
“look at me.” he managed to say, voice strangled, causing you to do exactly as he said, despite your shaking body.
“you’re not going back upstairs, you hear me? i’m gonna go get your things, and you’re staying here.”
you startled for a moment, eyes narrowing up at him in confusion. what did he mean?
“but that’s my apartment..”
“it’s a fucking shoebox with a busted lock.” he hissed.
“jungkook, i can’t just..” you shook your head, your shaking hands piled at his chest whilst he pulled you closer, nose nuzzling yours for just a moment to gather himself. “you can. what do you need from it, and i’ll grab shit.”
you shook your head, pushing him away lightly despite it being the last thing you wanted him to do, and he knew that. your hands were now tightening against the material of his jacket, tears streaming, eyes wide and head shaking.
“this is crazy. you don’t even know me and i don’t even know you.” you said through another half sob. “i can’t stay here, okay? you’ll get sick of me, and..and i’ll annoy you, or you’ll wake up, and..and you’re gonna..you’re gonna decide it was a mistake and i..”
he simply stared at you, eyes narrowing dangerously. if he had felt anger at the situation before, now it was beginning to direct at you.
he exhaled sharply. “stop.”
you let out another shaky sob at his command, head dropping to his shoulder, the confusion in your mind so clear. it wasn’t that you didn’t want it, but you didn’t feel worthy of it. all you had ever known was abuse, from the moment you were born until this very second - happiness was foreign to you, a notion you truly believed wasn’t in the cards for you, and to have someone openly wish to shelter you felt confusing.
“i’ll bother you, i know it.” the voice in which you admitted your darkest fear had him tightening his grip on you.
suddenly, your positions had changed. you were no longer on his lap, cradled, but instead, on your back laid on the couch, with your hands positioned above your head and jungkook’s entire body hovering over you. he was rendering you useless, and you couldn’t bring yourself to fight it.
“listen to me, y/n.” his eyes were dark. “i work all day, like a fucking dog, breakin’ my back doing all this shit, fucking my body up. you think i do that for fun?”
you shook your head in a little no, still crying.
“got all this money, got a nice job, stopped doing all that bad work that gets me in trouble, no back door shit. do it so when i got myself a lady, she rests good, you hear me?” his voice was rough, almost mean. “so she don’t have to lift a fucking finger a day in her life.”
your chest tightened at the notion, and a subconscious part of you screamed inside, begging to be the very woman he was discussing; yearning.
“you move here, and you do nothing. don’t want you working, don’t want you doing anything other than lookin’ pretty. don’t want a single thought in that brain ever again, unless it’s when i take you out, or when you want something.”
his head pressed against yours, the conviction behind his voice causing you to quiver. you had stopped sobbing now, reduced to silent tears that continued to stream, your cute nose all pink and the fucked up part of him was fighting the fact his cock was hardening at the sight.
“i’m gonna go upstairs, gonna get your shit, and you don’t do nothing, understand me? don’t think about rent, or food, or sleep - you don’t stress about nothing no more.”
“but why?” you asked through a shaky breath, sucking in air as you hiccuped, a pool of wetness forming on either side of your head from how much you were crying. “you don’t even get anything out of it.”
he doesn’t hesitate. “i get you.”
at that, a strangled noise left you, your eyes shutting tightly as your heart thudded harshly in your chest. he wanted you? truly? even without the frills, even without you being able to offer anything real, or tangible?
“i get to take care of you, spend my money on you, get you in my bed every night where you can’t run off before i wake up.” he grunted down at you, grabbing one of your hands from above your head and pressing it firmly against the growing bulge in his work trousers. “you feel that? feel how fucking hard i get just thinking about it, baby?”
you nodded through your sniffles, hiccuping a few times as your hand gently massaged his cock, the layers of clothing dulling the sensation but it was enough to have him press his head against yours once more, cooing at you. his hand slid on top of your own, pushing it harder, and despite the action being intensely sexual, it felt intimate more than anything.
“couldn’t get bored of you, wouldn’t ever. look at you..fuck. were meant to be spoilt, not built to be working out there and stressin’. need to lock you up here so you never worry again.”
again, you nodded, more desperate, whining out for him as both of your hands interlocked with his. the one above your head, sweet and reassuring, and the other, massaging his cock, demanding and grounding. you were his, and it was only then that you realised it - strangers or not.
the next hour was spent with you washing up in the bathroom, having the longest shower of your life, crying all of the remnants of your emotions out whilst jungkook went upstairs, grabbing your things. considering your situation, it took him no longer than ten minutes, something deep pinging in his stomach knowing you had never even tasted luxury. he’d change that.
by the time he had come back down, he was settling your things into your now shared room, watching as you shuffled out in another one of his t-shirts, wet hair, big teary eyes and an unsure demeanour. he took his time with you then, arm around your waist so you could watch him work, putting things away like it was second nature.
he left you curled up all nice and warm on the couch, blankets covering you whilst he gave you the remote, urging you to watch something. he had shit to do.
first, he was going to cancel your lease and threaten your landlord.
second? he was going to fuck up the man who had scared you.
—
two weeks.
two weeks of living a life you were sure was never supposed to be yours.
from sleeping as much as you wanted, and eating whatever your heart desired, jungkook was spoiling you rotten. the glee in his eyes every time he could see a small smile form on your face was enough to render you a mess.
you’d wake every morning flush to his chest, with your bodies pressed together intimately, his hard cock poking against your own panties in a way that had you breathless. on one occasion, you had woken up to find yourself all but grinding against him, only aware of it once you realised you were orgasming, causing your cheeks to flush a deep plum.
he fucking loved it. finally, everything made sense, his life has purpose, tangible purpose. the sight of you on his couch, resting on your stomach with your bare ass to the door just as he would walk into the apartment was enough to drive him insane - it was the sight he’d masturbate to daily. he didn’t want to push you, he was enough of a gentleman to know it wasn’t right to push his needs on you, and he was trying. god knew he had put every bit of his restraint into his situation.
you were both dancing a fine line of evident need and want, yet one couldn’t admit it to themselves and the other didn’t want to push.
the first night was the moment you realised that jungkook wasn’t any ordinary man. all of the kindness aside, it was when you awoke from the nap on his couch to him walking back into the apartment that you realised he was indeed every bit of the man you wanted.
bloody knuckles, and a slight bruise already forming on his cheek, he had walked over to you and pressed a kiss to your forehead, telling you everything was now taken care of. your rent, the piece of shit that had been scaring you, hell, even your nasty manager who made it a habit to be rude to you.
you had washed his knuckles yourself, sniffling away your tears whilst apologising for being so weepy. he simply nuzzled his nose into your forehead, grunting something about how he liked it. liked how you wore your emotions openly and how honest you were about your feelings. it felt refreshing.
after that, he made it a habit to break any wandering thought left in your brain. he’d wake up to you all curled into his body, making him leave kisses all over your hands and cheeks whilst you slept, leaving you to go to work. he’d think about you the entire day, only to return to you with different boxes of food for you to try so you could find out what your favourite cuisines were.
in two weeks, jungkook made you feel more seen and recognised than you had ever felt in the past 24 years.
you still felt awfully shy in his presence. just yesterday, he had taken you out shopping, your hand tucked gently into his arm as you both walked up and down the high street. you shook your head vehemently as he tried to get you to go into the expensive, designer shops, your heart practically failing out of guilt just thinking about it.
“buy what you want.” he’d say to you, or, “don’t look at the price.”
you had once done so, picking out a lipstick marginally cheaper than the ones you could see in hopes that it would satiate him. he saw right through it, his eyes narrowing down at you as you shuffled from foot to foot, unable to meet his gaze.
“don’t annoy me. get something good.”
and so, you’d leave with bags upon bags of things, with flushed cheeks and a thundering heart.
his favourite shop, obviously, was victoria secret. you had clung to him almost desperately out of shyness, often hiding your face in his chest whenever he’d hold up a pair that he thought were nice. he let you browse, watching you shakily pick out a pair or two before you peered up at him, large eyes shining.
“which ones do you like?” you had whispered, so sweet, so inviting that he swore he could have came right then and there.
his arm around your waist tightened as he looked down at you, jaw clenched slightly at the way you had asked him. maybe it was the genuine curiosity that stemmed from you that had him guiding you to a cute, lacy pink pair. he bought them for you immediately, leaving you a flushing mess.
going home, eating together, curled together as you watched things, his legs spread wide whilst he played with your hair. it felt domestic. it felt freeing, and frankly, it felt like everything you had ever prayed for. something in the back of your mind screamed at you, reminding you that you still didn’t know enough about him, that he was no more than just a random man a month ago and yet here you were.
and so, here you sat, at the dining table with your legs crossed. it was 2pm, so jungkook was well within his work day, leaving you at home with a racing mind and shaking hands. you wanted to do something for him, something to show him just how grateful you were for all of the kindness he had bestowed upon you.
you grabbed your phone, embarrassment heavy in your chest as you began searching in anything that came to mind.
‘how to keep a man happy’
you frowned at the results, not finding anything that applied to jungkook in particular.
‘how to be a good girlfriend’
you flushed furiously writing that one out, but you knew it was the closest equivalent to the relationship you had with him. even then, all the results catered to people that didn’t align with jungkook’s personality. you sighed.
‘how to please a man that takes care of you’
now this, this was different. you sat up, seeing multiple different hits but the one thing you kept seeing over and over was the same line. you shuffled in anticipation, eyes reading it continuously, biting down on your lip.
“keep his stomach fed, and his balls empty.” you whispered out loud, repeating what you had read.
your cheeks flamed red as you shut your phone, setting it down like you had an audience around you, feeling a level of embarrassment creep up your neck. that..that felt fitting. you knew he loved his food, was always eating with a can of beer whenever he got a chance.
you also knew him to be hard nearly every instance he got. you weren’t an idiot, you had felt it against you to know that you probably couldn’t take him fully without prep, but the thought had your eyes shutting tight, a small whine leaving you - you wanted him just as bad.
soon enough, you had decided on your plan of action. you got changed, grabbing the card jungkook had given you and quickly made your way to the grocery store, hand shaking around your phone as you searched in popular dishes. you figured a steak would do, since you knew most men enjoyed meat, despite knowing you had never really cooked before.
you stood in front of the meat section hopelessly, shyly asking the workers there a million questions until a lovely older lady walked you around the shop, telling you how to prepare it, what ingredients to use, pushing you to purchase the more expensive options as ‘you could taste it in every bite.’
waddling home, you steadied yourself as you put everything in the kitchen, wrapping your new apron around you tight. you were determined. you wouldn’t fail, not when this was for jungkook, not when he had done so much for you.
hours had passed, and you were finishing up the last details of the dinner. the table had been set, with candles and plates positioned in a way you had seen in a youtube video. you had his favourite beer chilled and ready, even going the extra mile to have a shower, do your hair and makeup using the products he had bought you. you still had your apron on, knowing he’d love the sight of the cute frilly material around you.
your hair was clipped behind your head as you heard the door unlock, causing you to squeak quietly, gathering everything together as quickly as you could.
jungkook had had the longest day of his entire existence. from clients taking the piss, to fixing rushed jobs from other men in the industry. he had even had a phone call from an old friend, asking to stash some cash - it came with a hefty profit, but he had to decline, despite it souring the relationship. he had his girl waiting back home for him, and he had to make sure he was on the right track. no more illegal shit, no matter what that meant for the legacy he had built in his twenties.
walking inside his home, only to find you nervously smiling at him, was enough to take the wind out of his lungs. looking down, however, and seeing the full home cooked spread, was enough to have a man like him on his knees.
“hi..” you shyly grinned, hands shuffling.
“what’s this?” he asked, putting his tools down, uniform heavy as he approached you.
the sound of his keys dropping on the dish you had placed by the entrance made you jump slightly, as you nibbled away on your lip. he approached you, standing in front of you, eyes never leaving your own.
“i just..you do so much for me and, i’m so grateful and i wanna take care of you too.” your voice was no louder than a whisper, almost flushed at the admission as you immediately reached for his jacket, playing with the buttons, peering up at him. “it’s okay if you don’t like it, i just thought it would be nice for you to have something home cooked.”
he grunted, deep from his chest as his face fell into the space between your neck and shoulder, breathing in your scent. his hands were roaming all over your stomach, your hips, your waist, a soft giggle finding its way out of your lips at his reaction. it made you giddy to think he was enjoying this.
“you cooked all this?” he asked, walking towards the table, dragging you along with him, to which you lightly bounced, nodding. “went to the shops, and asked the nice lady and she told me what to get and she said that you’d like steak and she showed me what video to follow-“ you rambled.
he was enamoured by you, taking a seat at the head of the table, where you had positioned all of his plates. instead of moving towards your own seat, he grabbed your waist once more and pulled you firmly until you fell into his lap, your tiny dress doing little to provide modesty as you curled into him.
you watched him intently cut a piece, big eyes peering at him as he took a bite.
“you really made this?” he asked you, hand harsh on your thigh.
you offered him a shy nod, anxiety swirling in your stomach. it was okay if he didn’t like it, but the thought made you want to weep - this was supposed to be all for him. you didn’t want to mess it up.
“good girl.” he murmured, before cutting up a piece for you, watching as you ate from the same fork, a look of pure glee across your face.
his words had you leaning into him properly as you both ate, his grunts of approval worth a million words as you recounted how you cooked it, all whilst he listened carefully and ate. you truly couldn’t have been happier with yourself, your fingers curling into the hair behind his neck.
he had finished his plate, but was now properly feeding you, and despite a shake of your head, was making sure you finished your plate. the two of you sat in silence for a few minutes, your arms around him and his around yours, breathing in one another’s scent.
he was so manly all over, the faint smell of sweat alongside his cologne and skin was intoxicating and you wanted it ingrained in your mind forever.
“well done.” he murmured down at you, soft for a change, causing you to look up.
the smile that formed on your lips was enough for him to dedicate his entire life to praising you, wanting to see it every single day for the rest of his life. he couldn’t fathom how lucky he was to have the object of his desires all pretty, in a cute apron and dress; cooking for him, just so he’d feel good. fuck.
“i’m happy you liked it.” you admitted in a small voice. “i really wanted to make it good for you.”
“you don’t have to do anything, y/n.”
“i know, you always say that but i just..i wanna, okay?” you shook your head, nibbling away at your lip once again.
his thumb darted out, capturing your lip and releasing it from your teeth. god, he couldn’t get enough of how cute you were, looking up at him like that. his thumb pushed against your lips for a moment, letting it sit on your tongue, watching the way you wrapped your mouth around it.
the moment was gone within a second as he pulled back, a sudden look on his face you couldn’t decipher. before you could ponder on it, his lips finally connected with your own.
kissing jungkook was unlike anything you had ever expected. you knew him to be dominant, direct and manly, but this? he was all but devouring you. it wasn’t gentle like first kisses often tended to be, but demanding - rough. his lips moved against yours like he owned you, and you deflated immediately, letting him do whatever he wanted to you. your hands were in his hair, tugging him closer, your legs moving around him to now straddle instead of just sitting.
the second his tongue began exploring your mouth, you couldn’t hold back the moans.
he kissed like a man starved, his hands running up and down your body, cupping your ass, your breasts, before settling on your waist, chasing you every time you pulled away for breath.
by the time you had fully managed to depart from his lips, you were panting, eyes lidded and heart beating faster than you could keep up with. your hands slid from his hair down to his chest, as he captured your lips in small pecks.
jungkook could feel the day washing off of him. the dinner, your excitement, the kiss - fuck, even the thought of you paying for all of the things you wanted at the grocery shop with his card. he was visibly melting, more relaxed than he’d allowed himself to be in years and it was a sight for you too.
“go shower.” you whispered lightly to him, pecking his lips. “i’m gonna clean up.”
he simply nodded, capturing your lips in another heavy kiss that lasted far too long before letting out a grunt, setting you on your feet, and heading to the bathroom.
you stood there for a moment, eyes fluttering closed and breathing out through your nose.
god, you were so fucked.
—
later that evening, jungkook sat in front of the tv, legs spread, a can of beer in hand and the game playing loudly. he was the picture perfect image of relaxation, in a pair of sweats and a white tank, his hair still wet from his earlier shower, he truly didn’t think life could get better than this. he had jumped you the second he had gotten out, smothering you in as many kisses as he could get in before you started pushing him away, flushed pink and giddy.
his cock had been straining against his sweats for hours.
you, however, were a slight nervous wreck.
you stood near the edge of your now shared bed, nibbling away on your lip as you looked at yourself in the mirror. you had showered yourself, dried your hair, even did your makeup really nice. you were in a tank and tiny little cotton shorts, but underneath? the pink underwear he had bought you.
your only objective tonight was to make him cum.
a shaky breath left you as you ran your hand through your hair, making sure you looked okay. you wanted to make him feel good, wanted it more than anything else in the world, and you knew that once you started, the door would be wide open and your relationship would completely change.
you weren’t sure how many more times you could withstand the feeling of not quite being able to satisfy yourself. being home alone for most days, waiting for him to return with the thought of him heavy on your mind and mouth, trying to keep your hands out of the space inbetween your legs was impossible.
waking up to his boner pressing into you? unfair.
you knew he wanted this badly, maybe even more than you did, but he wasn’t about to push that on you given your strange dynamic. luckily for him, you were heeding the internet’s advice - you had fed him, now you were ready to drain his balls.
and so, you walked into the living room, his eyes completely trained on the tv as you sat beside him on the couch, not looking up at you. his hand, however, sat high on your bare thigh immediately, all whilst his cock strained against his clothes.
you glanced at him from the corner of your eye, noticing him taking a swig of his beer, attention entirely on the game playing, easing your nerves massively. you shifted, his hand dropping from your thigh as you began your plan of action.
jungkook finally looked at you, only to catch you pulling your hair up into a ponytail. he would have thought nothing of it had it not been for your outfit, your pretty lipstick, the way you looked like you were ready to be fucking used. his lips parted as he watched you drop to your knees in front of him, innocent eyes no longer feeling as naive as he once thought.
before he could even say anything, your smaller hands began reaching for his waistband, fingers hooking until you were able to push them down enough for his fat cock to spring free.
he watched you gasp. watched you take in his length and girth, a fucked up part of his brain eager to break you finally as you blinked away your visible fear. he wasn’t just big, he was monstrous. the type of cock to break you from the inside, the type to hurt and make you sore for days. the type that had you moaning just at the sight of it.
your hand finally wrapped around it, although your fingers didn’t touch and that alone had your head dropping to his thigh, mouth already drooling.
“so pretty.” you whimpered up at him, causing him to jolt in your grip, a low grunt filling the air. “gonna break yourself trying to make it fit in your mouth.” he nudged your chin with his fingers, his words condescending but they only made you wetter.
a surge of confidence ran through you as you huffed up at him, tongue laying flat as you let his cock tap against it a few times, licking up all the salted beads of precum. soon enough, you were suckling at his tip, moaning and circling your tongue.
his hand shot to the back of your head with a loud curse, his eyes closed. he hadn’t had anyone warming his bed in months upon months, and now that he had you, he knew no one else would ever be good enough.
watching you finally begin to suck and bob your head was enough to have him pushing down your head, forcing you to accommodate another inch or two. it made you gag, but the wet patch forming on your shorts was proof enough you liked it. your hands pumped the rest of his cock in unison as you eagerly sucked, whimpering against the most sensitive part of him.
“fuck, look at you.” he hissed out loud, continuing to bob your head. “wanted this from day one, didn’t you?”
you parted from his cock for air, gasping lightly as you pumped him faster, nodding despite already feeling lightheaded. god, jungkook had barely begun and you were already so needy - he yearned to know what you’d be like once he finally impaled you fully.
“wanted it so bad.” you admitted through a small voice, eyes never leaving his as you tapped his cock onto your tongue again a few times before opening your mouth and starting it again.
this time, jungkook pushed your head down further and further, watching his cock disappear down your throat until you couldn’t take anymore, pulling off for breath once more, your shattered gasps and gulps enough for him to cup your cheek.
“that’s my girl, look at you.” his coos were hardly sweet, with a clear edge to them as you bounced your head up and down, sucking him with all of your energy. he swore, throwing his head back. “should’ve done this a long time ago. look how good you look choking on me.”
your legs were quivering with want, wanting nothing more than to play with your clit in that moment but focusing on him regardless. jungkook was already close, and as much as he wanted to paint your throat in his cum, he had no intentions of cumming anywhere other than your fucking womb.
suddenly; his hands on your head were pulling at your hair, forcing you off of his cock as you panted for air, chest rising and falling. your lips were covered in spit, and yet you looked like a vision made just for him, his cock tweaking at the sight of you.
he forced you to get up, which you happily did, falling onto the couch beside him as he grabbed onto your legs, hand grabbing your shorts and harshly pulling them down only to be met with the pink lacy set he had been thinking of all day.
his silence was met with a shaky giggle from as you spread your legs once more, your panties absolutely soaked through, and yet you wanted more.
“i hope you like them.” you hummed, as he began to hover over you. “wanted to wear them for you.”
“yeah?” he groaned quietly, fingers tracing the shape of your pussy through them. “fuck, you’re tiny. i’m gonna break you, you know that?”
“promise?” you whispered back, causing his eyes to flicker back to you, his cock jolting.
you were a secret minx.
his lips were on yours within seconds, tasting himself on your tongue as he devoured you, moving against you with utter ease. instead of taking your panties off, he simply moved them to the side, pulling your tank down to reveal your tits spilling out of your matching lacy bra. pink was a colour he wanted you in every waking moment, you looked better than he could have ever imagined.
his hand was on you immediately, fingers rubbing away at your clit causing you to whimper at the feel of relief finally. you were wound up so tight anyway, to have someone touching you after so so long was a feeling you had forgotten. to be touched by jungkook was a whole other ballpark.
you both moaned into each other’s mouths as your hand began to pump him, bodies moving in unison as you focused on pleasuring one another. it only took a few minutes for you to succumb to your first orgasm, loud moans leaving your lips as you shook in his arms.
he watched you hungrily, his brain chemistry changing before for your very eyes.
this is what you looked like cumming.
oh. how had he lived? how had he survived a life without your face scrunching up, whining out his name so pathetically, legs shaking around him whilst your hand only gripped him tighter.
it wasn’t enough, though. never. he allowed you a moment or two of rest before circling your clit once more, watching you jostle in overstimulation. his fingers were inside you without any prior warning, pumping as he heard you whine loudly.
“j-jungkook!” you shrieked, hand falling from his aching cock as you grabbed onto his shoulders, grounding yourself.
“fuck, there you go. c’mon.” he was hissing down at you, fingering you deep, bigger than anything you had taken in a while.
the stretch was delicious, and you already felt so full - you couldn’t even fathom being fucked by his cock, but the thought had your hips lifting for more.
jungkook coaxed two more orgasms out of you just like that, leaving you a shaky and dazed mess, before removing his fingers, sucking on them with a loud grunt. he went to move inbetween your legs, to make good work of the slick dripping from you only to be stopped by your smaller hands.
“want you.” you whimpered with a shake of your head. “don’t wanna wait anymore.”
“need to stretch you baby, you’re still tight.” he shook his head back at you, grabbing your legs and pulling you closer.
“no.” you huffed, voice suddenly bratty. “you said you’d give me anything i want..”
he closed his eyes at that, cock throbbing. fuck, you already knew his weak spots, and he had every intention of making you feel it just as deeply as he could. he departed from you entirely, leaning back, pulling you up by your arms firmly.
“get on the bed.” he simply uttered to you, voice dark. he was so firm, so direct - his words sat in your stomach as you shakily did exactly that, leaning on the walls as you wobbled your way over.
even in moments of heightened passion, he couldn’t get over how tooth achingly sweet you were.
you laid on the bed, head plush on your shared pillows as you managed to catch your breath. jungkook walked in, hair a mess, shoulders sore from the scratches you had left behind, cock hard and against his stomach as he approached. neither of you could look away from one another, as he grabbed your hips and yanked you down closer to him, hovering over you immediately.
“give me a kiss.” he hushed down at you, causing you to lean up, pressing a sweet peck to his lips. you were so cute to him.
he lined himself up with you, rubbing his cock up and down, causing you to whine, the size of him against you already addicting. soon, he started to push in, the tip of his cock already stretching you wider than anything you had ever taken.
jungkook hovering over you, his arms caging you in other side of your head as he pushed deeper, deeper and deeper. you could feel your thighs quivering, your wide eyes shutting tight as you felt you couldn’t breathe by the time he was half way in. he wasn’t fairing any better. this was out of his wildest dreams, panting on top of you, cooing down at you.
“my good girl, so so good to me. look at you taking it so well. were born to take me, weren’t you baby?” he cooed down, causing you to whimper as you could feel the familiar sting of tears forming in your eyes.
you nodded, sucking in a shaky breath as your arms wrapped around his neck. “s-so big.”
he hissed as he continued to push inside, managing to fit his entire length in after multiple minutes. you were breathing deeply, chest rising and falling as jungkook waited for you to settle down, watching the way your stomach bulged from the intrusion.
“you can take it.” he assured, hand pressing down on your stomach, against the bulge causing you to shriek loudly, eyes closing tight again. tears were beginning to stream, and he could feel himself getting harder.
“you c-can..can move.” you whimpered out.
with seconds, jungkook began to thrust.
if you thought you had experienced pleasure before, you were sorely mistaken.
you knew then that nothing would ever feel like this, nothing could compete or compare - this was everything your body has subconsciously craved for years, given to you by the much older, stranger who had taken you in for his own.
the pain was overshadowed by the thrill and pleasure, his deep thrusts hitting a sponge part of you that was already pulling you closer and closer to the edge. your tears were streaming as he rested his head against your own.
“needed this from you, baby. been thinking about you for so long, you know that?” he grunted out loud. “now you’re all mine..all mine to fuck.”
“yours..all y-yours, kook.” you nodded vigorously, hands pulling at his hair. “feel so big.”
he hid his face in your neck as his pace began to quicken, causing you to borderline scream out his name. you didn’t care who could hear you, the feeling of being pounded into by a cock too big for you euphoric. he couldn’t get enough of you, the taste of your skin on his tongue as he sucked on your neck, leaving heavy hickeys to mark you for the entire world to see.
you couldn’t hold back on the sobs, crying out from the overstimulation; the pleasure, the stinging pain. it was too much and not enough, at one point finding yourself even beating your fists against his chest, only causing him to fuck you harder.
soon enough, jungkook flipped you around, so you were on your stomach, his chest pressing harshly on your back. you could barely move in this position, couldn’t breathe very well either, merely forced to endure the pleasure of jungkook taking care of you. your shallow breaths alongside the chant of his name were like music to his ears, as he kissed and bit on your shoulders.
“my girl. gonna make you my wife, you know that?” he promised down at you, pounding at this point.
“don’t..say that.” you gasped loudly, his words making you clench harshly around his cock, clearly liking it far too much than you wanted to admit.
you had been in house for two weeks and yet the thought of this treatment for life, belonging to jungkook for the rest of your days, was enough to make you sob in joy. your cheek was smushed into the pillow, as you grabbed onto the sheets for life, only for him to intertwine his fingers with your own from behind.
“you like that, huh..” he let out a small laugh. “wanna be my wife, pretty girl? wanna be mrs jeon?”
you were clenching uncontrollably, only edging him closer to his own orgasm.
“fuck..just like that.” he grunted. “gonna wake up to a ring on your finger one of these days. don’t give a fuck that it’s too soon, gotta make sure you get what this is.” he was picking your body up from the bed, your ass in the air suddenly as his thrusts only got more brutal. “you belong to me, you understand? every part of you, all mine.”
“wan’it.” you admitted, through a small sob. “wanna be your wife, kookie, want it so so bad.”
“yeah?” he closed his eyes at your admission. “god. need to get you a house, make sure you decorate it just how you like. gotta spoil you like my wife deserves.”
you were seeing stars, the sound of skin slapping against skin louder than either of your whines, moans or sobs. he slid one of his hands down, circling your clit once more despite the fact you were already a bundle of over sensitivity.
at that, you squealed loudly.
“gonna cum soon, gonna fill this pussy up just like you deserve. get you all nice and round for me.” his words cut through you like a knife, causing you to lose your breath.
“please, please, please.” you begged, through harsh sobs. “cum inside, kookie, please, wanna have your baby.”
you couldn’t take it any longer. the movement of his fingers, the harshness of cock, the way you could feel his entire weight on your much smaller body - you could hardly breathe as your orgasm hit you like a freight train, rendering you useless.
you completely blacked out, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you choked lightly, only causing jungkook to orgasm himself. he buried himself deep inside you with a final thrust, feeling you clench and milk him for all that he had.
the shared orgasm was unlike anything you had ever experienced before. it felt the closest to euphoria you’d ever felt, and you knew the feeling was mutual with the way the usually stoic, manly man on top of you was moaning into your shoulder, fucking you both through your orgasms.
he settled on top of you for a solid minute, still inside of you, repositioning you so you could breathe freely. he was breathing in your scent, his shoulders sagging as though the full stress of the day had finally escaped you. it was like he could breathe again, having bared his entire soul to you mid thrust only for it to be reciprocated in the filthiest of ways.
your eyes remained closed, even after he pulled out, and pushed his cum back into you with his fingers, secretly praying it would stick. you were a panting, dazed mess as he picked you up and took you to the bathroom, drawing you a bath all the whilst holding you firmly into his arms, not letting you worry about a single thing.
and once you were settled in, warm bubble coated water surrounding you as you nuzzled deeper and deeper into jungkook’s chest, only then did you open your eyes, meeting his gaze with parted lips.
“did you mean it?” you whispered quietly, almost afraid of his answer.
he didn’t respond to you at first. instead, he brushed a wet thumb over your cheek, watching the way you nuzzled into his cheek gently. he was were enamoured by you, both body and soul, and if he was a man of words, he would have professed his feelings for you grandly. alas, he was not, so instead, he did the next best thing.
jungkook took a hold of your left hand, easing it to his lips and planting a sweet kiss to your ring finger, right where he promised he would decorate it with jewellery soon.
he meant every fucking word.
—
three months had passed and welcomed pure bliss into your life. you knew that life with jungkook was a pleasure in itself, but from moving into a completely new home, one he had put under your name as a testimony of his love for you, to the ridiculously expensive gifts he would come home with each and every day. you were living a reality that you couldn’t have ever dreamt would belong to you.
you looked healthier - from your long hair to your flushed cheeks, your eyes brighter and your ribcage no longer poking out. you were head over heels in love with the man who had claimed you for his own like a modern day stalker, and yet you had never felt so sure of your safety.
jungkook loved in a way that was visible, not explicit. he wasn’t one to tell you those three words, instead opting to show you any change he would get, something that had you weeping constantly out of pure joy. something he couldn’t ever get over.
you liked the dynamic you had built for each other too. you got to play house, spending all of your time being domestic, cooking meals, trying new recipes, baking, adding furnishings to the home, making it completely and entirely your own whilst he went out and worked. he was a manual labour kind of guy, coming home with sweat lined skin and grease all over him, but that only made you want him so much more.
to know he worked so hard just to provide the picture perfect life for you had you riding him most nights, giving him the love he bestowed upon you in the best possible way you knew how. through milking his cock until his cum sat deep in your womb, a favourite pastime for you both.
even now, you were stood in your kitchen, phone in hand as you read the text jungkook had sent to you only moments prior. he never texted. ever.
your stomach flipped as you reread it over and over, trying to decipher the meaning for the text, instead of him calling you, your head tilted as your stomach sat doing somersaults.
‘don’t cook. bringing you something home.’
seemed innocent enough, but this was your man. you knew him intimately in a way many could only ever dream of - he was up to no good, you were sure of it.
you stared at the screen longer than you needed to, chewing on your bottom lip, bare feet cold against the kitchen tile. the apartment was quiet, save from the soft music playing from your tv, warm lighting dancing around your shared space whilst the low hum of the city rumbled through the walls.
you were already cooking. of course you were.
you liked when he came home to food, a visual manifestation of the fact you had been waiting for him to arrive - a kiss to his soul that told him directly that you wanted him to know you were thinking of him.
regardless, you turned the stove off, forever obedient to your older boyfriend.
you were in a matching loungewear set, soft and pink, his favourite duo as the shorts barely covered your ass, your breasts bulging out of the low cut t-shirt thanks to the pretty bra you were wearing. your hair remained damp from your shower, clipped up and out of your face, skin soft and flushed.
you checked the time.
like clockwork, the door began to open, making you look up, smoothening the strands around your face. after all the moments spent together, you still felt so incredibly shy in his presence, something he would never get over.
his footsteps were heavy down the hallway, weight against hardwood, announcing his presence with every creak of the floor. the air changed the second he stepped inside of kitchen, as though the temperature warped to accommodate him and him alone.
he shut the door behind him with his foot, looking you up and down hungrily as he placed a brown bag on the dining table unceremoniously.
“you eat?”
his voice was rough from the day.
you shook your head gently. “no..waited for you.”
he glanced at the stove, noticing the cooling pan and your sheepish little smile. he tilted his head.
“told you not to cook.”
“i turned it off.” you murmured just as he grunted softly. you walked over to him, helping him out of his work jacket; watching as his veins protruded from his arms, making you trace them immediately as a small habit.
you peered up, standing on your tip toes to plant a soft peck to his lips, with blazing cheeks that flushed too pink for the occasion.
he watched you for another instance, enamoured by you as per usual but there was something unreadable in his gaze. something darker, something raw that had been left untouched for too long, like a glass of water finally over spilling after being continuously poured into. you tilted your head at him gently.
you barely noticed it at first, too busy maintaining the intense eye contact, but jungkook reached into his pocket, grabbing something.
you watched as he placed something on the counter inbetween you.
something small.
velvet.
square.
the world suddenly fell completely silent as your eyes fell on it, your mouth completely drying up as your hands travelled up to your mouth. your breath had caught so sharply it left an ache in your chest.
your pulse thrummed harshly in your fingertips as you stared, and stared and stared, unable to bring yourself to open what you assumed was insane, unable to fathom this was a reality.
jungkook didn’t say anything for a few moments, before looking down at you, observing your reaction.
“open it.”
your eyes snapped up to him, finally.
“..what?”
his jaw shifted slightly. amused. “you know what it is.”
you do. of course you did, but it felt too big to say out loud. your fingers hovered over the box, desperate to touch but almost unsure.
“you’re serious..” you whispered faintly. it wasn’t doubt in your voice but absolute disbelief, like something you had only ever dreamt about was about to take place before your very eyes.
his eyes darkened at your tone. “i wouldn’t joke about shit like this.”
he stepped closer to you now, his chest touching the side of your body, caging you against the counter, his head dropping down so you could meet his gaze properly, without having to look up.
“you think i’ve been saying this for nothing?” he continued, voice low, rougher now. “you think i’m talking just to hear myself?”
you shook your head up at him, chest rising and falling as one of your hands gripped his shirt, hand on his hardened abs to ground yourself as you blinked tears away, trying to comprehend this was really happening.
“open it.” he nudged his nose towards the box, eyes trained on you intensely as your hand finally reached out to hold it, letting out a shaky breath.
opening it up caused you to let out a soft whimper, something that had your knees almost buckling.
the light of the kitchen caught on the heavy diamond sat comfortably in the box, a vision of both taste and money - it didn’t take a jeweller to tell you that this ring was worth more than every pay check you had ever gotten. there was nothing delicate or dainty about it, he wanted you to wear the best of the best and this was exactly that.
you pressed your fingers to your lips as you tried to control your breathing, looking up to meet his gaze through a teary gaze that he was already devouring. you were such a crybaby, and he fucking loved it - you cried over everything and anything, with the only remedy being himself.
“you like it.” he murmured, fingers pressing into your waist to ground you, voice certain.
you nod rapidly, letting out a shaky, teary exhale. “kookie, it’s so..it’s beautiful..”
“good.”
silence settled between you both again, but it sat thicker now. charged. your chest felt too tight, your stomach aching as you tried to keep your tears inside, all the whilst he began peppering your neck in kisses.
“you don’t have to-“ you started softly, tears beginning to stream. “i’m already yours, always.”
the words slip out before you could stop them, as you tried to stifle your sobs to no avail, hand shaking enough where you placed the box down onto the counter gently, too in awe of it to even comprehend it being real.
he stilled.
he stopped his kisses, leaning up to his full height before cupping your cheek with his hand, making your own head lean back to stare up at him. he swiped at your tears, humming lightly down at you. “yeah, you are.”
he took your fingers in his hold then, planting a sweet kiss to each finger, to your palm, to the tops. he took hold of the ring, feeling the weight of it for a moment before sliding it onto your finger slowly, letting you experience it first hand.
his calloused fingers were warm against your own, the size difference hitting you as it often did. it was the way in which it sat on your body, the weight of jungkook’s presence settling into your own and the love you both shared blatant and on display.
you were safe.
loved.
but more importantly? jungkook had chosen you, openly, directly, without fear of scrutinisation. he knew he was a man that moved fast, but it came with an understanding of exactly what he wanted.
you.
—
ahhhh!! handyman jungkook is finally here, thank you all for your patience - if this was something you enjoyed and you want to support me and my writing, here is my kofi <33
|| mr. jeon wasn't looking for a girlfriend when he hired you as a babysitter for his 5 year old son - however, he took a liking to seeing you in his own home, way more than he'd realized. (13k words)
content : age gap (31 & 22) , secretly down bad jungkook, mini slow burn, sensitive reader, teasing, jealousy moment, eventual smut (mention of m. masturbation, unprotected p in v, oral f. receiving, praise and degradation, edging, doggy, hair pulling, talking her thru it, small boobs appreciation, clit play ..), fluff, lwk mean dom kook, they want each other bad, reader has long hair, jungkook is kinda grumpy, themes of dom & sub faintly underlying
♡ bunny´s notes : dad jungkook is my fav trope ! i worked hard on ts,, lmk what u think (This took ages to write) >.< may contain typos or errors
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Life looks different twice a week.
On boring mondays and long wednesday evenings, you'd been making your way over to a neighbourhood that seemed far out of reach before, getting on a bus you'd never thought to ride. Lavish residences with blooming gardens line the streets of his district, among them, a rather dark looking, simple house; plain garden with a swing placed thoughtlessly right in the middle of the neglected front lawn, a broken porch light glowing whenever it felt enticed to.
Yet the herbal, earthy and simultaneously fruity scent of bonterra organic cabernet lingers in the air from what feels like a mile away. The artificial sweetness of your 16 euro body spray - notes of sugar and vanilla - create a mismatched harmony that infiltrates Mr. Jeon's home.
His son fell in love with you at the first meeting.
The puppy-like looking little boy had nannies on trial and error before - highly paid, recommended ones, the kind that have a linkedin, like all the other rich bastards in Jungkook’s circle have. While the first two's soft approach got the occasional giggle out of Jukyung, the following three, stricter ones, failed to do anything but make him cry and refuse to eat the meals they had spent so much time preparing. All of it seemed to make no sense since - he is by no means a difficult child to charm, proving equal habits by the time you came around. Hiding behind his dad’s leg and clinging his tiny hands to the cashmere pant, eyes wide and already glossy from glancing up at the fresh face in front of him.
Maybe that's why Jukyung came to adore you so quickly. Sweet faced and unmistakably younger than any of the other women his dad hired. Old enough to be old in his eyes - but young enough to know the shows he watches, recognize marvel superheroes and play the songs currently on the radio - when he repeats them with a jumbled melody and made up, Incoherent lyrics.
“He's a bit shy” Jungkook sighs, muttering as his fingers skim down the kid's tiny shoulders soothingly. You reply with a small hum, offering an inviting smile to him as you talk,
"That's okay. I'm sure we will get along. I'm – , nice to meet you Jukyung.”
He blinks slowly, the big doe eyes that match his dad's shine with childish excitement Jungkook lost somewhere along the way of becoming a man.
“Namjoon said you're good with brats like him” Jungkook continues, a curious glint in his serious gaze, his friend's judgement remaining under scrutiny.
“Mr. Kim?”
He nods, “He suggested you to me”. While adjusting his tie, he spares a quick look at the golden watch on his wrist.
“I hope you get along. Don’t hesitate to call me if there is an emergency.”
Jukyung pouts as he looks up to his dad, his iron man shirt bunched up in angry little grips of his hands. You stay quiet, listening to the serious tone in Jungkook's voice fade out into a parental gentleness, wiping the look off his son's face as he crouches down, giving him a kiss to the forehead and a reassuring pat on the head. “Appa is gonna be home in a couple hours. Be nice, okay?”
“Okay” he grumbles in return, almost managing to sound annoyed - if it wasn't for him nodding enthusiastically. The determination of his dad is wearing off on him even at this age.
Overall, the resemblance is striking, which is definitely why your eyes keep scanning over Jungkook's form. Noticing his full, pierced bottom lip, the slenderness of his fingers, the sharp contours of his jaw and round tip of his nose that looks exactly like his sons.
Jungkook also thinks his son is just like him.
The panorama window sits high above the rest of the city, his desk overlooks people scrambling for a taxi, kids leaving their school's building with a backpack that's almost bigger than their own body. The corner of his office desk is decorated with a frame holding a picture of his son on his third birthday, smiling at him. The assistant left long ago, the humming of the radio turned off with her departure, Jungkook always works in silence when he is in solitude. His mind was filled with enough noise.
Vibrations drumming against his desk snap him out of the deep focus read he was loosing himself in, his eyes feel dry from the screen's blue light that glowed continuously - picking up his buzzing phone, trading for a smaller blue light to stare at him.
A picture of Jukyung takes up his screen, a large wooden spoon clutched in his hand, his feet anchored to the stepper in order to reach their stovetop. From the caption, it reveals the orange hued, vegetable filled pan to be a coconut curry that his son has, supposedly, made all on his own.
He huffs in the memory of Jukyung attempting to help him with pajeon when it had rained two days ago - knowing from extensive experience that his five year old may be a talented boy, but certainly no chef.
The screen turns dark again, leaving a read notification on your end. Streetlights down the line start turning on their yellow glares, the sun’s glow replaced as it bids goodbye slowly, notifying him that it is time to go home soon.
“Appa!”
“You’re not sleeping yet?” he tuts, loosening his tie and pulling off his suit jacket that survived another day. Jukyung shakes his head, a mischievous look proudly displayed on his face.
“You should have put him to sleep” Jungkook says, looking over at the neatly cleaned kitchen. From his distance, he can make out a covered pan still filled with a generous portion of food.
“He has a set bedtime” he continues, brushing past you as you walk to the front door, picking up your shoes.
Up until now, you assumed to have done a good job with his son. He was quick to talk to you, engage - reluctantly - with your suggestions, his shy and guarded posture loosening into clumsy movements as time went by.
“Right, i’m sorry, i guess i forgot about it”
Your reply is timid, shoulders raised against your knowledge, voice lowering into a smaller, flowery tone. The coconut curry’s aromas fly their way from the kitchen into the rest of the house, lingering in the air like an apology.
“Next time then”
Next time - Jungkook wants you to come back for a next time. Satisfaction runs through you quietly, Jukyung’s sleepy face looking up at you as he waves goodbye,
“Yes, see you next time” you say, waving back at the two politely.
It’s even quieter in his home than it is in his office once his son has fallen asleep. There’s no loud clock ticking on a wall, no background of employees talking in the hallways or printers working.
But there is a warm, home cooked dinner, sitting on his stove for him to eat.
Upon lifting the pan’s cover, the scent gets stronger, delicious spice and freshness rise with the steam of the dish. Jungkook doesn’t recall the last time he came home to the warmth of someone else’s cooking. Since Jukyung was born, there might have been a day - once or twice - where someone was watching him and there was food left over for him to eat. A day or two, where he didn’t need to carry his tired hands to rummage through his cabinets after vast hours of working. It was always cold, he knows that for a fact.
It wasn’t the comfort of a hot meal, the embrace of a taste that was seasoned with care - the picture of Kyung stirring the curry flashes in his mind as he scoops another spoonful into his mouth. He groans, aware of the inevitable look of anger crossing his expression. Jukyung pointed it out to him a couple months ago, how he always looks mad when he likes the taste of something he’s eating.
The static rush of water running is the loudest one in his house as he rinses off the empty plate, even with the pressure turned up to it’s fullest - with the water splashing over the rim, wettening his underarm, the rhythmic beating of his heart sounds loudly within his ears.
It’s the last sound he hears before he goes to sleep, the last thing he feels when his eyes are closed and his body feels warm, even with the AC running in the background.
Mondays always brought giddyness into his home. Jukyung got to pick the movie for the night- which typically ended up being either ponyo or spiderman into the spiderverse. His matching spiderman socks glide against the wooden floor as he sprints towards the front door, where you're sliding into the cotton slippers Jungkook bought for you to wear on your visits.
“You're gonna hurt yourself Kyung” Jungkook calls out, walking up behind him in slower strides.
“Hey Kyungie” you greet while his giggle starts up your own. Freely letting it out, the smile lines craving your skin, the scrunch in your nose blooming. You're reaching to mess up his hair a little, as he peers into the large tote bag hanging from your hand, the coloring book you brought looks very tempting.
“Noona, you have one?” he gushes.
“Of course. Told you I would bring you one didn't I?”
Nodding, he looks at his father who's displaying a lighter version of the same grin he's got on his face.
“What do we say?” Jungkook raises an eyebrow, turning his expression into a playful look of strictness.
“Thank youuu” Jukyung sings, sporting another giggle. He probably never wanted his dad to leave the house this badly, the idea of filling out little bear drawings with you couldn't wait any longer.
"That's right” his dad retorts.
“Give that to me” he continues, grasping the handles of the bag with his hand and pulling it out of yours. He must've noticed how it looked filled to the brim, now setting it on his couch as you pour yourself a glass of water.
“You can leave your things here, no need to carry everything over and make hassle”
You set the glass down, smiling at him awkwardly. “You’ve been saying that for weeks”
“Exactly” he says, buttoning up his coat, “And you keep ignoring it”
“Most of it is my uni stuff, Kyung's been sleeping early lately”
"You're studying that late?” he asks, narrowing his gaze at you. You hum in confirmation, explaining that the exam you're about to write has been driving you crazy. “I just can't get the hang of his writing. You’re not secretly a kant lover, are you?”
Jungkook scoffs, shaking his head abruptly. Philosophy has never been his thing and probably will never be. His life lessons wouldn't have been avoided by knowing what some old man thought a thousand years ago, his business would not have grown to be any bigger either.
"Unfortunately not. My advice is to keep reading. You'll get it eventually”
“Stellar, Mr. Jeon” you say, watching him shut his eyes in response. Juykung's laugh sounds faintly in the back of the open living room, busying himself with the crayons he snuck out of your bag.
"There's money on the counter for food, I didn't have time to go grocery shopping”
You look over to the couch as you speak, purposefully raising your voice to get the kid’s attention.
“That’s okay. I was thinking of making pizza from scratch”
Jukyung's doe eyes widen at your suggestion - snapping towards you for the second time, his excitement spills over into the room, flooding it with infectious, childish happiness.
“Pizza, I love pizza. Appa never makes it”
You gasp loudly at the perfectly reasonable revelation, shaking your head at Jungkook with faux disappointment.
“Really? That's no good”
Jungkook, a bit caught off guard at his son's cheekiness though it should come to no surprise, crosses his arms over his chest as he defends himself with the excuses of that being untrue, that if Jukyung ate his vegetables, maybe he'd consider pizza more often.
Their back and forth grants a glimpse into the home the way nothing material ever could. His son's expensive backpack and cheap pokemon bodywash don't account for the late nights that he lets him crawl into his spacious bed, strokes his head and mumbles made up stories to get Jukyung to fall back asleep. Domestic bickerings of father and son that are too alike and yet, couldn't be more different.
Jungkook's face never looks more handsome than it does when he's with his kid, his smile only reaches his eyes in moments like this. It's a sight you felt privileged to, a sight you, admittedly, called back into your thoughts often.
“Noona always gets to be the nice one, isn't that a bit harsh on me?”
“No, no you aaare is nice too. But noona is so nice. Just like you said noona is...” he trails off, pursing his lips and really straining his thoughts. He's thinking hard, and the adults have to hold back a laugh at the deep frown in his brows, the angry purse of his lips. At least before you understand that he's trying to recall something Jungkook had said about you.
“That's enough” he cuts in, reaching his hand down to high five his son,
“Don't cause trouble”
The front door creaks open, turning back with a composed expression, he nods at you, stepping out of the house without another goodbye to spare.
The sun is high up in the sky even in the afternoon. Rays of light reflect on the metal slide tucked into the back of the playground, scorching and unusable on days like these. From the bench you're sitting on, next to moms spreading the newest affair stories coursing through the neighbourhood, Jukyung is in perfect view. Running around in the knee long denim shorts he begged you to let him wear - they look just like ones his dad has on when he's not in a suit, he said. Watching his short legs scramble around among the equally tiny ones of his two friends, you could make out that they must be playing catch - or something akin to it. His giggles are loud and his friends laughter bright, it felt impossible not to smile at the combined sound of it.
Jungkook spots you as he rounds the corner, his shortsleeved button down shirt and black jeans sticking out sorely in a crowd of floral dresses and lightly colored Tshirts. The low call of your name gets you to notice him taking a seat on the bench as well.
“Mr. Jeon, you're early”
“My meeting was cut short” he replies, facing the playground in search of his kid. You can tell the moment he spots Jukyung, the frown in his brows evening out, his upper back now rests against the bench in relaxation.
“Has he been good?”
“Of course. He's really energetic today” you chuckle, meeting his eyes that have shifted over to you. He huffs out a short laugh, “Yeah, Kyung loves this weather” he adds, seeing a strand of your hair swaying past your face in the breeze. You tuck it back in place, holding a hand up to see past the blaring sun.
Your words about the new show Jukyung started watching turn into background buzz for him as Jungkook's gaze wanders off to the side, trailing after a mother holding hands with her son as they make their way out. Heesung, the little boy and Soojin, his mother, live a block down from him. Kindergarden has caused their worlds to collide in more than one way - Jukyung frequents their home, Heesung and him play football in their yard - while Soojin sometimes laughs a tad too loudly at Jungkook's sarcastic remarks and accidentally goes to pick up her son in a shirt that might've been washed too hot. Watching her now, his expression doesn't change, his frown never returns as though there is nothing present to bother him. Maybe there wasn't, maybe he had five years to get used to being a single father, to this inner feeling of somehow taking something away from his son.
He pushes it back down, letting his thoughts run back to routine - when his next meeting starts tomorrow, what he'd be cooking for dinner later.
“Sounds like something he'd like” he states, unsure if that's even the case. “How was your exam?”
“Oh, it went well, I think. I'm just glad it's over now” you reply, sighing with the relief of long studies that have come to an end. The glimmer of initial surprise doesn't go unnoticed, he himself is a bit stunned he managed to remember anything outside of his own schedule.
“I was always stressed in uni. I'm sure you did a good job” he says, seeing the exhaustion behind the coralish blush and the concealer you wear daily.
You try not to visibly melt at the validation, it was like he could pick out on your underlying insecurity, your silent need for something as simple as reassurance - someone to tell you that you did well, as embarrassing as that is.
“It is stressful. I have a paper due next week and I haven't had time to start it”
Jungkook hums, "Shouldn't have come today. You never cancel” he mutters almost disapprovingly, the image Jukyung swinging next to his friend reflects in his eyes.
“I wanted to see Kyungie. Promised him we'd be going to the playground”
A subtle, sunny smile takes its place on your lips when it’s your turn to face the swings - just as he's pulled to look at you again, because as time went on, it's been becoming increasingly, infuriatingly difficult to stop himself from doing so. Reluctantly, he allows his focus to remain on the sheer softness he can make out by looking at your lips, the fondness painting your face in peace. Something compels him to mumble that you're too nice to his son, wishing for you to overhear. He knows you do hear him once that gentle smile turns into an actual chuckle again and suddenly, he is almost grateful that you did.
Jungkook also knows what classes you have on the days you watch Juykung, he knows that the dress you’re wearing is your favourite because his son said it makes you look like a pretty princess - and he knows that he tried his hardest to pretend that he does not know any of those things. Just like he ignores how you remembered to ask him about the marketing deal that'd been stressing him out lately and how you noticed that he fixed the porch light after months of putting it off.
“Seriously, how long was that thing flickering for, it would drive me crazy”
Jungkook snarls briefly, the way he does when his son is being a bit of a brat, before searching for the answer to your question in the back of his mind.
“I don't remember a time it ever worked. When Hyejin and i first moved in it was already like that”
Hyejin.
It wasn't like you'd never thought to ask. Never sat in their home looking for evidence of another parent - pictures where she'd be seen moving in the background or posing with him. The absence of a mother was impossibly evident, regardless, never making the home feel incomplete. Jukyung never asked complicated questions about his mother, never had a complaint about her working too much, like appa does, or why all the other kids had one to come home to. But there had to be one, gathering from that one time he asked you if your mother and you are still friends, he knows he has one too.
The first ten seconds after he says her name are silent, it's always like that when he does mention her to anyone, like a curse you weren't supposed to say out loud.
“She's..?”
“His mother” he finishes, the uncomfortably familiar tightening in his throat fails to climb all the way up to shake his stable reply, practice over the duration of five years does that to someone.
“I see. I've never heard you talk about her” you say awkwardly, only noticing how that sounded once the sentence is spoken, you open your mouth to stumble over words that tell him “It’s not like you have to, i just meant-”
"No need to get scared” he says, the rough laugh that follows makes a flash of heat go through your stomach and an embarrassed flush flood your system. His unshakeable calm and stupid, serene seriousness even whilst laughing - rattled you every single day since meeting him. It makes you nervous by default, to engage with someone that seems to have it all together. So unlike you, so unlike any of the men that you’ve come in contact with in university frats and hallways.
“It’s not like there's much to say, she didn't want to be in his life, so she isn’t”
Occasionally, fragments of life were really that plain. That easily explained, a history of grief, longing, hard work and separation summarized into a bite sized answer that accomplished as much answering as a question like that can be answered. The addition of her leaving Jungkook stranded at 26 with a newborn that, he now has to raise into a functioning human, didn't serve any purpose. The detail that they had just begun renovating the house was useless. Five years later, all that matters is that the world kept spinning, that Jukyung may not have a mother but he does have a father that loves him unconditionally. A father that's happy with the way things are, for the better.
The simple answer sunk in and now, it didn't matter to you either, insignificant how's and why's vanished because of how hollow it felt to look into a story that ended in a content little boy.
“I don't think he needs more than his dad. You're doing amazing at giving him what he needs to be happy”
Jungkook’s throat tightens again, unfamiliar this time, fondly, like he wants to bathe in the compassion of that sentence and remind you - that Juykung needs you too.
“Thank you” is what he settles for, allowing enough space for quiet appreciation to sit down between you.
It doesn't stretch on much longer, interrupted by the high pitched crying ringing through the otherwise tranquilly chaotic playground. Crying that sounds too much like Jukyung. You're on your feet before he registers; it is indeed his child that's sitting on his newly scarped knees, sobbing tears that tumble down his chubby cheeks in a stream.
“Shh, it's okay Kyungie, come here.. Let noona see..” you mumble into his black messy hair, the wetness on his face seeps into your shirt as he molds himself into your chest. You're crouching form has Jungkook standing uselessly to your right, looking down at your hand that soothes his kid's back, the comfort of your embrace sparks Jukyung to sniffle in order to catch his breath and explain that he fell, only for his voice to break at the end.
You place a kiss on his temple, picking him up to sit on your underarm while inspecting his minimal wound with worried eyes that look suspiciously glossy. Jungkook's whispering gruff “It’s okay" 's, the unease in his own body diffusing when Juykung naturally reaches for your embrace, seeks your soft words with tiny hiccups. Softening even further, as his miniature fingers brush a salty tear from your own cheek.
Jukyung pouts, telling you not to be sad, that he's a big boy. He knew he’d be safe when you came walking, knew you’d be there to hold him when he was hurt and Jungkook now knew - that his son's trust in you is the biggest blessing a curse could possibly bring. Butterflies that he thought lost their wings half a decade ago begin to fly through his stomach briskly, the tingle so juvenile and youthful it feels almost wrong to pay attention to.
“You need to be more careful buddy” he grumbles, hugging the small boy to his chest as you´re passing him over, listening to his sobs subside slowly.
“Do you wanna eat ice cream before we go home?”
Jukyung's mood brightens in a bat of his long eyelashes, the glossy doe eyes staring into his dad's demandingly and he knew no better than to give in. “I want choco ice cream" he nods enthusiastically, forgetting all about his scraped knee at the thought of tasting chocolate that melts into his mouth.
“Would you like one too?”
“Yes, yes noona take one! You like strawberry” Jukyung says proudly, stealing the polite no off your lips, declining the idea of you missing out on something as amazing as ice cream. Jungkook looks at you to confirm,
“You're right, I do like strawberry” you say to Jukyung, though you're looking at his dad, who is already pulling out cash from his wallet, whilst his son is beaming about being able to recall the flavour you favor most.
“Thank you Mr. Jeon” you tell him after he's done ordering for the three of you. He's about to open his mouth to tell you that it's really nothing, but Jukyung butts in.
“Jungkook”
Both of you share a look of confusion, tilting your head at the little boy apparently does the trick, he repeats his father's name - this time elaborating simply,
"Appa's name is Jungkook”
Jungkook's puzzle pieces fall into place before yours do, huffing at the innocent ease of his words, the weight behind them invisible and unimportant in the mind of a five year old. Jukyung takes the icecream into his greedy little hands as soon as it's in reach, licking away at it like there was a timer running - the pain of his previous injury long left in the dust.
“You're right Kyung” he enforces after a split second of bravery in his weakness, handing over your own portion and hoping - that you'd understand the message he's trying to send.
Normally, you’d refuse. Immediately result in professional smiles and head shakes, saying that there is no need to skip formalities. It might have been the intensity of his brown eyes as he established what he wanted, how there was never an offer as much as there was a demand. Doomed to the beauty of his name and the honey as he said it, there remained no bone in your body that craved to deny him. Your throat itches to say his name, let it roll off your tongue delightfully, let the sound hang in the thick summer air.
“Jungkook” you repeat, satisfied at hearing yourself say it. The wall tore down loudly, echoing a minimized space between you two. Realistically, it was nothing more than his first name - but also, nothing less than being called by his first name.
“Getting used to that will take time”
"Don't stress out” he exhales heavily, facing his kid that's succeeded in smothering his mouth in chocolate ice cream.
“Noona, can you not stay for longer? pleeeease?”
“Jukyung, let noona go home, she's been entertaining you all day” Jungkook chimes in, picking up his whiny kid by his armpits, the stretched word please becoming background noise as he groans, settling him against his broad chest.
“Enough, it's late and you're sleepy, say bye to noona” he says, a slightly worn out edge to his tone. Jukyung pouts as he waves in your direction, watching you zip up your jacket with glassy puppy eyes.
“Bye bye noona” he mumbles dramatically, making a kissy face afterwards. With your fingers scratching at his head that rests on Jungkook, you tell them, “Goodnight, sleep well”
Jungkook's tiling his head down involuntarily - closer, focusing his unguarded gaze on the genuine smile on your face, the tenderness in your words as you speak to his baby. His heart thumps stupidly loud when Jukyung giggles at your touch and he hates how submissive he feels to all of it. To the ridiculous image of extending the hold to include you, attach his lips to your head because it'd be so easy to just lean down and -
"Mr. Jeon?”
“Yes”
Sharp. Maybe too sharp - too forced against the silent, pillowy warmth that bubbled up inside him moments ago. He notes your startled blink, the sweet innocence of those pretty eyes that don't understand what it does to him when you stare up like that. He doesn't correct you, respects the much needed, accidental distance in the usage of his last name.
“I uhm, just wanted to say goodbye”
“Yeah” he grumbles, roughly wiping a hand down his tired face, his other holding on to the squirmy child, “Goodnight”
The door shuts, Jukyung is rubbing his eyes sleepily and it's just them now. He's just Appa now, and you're on the bus - on the way back to the university dorm you live in. At times that felt like a united world broke its illusion. You were, whether you yourself knew or remained painstakingly unaware, in utterly incompatible worlds. That is his mantra, his voice of reason anytime he starts drifting into thoughts that notice how much your dynamic creates a harmonious balance despite it all. Despite him being nearly a decade older, a single dad, a rich business man.
Because as much as he feels sick being stripped down like this, naked in the shower - exposed to his bare thoughts - in your eyes, all he truly ever was, is Jukyung's dad. Just Appa - just Mr. Jeon, Jungkook. He desires nothing more than to solely be Jungkook, that's who stares back at him with every glance in the fogged up mirror. But he isn't, or more so, he cannot be. Not when you have too much ahead of yourself, the youth of nine years he'd lived through already- and deserve so much better than a thirty-two year old single father that fists his cock to the remembrance of his first name on your lips, in that sweet, girlish voice.
He groans your name quietly - like the sound hurts and scratches its way up his throat because it feels wrong, so wrong how naturally it seeks to slip out no matter how much he forbids himself to voice it. Slow drags of his hand over his aching cock transform into hasty strokes that crave a smaller, softer hand to tip him over. The blurry picture of you earlier, in that pretty dress that hit just below your knee, the fabric denting at the curve of your waist just enough to make out the dips and curves - felt sinfully beautiful in his mind's eye. It would've felt much more satisfying to spill into a hand that has polka dotted gel nails, watch his milky arousal drip from those feminine fingers instead of his tattooed digits. He wouldn't be washing it away shortly after, there would be no shameful cloud to loom over his head as he shampoos it.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?”
“Sorry,” you hush, gathering up the limp child in your arms. His head lolls back, pouty lips parted in a relaxed snore. Jungkook’s fingers brush yours when he takes his sleeping kid into his arms, bicep straining against the black button down, “I tried to keep him awake. The playground really did a number on him”
"Not surprised” he says, stroking some long strands from Jukyung's forehead, “So?”
“Oh, right” you almost forgot he asked you something. It was just so distracting - the subtle ways he would soften when looking at his son, the way his shirt clung to his arms and chest in an intimidating contrast, “Sure, if it's no issue”
“Of course not” he mutters back like the question was an inconvenience, the width of his shoulders coming into view as he steps up the staircase, getting ready to lie Jukyung into his racecar bed.
Jungkook’s long day shows up in his slower movements as he chops up the ingredients, adding that tired rasp to his already sultry voice as he talks.
“You bought it for him”
“What?” his eyes narrow a little, swinging the noodle pan with an easy wrist,
“The bed he's been rambling about” you answer, standing just shy of brushing against his frame when attempting to pull out two plates from the top cabinet. Your stance proves unstable, fingertips reaching for lengths out of reach even on the balls of your slippers,
“Yeah. He wouldn't let it go” Jungkook says with a short exhale, his fingers reach beyond yours, pulling out the two plates with a clank that's too loud in the sudden silence. His chest brushes against your shoulders with the slight lean, the ghost of his contact haunts your skin with shivers, no matter how brief it had been.
“Here” he says, his gaze dropping to meet yours, already looking up at his face that seemed too close - even though there is a respectable distance, you could clearly see the mole under his bottom lip, the silver ring in the corner that glistened in the fluorescent kitchen light. The action remains uncommented but you swear you see his eyes dart to your parted lips for an unusually long second- just as he returns his attention back to the curry pasta, leaving you to set the plates down like nothing had happened, because nothing did happen.
The unforeseen pulse between your thighs would beg to disagree. Embarrassingly it blooms, causing you to press your legs together secretly - hidden under the dark wood table just as he sits down next to your tense figure. Not across, not facing you with the length of his table separating you. On the chair next to yours, body angled in to fill up your empty plate with a delicious smelling dinner. The action is careful, caring in a way that only worsens the ache with its underlying dominance, with the gruff mumble of him telling - or rather, ordering you to start eating. You wait for his plate to be full before you do, and with the first bite always comes that satisfied, low moan. Jungkook knew it was coming, he'd first lost his mind when you got icecream together and braced for its arrival ever since. Your reactivity had him fantasize about how stupidly easy it is to make you moan, how he would probably be able to make you cry if he just kissed you for long enough, deeply enough.
“You should eat too” you mumble, covering your mouth. He's staring, he just now realises.
“Is it good?” Jungkook questions, taking a first bite himself - the flavours spark on his tongue in the familiar comfort of a dish he has cooked a dozen times over.
“Soo good” you hum, nodding your head as if to support the statement while chewing. He hums too, beginning to feel the heat rise up his neck and it steals his ability to speak momentarily.
“Yeah?” he huffs, a swipe of his tongue over his lips accommodate the strangely sultry intonation that's laced itself into the conversation,
“You like it?”
The way he asks feels loaded. You do like it. Both of you know you do. The simple answer is yes, the complicated one is the softer sounding yes you give him;
eyeing his lips, voice quieting to mirror the weight of his own gaze.
“I'm glad. It's nothing elaborate” he mutters, spinning his fork slowly with a stern glare into the plate. He was getting distracted.
“I saw normal people by sally rooney in your bag” Jungkook states, remembering how the cover caught his attention. He read that book a while back, turning the pages about stories of, well, normal people. Relationships, lives. From the handful of books he read, he wouldn't shy away from crowning this one as his favourite. Something so ordinary and complicatedly mundane felt like second nature. You, on the other hand, take another bite as you gather your thoughts.
“Terrible book. Don't read it, it's a waste of time”
“What?” he fires back, a sharp huff of air leaving him.
“What? It's so boring, basically nothing happens in it” irritation laces quietly into your words, watching him get increasingly more irritated in return. He sets his fork down, a tinge of sarcasm accompanying him, “Right, nothing in 300 pages”
“Yes” you say, barely smiling while gesturing his way, “Now you get it”
Jungkook shakes his head, grumbling that, “You have terrible taste”
“Because I don’t wanna read about someone’s daily life?”
“Because you think that slice of life is boring. It's social commentary” he says, his voice getting a tad louder with his increased annoyance and it hits him then, that he's getting way too worked up over this. He can’t help it, the feeling of being misunderstood prickles underneath his skin. Instead of going on a tangent about the lessons in life and the beauty of normalcy in a society where there’s so many expectations thrust on you, he resumes eating.
“If I wanted philosophic takes I’d read my classes notes”
“Maybe you should”
“Sorry?” you say, more mockingly than seriously offended. Jungkook, looking back up at you with his signature, neutral expression tells you; “Apology accepted” before breaking out into what can only be described as an indefinite smirk.
“Once you get older, you’ll understand wanting to know about lives like your own” he retaliates, eating another mouthful of pasta to let the statement settle first.
“I’m not saying it’s not understandable, i’m saying i think it’s boring”
Your explanation doesn’t pull an answer from him, pushing you to start talking again. “I like when a book takes me places that.. aren’t realistic”
“Most people do”
“Yeah, i guess”
You’re looking at him from the lens of someone that has lived an equally as normal life - maybe even more so, without a child to take care of on your own, without the headstart of abundant money, the responsibility of a business on your shoulders.
“But I guess it’s nice to read something boring once in a while. Makes you feel less boring yourself”
"Recommend me one. Maybe it can change my mind” you add after a moment of consideration, the olive branch fragile and swaying as you wait for him to take it.
“Intermezzo. Also by sally rooney.”
“Are you a fan?” you joke, raising an eyebrow at him. He tuts, his shoulders shaking slightly with a gentle, low laugh spilling from his lips. Ease takes over your body, a smile openly shines on your own lips now, the thought of wanting to hear his laugh again makes you feel impatient.
Impatient to listen to more of his opinions, unwrap the tangled ropes that tie together his thoughts.
Perhaps too impatient, too uncoordinated as you brush the fork past your lips.
"There's something” he begins, inching closer with intent. His hand reaches to your face, thumb swiping at the corner of your lips with added pressure as he mumbles the remainder of his sentence, “... on your face”
He’s unable to stop looking, unable to pretend he does not see your eyes widening, your breath catching in your throat. The tiny sound of surprise has him holding down a deep moan. He doesn't let his finger linger afterwards, his thumb is gone from your skin as fast and unexpectedly as it had landed there in the first place. However, you would be able to feel it tingle there for hours later. Even days.
Like on this quiet friday evening, standing in your cozy bathroom, looking into the mirror as you tie your hair back, remove your hoops - wash off the make up that’s been marinating on your face for longer than it should have. You scrub, closing your eyes, the warm water feels like a hug on your stripped skin. In the black behind your eyelids, the touch on your face feels lively - and you can almost hear his voice too, telling you to read the book that’s now sitting on your nightstand, halfway into a story of grief, love, family.
A story about a part of life everyone will be confronted with. An ending no one can escape witnessing and falling victim to. Nature taking its breath back, people losing each other and gaining vital epiphanies, long winded stories that end in questions and answers. Reflection, a window into your own life and it's fragile evanescence. Death isn’t the only grief a person can experience. Losing someone - something, the effects of that run through your veins because of absence. Learning to fill the hole - whether by stitching it up or embedding its presence into routine, isn’t a task exclusive to the aftermaths of a death.
The text message notification dings, transferring you out of the story that’s been playing out on the laid out pages.
“Can you watch Kyungie today? It'd be from 7pm to around 9:30pm.”
With a glance to the time on top of your screen, you close up the book, letting him know that, yes - you’d be there soon.
When you arrive after taking the usual route, nothing is particularly unusual, though something is different. Impossible - to - ignore - kind of different. He stands in front of the hallway mirror for much longer than normal, adjusting his tie for what seems like the seventh time in five minutes. And when he walks past to slip into his jimmy choo's, the air reeks thickly of bleu de chanel.
Manly, fresh, deliberate.
“What’s the occasion ? You never make me watch him on weekends”
“It was a bit spontaneous. I’ll pay you extra for the short notice - and I’ll text you if it gets later.”
You nod in agreement, give him another questioning look he fails to acknowledge as your heartbeat continues to speed up, the clingy awareness of insecurity providing its steady beat. He swings his coat over his shoulders, slipping into it carefully. The gust of wind that passes when he closes the front door behind him is cool, uncovering how suffocating the air in your lungs is. Suddenly, you knew what this was. Why it might get later than anticipated, later than how things usually are.
Jungkook is going on a date.
It doesn’t matter, does it?
That you’ve never seen his hair styled like this and you're already mentally scrolling through restaurants he might be taking her to, silently wondering If he kisses on the first date,
If he tastes like nicotine and sugary maturity.
It matters when the strong feeling of disappointment rushes to your chest and your mind wraps itself around the concept of Jungkook looking to date. The quiet intimacy from your perspective now staring back at you like a huge misunderstanding. It didn't vanish - if anything, the plunging feeling only grew with his son that is already tugging on the sleeve of your oversized sweater, babbling about wanting to watch ponyo and do puzzles. Activities with his noona, the babysitter that watches Jungkook’s son.
Jungkook's son, who’s so completely in love with you, who you've sung to sleep with Jungkook admiring quietly, leaning against the doorframe - hoping you didn't spot his shadow. Jungkook who'd heard you tell Jukyung your favourite fruit and somehow, always ended up buying tangerines at the end of the week after that
“Noona actually brought you a new puzzle”
His smile widens into an innocent giggle, wrapping his little grubby hands around your arm and you can not be asked not to chuckle in return, letting him walk you to the couch. “Did you eat dinner Kyungie?”
“I’m starving” she chuckles, "Haven't eaten in hours”
Boring, god the woman in front of Jungkook is so incredibly boring to him.
Soojin's pretty, with long brown hair and a low cut shirt, a gentle voice and a nice smile. The faint touches of her hand on his arm when she laughed at something he had said - or the way her eyes darted to his lip ring - didn’t reel him in. Not like it did with you, where he felt the pull of wanting to kiss that needy look off your face. Everything she said, about her yoga studio and the way she liked going golfing, was so boring to Jungkook. He wondered, at some point of watching her sip the wine he ordered, if you had already put Jukyung to bed, if your hair is pulled into a messy pony yet and if you knew what he was doing right now.
Something about it made him feel almost guilty. He'd avoided saying it on purpose, why you're watching over his son today and yet, when he glanced back at you through the window, It was obvious you had caught on. Obviously, whatever you were feeling about the realization, you did not look happy for him. In a twisted way, it made him happy, even if for a mere moment.
Dinner tastes good, steak always does the trick - wine always relaxes him. Unable to indulge in it to the full extent, he had to drive - but getting wine drunk has never sounded more appealing. Especially after the fifth failed attempt of intellectual conversation. Words were not getting him anywhere but deeper in thought, nowhere and yet, parked in front of her apartment, with a slightly frustrated frown in his eyebrows - his lips kept colliding with hers anyways, allowing her warm tongue to lip past and explore his mouth. His eyes shut tightly in an effort not to sink into this burdening feeling, the low groan that he lets out sounds more frustrated than blissful. Frustrated with himself, with the fact that Soojin's hands on his shirt buttons fail to faze him, that he doesn't move his hands up and down her body to map out the curves she has - but simply anchors them to her hips. He was holding on to the denim like the image of you, despite wanting nothing more than to let go of both at that very moment.
“I should get going” she mumbled breathlessly, the desperation in her airy voice sounded like she imagined him to refuse, to keep her in his car and mess up the make up she'd spend so much time putting on, let her undo the very last buttons of his shirt too. So when he hums and agrees, saying that it is getting late and they both do have a child at home after all, her slick smile turns almost polite. Straightening out her hair with her fingers, she stepped out without meeting his gaze once more.
Jungkook exhales heavily after the Mercedes door slams, running a sweaty hand down his handsome scowl and begins driving home, to his son, to you.
The rattling of his keys don’t wake you from the slumber you’d fallen into about halfway into the second round of ponyo playing on the flatscreen. It laughs at Jungkook, mocking the storm that was already rampaging his thoughts. You looked like a domestic wet dream; Jukyung's sleeping from with his head laid on your chest that is rising and falling, comfortably matching the rhythm of his son's slowed breathing. With unspoken awe, he notices how his son holds on to your shoulder loosely, how your soft hand looks big on the little boy's back and your eyelashes fan so prettily against your rosy cheeks. Noting the absence of a blanket, he’s already halfway into laying one over the both of you, ignoring the sheer fact that, realistically, he would need to wake you and you should be making your way back home.
“Jungkook?”
The dazed mumble of his name halts him in his tracks, widened blanket hanging in his hands without a purpose. He lets you wake up, waits until the fog of sleep disappears from your eyes to continue talking. The taste of his date's lips haunts his mouth in a bitter aftertaste now, seeing how your first instinct was to pull Juykung closer to your body, perching him upright as you sit yourself up.
“Shit I must've fallen asleep. Did you just get back?”
“Yeah, about a minute ago” he answers, folding the blanket back up, “Did he make you watch that fish movie again?” he mumbles, nodding towards the tv.
You nod too, groaning softly while tucking the sleeping child into the corner of the couch, coming to yourself from the nap. “Probably why we fell asleep, seen it about a hundred times now.” A beat of silence passes, your voice turns painfully careful,
“ How.. was it?”
Jungkook stills, the air between you both growing thick. A tense glance is exchanged as he steps forward an inch, his fully dressed-up form standing right in front of where you are sitting on his couch with a softness he isn't familiar with. He tried to clear himself of his actions - weak attempts in forgetting about you, buttoned his shirt back up and reapplied his perfume to overpower her stench. He was aware it was to no use, not when you could see his well gelled hair now beginning to fall loose, how a trace of red was smeared slightly around his lips and the pristinely ironed shirt looked just a tad messed up. He clears his throat, answering the question you never wanted to ask in the first place.
“Okay, I think”
“Okay?” you echo, the curious undertone smells like a hope you didn't dare to have. Misplaced, possibly unwelcomed.
He sighs, a quick shake of his head following,
“Nothing special. "Didn’t feel it.”
It was short, direct. An answer that was true to his nature and another relief to yours.
“Not your type?”
“No, not my type” he says, his body slumping down on the couch next to yours with a hand reaching to caress Juykung’s back - his head tips back against the couch with a delicious stretch of his neck. No purple bruises, no wet patches of skin decorating the road down to his shoulder. The darkness of the living room provides you with a slight comfort, swallowing details of your feelings, like the slight shake in your fingers when you too - lean back against the couch, head tilted enough to face him. He looks at you for that brief lapse of time, vulnerable wordlessness settles down, taking up the remaining inches between your faces. Raw and hidden all at once, the absence of light strikes Jungkook to be honest with not only himself, but you.
“It just felt unnatural. I didn't really.. want to be there”
He murmurs, his eyelids feeling heavy with drowsiness, “Wanted to go home”
“Sounds boring. We had fun here, you really missed out” you mumble back with withheld amusement, feeling the effects of this moment take a toll on you. It’s easier to tease him when you feel unseen, there is less resistance to the pull that always wants to tug you together adjacently.
The hum he lets out sounds from deep within his throat, almost rumbling through his deep, quiet words.
“Like I said, I wanted to be home”
Home, didn't just mean at his house, inside his walls without anyone to bother him but his kid. Home meant being somewhere you were, somewhere he had his son in reach, somewhere he knew he belonged. There was no use in explaining his favourite book to a woman that wasn't interested in the workings of his mind, no use when you'd read the same book and - hated it, listened to him bitching about you not getting the point but nonetheless, ended up reading another one of those just because he saw value in it.
When you breathed a part back into his lungs that was devoid of air, that now longs for warm meals after a long work day, the sight of a woman sleeping with his kid in her arms, a soft laugh he helped elicit.
Utterly, devastatingly terrifying.
“I felt like that with my ex boyfriend. Like I had to be what.. he wanted me to be” you say after a deeper inhale, the breath filling your tight chest with courage. You learned not to cry because he would get annoyed, mastered to dim your light for comfort, but it's plastered all over your face, how much allow yourself to show when you feel like it's just Jungkook that's watching.
“Unnatural, if that's what you meant”
“I did” he clarifies, “How long were you together for?”
“Not too long, I broke up with him after six months” you explain, reminded of the day you chose yourself. It must be laughable in his eyes, you think. Six months was nothing compared to his break up. Instead, he sympathetically quiets his words, mist of late hours making them feel too loud anyway.
“I’m sorry to hear that”
"Don't be” you shake your head, "It's better that way. I don't want to pretend”
“Neither do I” he admits, running his fingers through his hair, the previously formal style now messily sitting on his head with wear. He looks comfortable.
“Was.. this your first date after Hyejin?”
The question is a leap, a gap you didn't know you had permission to breach. As the question leaves your lips, the dark gives away how he doesn´t seem fazed or surprised, he just presses his lips together, nodding “Yeah. Had a baby to raise”
“Do you feel ready now?”
Jungkook cocks his head, his body instinctively turning towards you. The invisible string of rough, vague want and deep, intricate need for connection pulls tighter.
“Ready?” he hums, a moment of debating his answer goes by “Ready isn't a feeling. You decide ready”
Control is a possession he kept dearest to him. Decide how people look at you. Decide what they know. Decide when you're ready, no matter how much his heart rebels against it with its violent beat, no matter how much his hands long for a counterpart to lace his finger through and squeeze when things get overwhelming.
“You shouldn't pretend. There's nothing you have to hide”
You mutter, turning to your side as well. Whilst looking at him with the slit of separation that presented as a large wall, there still wasn't anything he could hide under. You'd seen him, even with his suit on and his back turned, you were always able to see Jungkook.
Midnight struck on his rolex like lightning, the string that's been pulling at your heads and hearts snaps underneath the tension of him deciding - that he isn't ready yet.
“You should go home, you'll be exhausted for your 8:00 am class”
He rises to his feet, cracks in his surface blend back together as the newfound space creates enough room to stop breathing in each other's exhales, swallow each other's words.
A sinking feeling comes up back as you do from the suede couch, the distance is notable, your smile adjusts into one he knows is restrained and it makes him feel like an asshole. He doesn't fight it, tells you to be safe after you open his front door, stepping outside of the isolated world they created.
The candle, a big, blue and sparkling six, is lit with its swaying flame moving in the wind passing through the Jeon’s kitchen window. Jukyung leans forward, his lips pursed as he blows out the candle with his birthday wish rooted deep in his mind, letting the smoke from the extinguished flame carry it out into the world.
“Did you wish for something good buddy?” His dad asks, wiping off the chocolate icing sticking to the bottom of the candle.
“Of course I did” he smiles proudly, the shimmer of childhood bright and alive as another year of life is ahead for him. His eyes widen in amazement the second the knife slides into his belgian chocolate mousse cake,
“What did you wish for?”
“That’s a secret, silly” Jukyung nods enthusiastically, watching as his dad raises a questioning eyebrow, placing a generous slice down on to the plate laying on the table.
“Alright, Alright” Jungkook says, pressing a kiss to his son's ruffled hair. In true Jukyung fashion, the chocolate spreads beyond the corners of his lips and somehow always ends up all over his fingers. But it's his birthday today, so all Jungkook can really do is watch, smile and hold back the current of emotion raving through his pulse.
After dropping Jukyung off at his best friends house, he drives back up the road, spotting someone waiting on his porch.
“What are you doing here?”
“Hey” you start, shuffling the blue paper bag from one hand to another,
“Sorry, i just wanted to drop off a gift for Kyung. Guess I'm a little late” you smile, reading him unlocking the door as a silent invitation for you to follow. Taking off your shoes as always, sliding into your house slippers laying right next to his.
“What did you get him?” Jungkook grabs two glasses from the cupboard, holding up a bottle of lillet. You nod, “A coloring book. The totoro one, i'm tired of ponyo”
Jungkook grins, pouring the both of you a refreshing, full glass. The weather is beautiful today, breezing romantic summer air. His eyes note the pink lipstick stain on his glass after you took a sip, sitting prettily.
“I can't stand that stupid fish” he grumbles, bringing his glass to his lips, concealing the way his smile widens at the sound of your laugh.
“He's growing up fast. He was so much more.. baby like when i started”
“Yeah. He's a little gentleman now” Jungkook rests his forearm on the counter, leaning against it casually by your side.
“He starts preschool soon right?”
He hums, looking into his glass,
"In September"
You hum too, the marble counter reflecting a ray of setting sunlight into the room. Glows of the golden hour soak his honey skin in it's hues, the glint of fresh tears in your eyes is more obvious when colorful.
“Ahh..” you shake your head, smiling to suppress it further, your finger already on the way to catch what's threatening to fall from your eyes, “Sorry, i get emotional so quickly”
Jungkook shifts closer, the natural black strands falling over his forehead - his body folds slightly to adjust to you, he knows this feeling. He recognizes it for what it is, for what it has always been with you around. He's not good at hiding it this time.
There's beauty outside control.
“That's okay. I get it, he's my son” he murmurs, brushing his fingers against yours, resting on the cool surface. You wait for them to disappear, but they never do. His fingers stay on top of yours like a feather light kiss, brown eyes refusing to look away from your face as the sadness disappears into sheer relaxation.
“You do realise that he loves you” Jungkook says, his thumb slowly moving against your hand,
“Do you know what he wished for, when he blew out the candle?”
His body moves forward again, you shake your head no, letting him continue, the words drowned in quiet affection.
“He said it's a secret, but that lasted for maybe 10 minutes”
Another smile blooms on your lips, waters the one growing on Jungkook's as he continues, focused on keeping that devastatingly heartfelt look all over your face.
“He wished for you to keep watching him when he gets older”
Jungkook is mesmerized with the first tear that truly tumbles down the apple of your cheek, a single, short sigh passing through your lips as you do nothing but look at him. Into his eyes, searching for something.
He inches his fingers closer, time feels stretched out into slow motion as his thumb makes contact with the wetness on your cheek, swiping it away carefully. You don't shatter under his touch, encouraging his thumb to wander down your jaw, caress again, until, unwillingly, tilting up the tip of your chin subtly.
He's powerless as he leans down, breathless at the first angelic touch of your lips on his.
Jungkook wants to kiss you until the world fades out.
Your lips attach to his too, slowly at first, testing how good it feels in your whole body every time his quiet sounds slip into your mouth, getting louder once your arms have made their way around his neck. His kisses grow demanding at the closeness, the warmth of your body creeping from your waist into his palms, your sweet moan of satisfaction makes him smile faintly right into the kiss, sliding his tongue against yours to pull another moan from your mouth.
“We need you” he mumbles, the words swallowed under more passionate collisions, drowning in your combined heavy breathing that resulted from being each other's source of air.
“Do I kiss better than Soojin?” you mumble after a hitch of your breath, his swollen lips trail down your tilted neck eagerly and patiently all at once. The memory of her makes his skin prickle, wanting nothing more but to tie himself to you further. Wet, open kisses punctuate his response, the nickname seeping into your skin, embedding its low sound into your body.
“Jealousy looks cute on you, sweetheart”
“M'not jealous" you chuckle, airy and full of lies. You can feel his grin resurface against your jaw this time, his hands slip underneath the hem of your blouse, tracing the slit of skin with slow strokes,
“Don't lie to me” he murmurs, brushing his lips against yours for another taste of you. “M'gonna take this off”
He announces it, waiting for your nod to confirm before pulling the fabric over your head. The white, lace adorned bra cups your small chest beautifully, pulling his eyes to trace down the curve of your neck, the line of your shoulders, down to your breasts. He attempts to soothe his ragged need by running his hands up and down your back, feeling the skin grounding him.
Your manicured fingers pull him in by his tie, loosening the patterned fabric as he works on shrugging his heavy jacket off his shoulders. The rings on his finger are cool against your cheek, while your fingertips thrum against his chest once you've managed to unbutton his shirt. The desire in your eyes is honest as you do nothing but look at each other, painted under the light of the kitchen, shifting as he carries you up the stairs, lays you down into the plushness of his large bed. His black covers dip underneath your combined weight. There's gentleness in this heat, in the way his fringe tingles on your forehead as he supports himself - bicep flexing next to your head.
“You're so fucking beautiful” he whispers, nipping at your bottom lip the moment a pout forms on your face. Inside his chest cracks open the sentiment of being naked. Everything you know about the way he is, the pressure of his kisses and the taste of his skin, how his muscles flex and his eyes get heavy lidded - made him so, so naked.
Above you, the warmth radiates from him, forgetting that your skin is exposed to the cold nightly air taking up most of the tranquil room. Birds singing outside remind you that there's a whole word beyond this moment and these four walls that surround you.
Jungkook, most of the time, knows what he wants. His lips and hands wander all over you, rounding your shoulders, unclasping your bra with distracting flicks of his tongue on your collarbone. The bra gets tossed somewhere unimportant, his mouth devotes itself to leave every patch of your chest kissed, tracing down the subtle swell of your breasts - but there's only so much throbbing you can take between your thighs, so many little nibbles until you get restless and dig your nails into the naked muscle on his back.
“Stop whining” he huffs, tugging sharply at your right nipple while lapping at the equally stiff left one, his lips close around it with a rougher suck. You naturally whimper again, raising your back off the bed to indulge into his touch as much as you try to squirm away from it. The only place you wish to run to right now is this.
Alternating sides, he glances up at your pleasure clouded face, circling your bud the tip of his tongue torturously slowly, rubbing against the other one with the pad of his thumb without necessary roughness.
Too shallow, too soft.
“Please”
Jungkook hums at your whiny plea, noting the furrow in your eyebrows that's formed in concentration to, somehow, feel more of his touch.
“Ask nicely for what you want” he retorts, continuing to suck on your skin with time entirely at his mercy. Your fingers curl into his hair, voice coming out quietly and stained with embarrassment.
“Please.. give me more”
“Not so hard, is it?”
You shake your head no - breaking into a louder moan as he sucks more insistently, lips smacking against your skin. “Yes- mh -mmh”
“Like this yeah?” he mumbles, the breathless moans coming from your lips fill up his ears with motivation to keep kissing at your chest until your palm flattens on his forehead, pushing in overstimulation. He smiles, dominant and beautifully dangerous while dancing down the line of your stomach, kissing along your navel with his tongue dipping just a slither below your pant line. Warm fingers cup your thighs, carrying the need to rip off your pants to be gratified with the feel of your skin on his own.
If both of you listened closely enough, the joined, rapid thumping of two interlinked hearts could be heard below Jungkook's deep murmurs.
“You're so needy, what are you squirming for?”
“You, Jungkook” you pout again, unfamiliar with the desperate edge in your voice and the urge to beg for something like the touch of another person. His grip on your thighs loosen, repositioning to rub your hips on either side.
“What do you want from me? Talk to me”
“Something, just do something” you groan impatiently, biting the corner of your lip at the sudden sting after the smack he lands on your thigh, shaking his head to retaliate.
“Ask nicely. You want me to take this off and touch you?” he asks, narrowing his voice down into a delicious, low rumble that melts you down further, sinking into the intoxication he's drunk with. His dark eyes look straight up at you, expecting you to answer him. Still, there's an underlying question in the way he brushes his thumb over your hip bone as he waits for your response.
“Can you please.. take it off”
“And do what?”
He slowly unzips your pants, popping the button and getting a glance of the tiny bow sitting obediently atop your panties. Teasing, so sweet.
The sensation of your pants sliding down your legs feels freeing, an obvious damp spot greeting Jungkook as he tugs your legs free - making his painfully erect cock twitch against the material of his boxers.
“Touch me, please” you finish, a glossy layer overshadows your eyes and a slight sheath of sweat coats your palms. Nervously, you grip the dark sheets, closing your thighs to hide your growing arousal from him. His demeanor shifts to compliment your surfacing emotion, sliding his warm, steady hands up and down your arms, placing a longing kiss to your forehead. Your chest deflates with a heavy exhale into the safety.
“Good girl, that's it pretty. I'm gonna touch you, just like you want”
His own need is mere background noise the minute he parts your thighs again, sees the reciprocated craving of your body for his. The tip of his index draws a line on your inner thighs, touches the scruff lace edges of your panties before laying his palm out, cupping your mound into his hand possessively.
His round nose brushes your cheek as he just holds patiently, grinding ever so slightly against where you need it most. Jungkook’s tongue comes out to take a brief lick at the shell of your reddened ear as his whispered lures taunt you.
“M'gonna be so good to you. You want that don't you? You want me to make you feel good?”
The depth of his fingers circling your tender clit is sufficient for a gasp to leave you, for your lips to seek out his in order to dim down the volume of desire coursing through you. He doesn't respond by engaging in your kiss, rather by slipping his fingers below the cotton to find a small sea to dip in, trail back up to more gratifying touches on your most sensitive part.
“You gotta use your words” he insists, the circles growing smaller, faster against your slickness. Practically coaxing the words he needs to hear out of you, the want much greater than any fear.
There's beauty outside control.
If Jungkook was pretty before, he's striking now. Buried deep between your thighs that he has hooked over his shoulders. Inhaling the scent on you, tangy candy and musk, coating his tongue from the first long stripe he licks up your center. Your thighs tighten, secure in his hands that lock you down on his mouth.
The slow, long licks don't last for long, shift into sharp, short flicks against your swelling clit. Feeling him strum the pad of his fingers against your entrance, you break out into another helpless whimper, tightening around nothing but the sole thought of his thick fingers nestled inside your cunt.
Knowingly, he doesn't push in, keeps sucking on your clit, letting his saliva run down your puffy folds, you know what he needs to hear, you know what he wants you to do.
“Please, put it in - haah”
Jungkook groans, the deep noise vibrating against your soaked skin. One of his fingers slide in slowly, pausing his mouth's actions as the warmth welcomes him in like it had been awaiting his arrival. He uses the pause to listen to his name falling from your lips, appreciating your eyes shutting when, without a warning, a second finger sinks in, curling both digits upwards deliberately.
“You're so good, look at you” he mumbles, plunging his fingers in and out of you slowly enough to feel them drag against your walls, making a mess with relentless laps on your clit.
“I - fuck i'm gonna come” you squeak, tugging the strands of his hair weakly, your lower stomach is full to the brim with pressure, a large wave of pleasure tips right over you, swimming into his mouth greedily.
“That's it, come right into my mouth” he moans, licking up every drop of delightful pleasure spilling from you. Your taste hits him all at once, eyes closed and frowning for more. He doesn't stop you, lets you rock your hips into his mouth, unfiltered.
“Needy fucking thing aren't you? Not enough?” he huffs, rising back to his original position of hovering over you. Flushed, trying to suppress the panting and submission. Red looks elegant on your face, his thumb traces the color in adoration, watching the pupils dilate in your eyes.
He looks just like you do, exhales heavy and raw, desire replacing the blood in his veins.
The tension winding in his toned stomach snaps at the brief, careful touch of your warm hand on his bulge. Hard, straining aggressively. Your hand rests there, feeling out his thick shape, his length below your fingers.
“I need to feel you” he breathes out, permanently etching the words into your brain despite how softly they were spoken. Quickly returns to smash his lips onto yours with a rough kiss as if to consume you whole, passing the taste of yourself onto your tongue.
“Lift a little f’me”
One of his many pillows slides under your stomach, the imprint of his hand burning your bare hips, knees rooted in his sheets. Jungkook takes a shaky inhale, gathers your hair into his hand to reveal the curve of your spine, there for him to kiss reverently.
“Fuck, you’re soaking” he bites down on his lip, a groan ripping from his throat at the sinful sight below. Your thighs gleam, the same shine coating his heavy cock as he grinds it through your folds, slapping the pink tip against your glossy, tight hole once, then twice.
“Thaaaat’s right, take my cock so well”
Praise soothes the stretch he’s giving you, building a cozy home inside your body to reside in. You know now, that you want it all. His heart, his mind, his body craving itself into yours on nights like these. Your hands are planted down securely, though your elbows wobble under his impact.
Pushing in further until his pelvis makes contact with your backside. At the first feel of him, entirely sunken into you, intertwined, both of you remain melodically silent.
He adjusts the position of his hips, angling until a spongy, soft spot nudges his tip - and starts moving his hips. Deep with a craving for connection in this messy pleasure. It’s been so long since he felt himself burn with another person, smell the sex in his bedroom and enjoy the taste of salty sweat and sweet skin to skin.
“Good, so so good” your broken words buzz inside his head, making the deep and rhythmic ruts get sloppier. Moans, groans and whines come together in harmony, loud, shameless.
“Suck on it baby, c’mon” Jungkook threads his strong arm around your throat, holding his thumb on your plush bottom lip. When you don’t open your mouth right away, too lost in the vast ocean of pleasure, he shoves it past your lips - grinding against the wet muscle.
Your lips close around it instinctively, mindless callouts muffled by sucking just like he’d ask. Your obedience sparks him to thrust deeper, pushing your body back into him gets you another reward - his wet thumb finds your oversensitive clit, stimulating it wildly. No direction, no even movements as he seeks you out and you keep calling for him.
“I’m gonna come jungkook”
“You're gonna hold it” he gruffly says, taking away the additional pleasure to run his fingers through your hair, pulling your head back at the roots. Your neck stretches - back arching more than either of you thought possible and it stings better than you’ve ever felt it before.
The thorough, overwhelming orgasm building in your body is impendant, you clench on his big cock and whine for him louder,
“Can- can’t, please, mhh- fuck”
“You can, you can. C’mon be good and hold it” he grits out, jaw tense as his hips snap ruthlessly, chasing his own high.
You’re so soft and warm and so fucking tight - the arch of your back clings with sweat against his will and he loves it. The knowledge of you wanting to break all over his cock - all of it comes together to push him over the edge he’s been dancing on. He’s falling fast, closing his eyes for one last time to pull the strings of his voice together,
“Let go for me, let go baby”
“Fuck” he whispers, pumping his cock into his fist, right after feeling you gush on him. He throbs in his own hand, then you feel it - sticky, warm as it leaks down onto your back, drips down while he’s attempting to catch his ragged breath. Your knees finally give out - with a long, tired sigh, your sore chest makes contact with his bed, head buzzing, aware of your body’s heat and unaware of the look in his eyes, the heaving of his broad upper body.
Footsteps sound behind your closed eyes, inching closer to you. He places the damp towel on your spine, wiping away the traces of his cum, kisses the spot after, pats your butt like he had every right to that normalcy.
The normalcy of laying down next to you, wrapping his still bare body around yours - heart beating against your back. You still don’t see him, your open eyes scan his colorful tattoos contrasting your skin.
“Are you feeling okay?”
His voice is rough, the aftermath of what you did audible, louder in the proximity of his mouth to your ear. You give something close to a nod, a mumbled yes in response. You are okay. More than okay.
“Not too rough?”
“No”
“No?” he buries his nose into your neck, mumbling your words back in a question.
“No,” your body moves before you could stop it from happening and finally, after everything, you’re looking straight at him.
“Was perfect”
It’s not monday or wednesday today, which is precisely why Jukyung is confused for the first minute of seeing you take your jacket off.
It’s saturday, his dad has a day off and is wearing black sweats and a dark grey t-shirt. So he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
What matters though, is that his favourite person is in his home unexpectedly, so he runs up to you, flinging his arms around you in a rush.
"Noona! "
“Hey there” you greet back, returning the hug. Jungkook watches with his arms crossed and his head slightly tipped to the side.
The confusion in Jukyung’s eyes returns when you give the same greeting to his dad - allowing him to sneak his arms around your waist. This is new.
“We’re having movie night, i told you buddy” Jungkook says, reading the question off his child’s lips. He did tell him, however, Jukyung naturally assumed it would be on the following Monday. Not a boring, 7pm saturday - an hour before his technically strict bedtime.
“You decide on a movie while appa and i make snacks yeah?” You add, smiling at Jukyung warmly. Behind you, the older man waits impatiently, holding the edge of the door in his hand. Jukyung nods, taking charge of the remote to select a movie - all three of you knew what it’d be, you’ve been unsuccessful in redirecting his favourite ghibli movie.
“Missed you” Jungkook mumbles against your lips, the door mostly closed - shielding you from the curious pair of eyes his son holds.
Smart kid.
You tell him you missed him too, breathing in the subtle perfume on his shirt. His palm holds the side of your face, making an effort to keep your eyes on his.
“He’s used to sleeping early, an hour and he’s dozing off, promise” he says quietly, knuckles grazing your powdery soft skin,
“I know” you whisper, closing your eyes to soak up his touch. When Jukyung would find out is still undecided - it hasn’t been long but, sneaking around creates a guilty cloud to float above your heads, raining down anytime the three of you come together.
Jungkook smiles, precious and simple, then leans down again to feel your lips on his to reassure that - soon, you’d tell him soon.
A gasp erupts in the silence but neither of you are the cause of it.
Or.. right now.
“Appa - you’re -” the childs eyes widen alongside his big, toothy smile.
“Kyungie - listen to me-” you start - frantically turning to him while Jungkook shuts his eyes tightly, accepting their dooming defeat.
“Appa likes noona, Appa likes noona” Jukyung sings loudly, skipping around the kitchen.
warnings. oral (f recieving), he hits it from the back, hair pulling, blue collar dick🚨🚨
summary. in which your landlord sends an electrician to fix your power, and you end up learning firsthand the magic of blue collar dick.
note. if you are reading this.. this is a queue’d post while im in MEXICO!!!!! you horny little sluts really thought i would leave you alone for 5 days.. i would never. i figured — hey if i can’t post part 5 of tpod i can at least give a life lesson on blue collar dick, right? backstory here is that the other day my best friend and i had a conversation about our sexy ass landlord and that got me thinking… jungkook..? blue collar..? big dick..? so anyways this is the product of that convo! (and also a standalone one shot bc yall be loving these!)
banner creds.
Later, when someone asks you to recap this story, you’ll say that in your defense, you weren’t expecting the electrician to look like he walked straight off some cringy Pornhub set. You’ll say you just wanted your electricity fixed, not to be spiritually humbled by a man who smells like sawdust and pine.
Your apartment is the kind of place that builds character. And by character, you mean mild trauma.
The kitchen light flickers like it’s been possessed since the day you moved in. The ceiling creaks when your upstairs neighbor sneezes. Your shower only has two settings (arctic and molten lava). There’s a weird stain on the ceiling you’ve been ignoring for three months. And today, of all days, the universe decided to cut the last thread holding your sanity together: the power.
No lights. No working outlets. No WiFi. Which means you’re sitting on your couch, in a hoodie and shorts, trying to hotspot your laptop with 3% battery left while rage-texting your landlord like you’re filing an official grievance with Satan himself.
You immediately text your landlord, fully expecting a five-day delay and a $30 deduction off your next rent.
You: hi. respectfully. what the FUCK is happening?
You: i work from home. i pay rent. i have needs. pls fix ASAP.
He replies five minutes later like he’s doing you a personal favor.
Landlord: sending my guy over. 15 mins.
Your landlord is somehow both your greatest nemesis and your weirdest emotional support system. He’ll ignore three maintenance requests, ghost you for a week, then show up unannounced with a half-eaten bag of Hot Cheetos. You’ve threatened to sue him in writing and sent him a happy birthday meme in the same month. And you’re already halfway into a mental spiral about “his guy” being a 60-year-old with pants that don’t stay up and opinions about the current political climate when there’s a knock at your door.
You swing the door open, fully expecting to see a crusty old man with a clipboard and a wheeze, and instead, you see… (and you’ll remember this moment until the day you die.)
Lip ring. Tattoo sleeve. Tool belt slung low over cargo pants. A black tee stretched across broad shoulders. Jesus Christ, the hair. Dark, slightly shaggy, pushed back on top but long in the back, curling at the nape of his neck in a way that should not be allowed near unsupervised women.
“Hey’,” he says, like this isn’t a pivotal moment in your sexual awakening. “I’m here about the outage?”
You blink at him. You are officially unfit for conversation.
This man has a mullet. A tattooed, lip-ringed, mullet-wearing man is standing in your hallway holding a voltage tester like its foreplay.
Suddenly, your pajama shorts feel too short for this moment. You fumble with the doorknob, “Uh. Yeah. Come in. It’s, uh.. yeah.”
Brilliant. Shakespeare could never.
He steps inside, and holy shit, he’s even taller than you thought. The kind of tall that makes your ceilings feel shorter. The kind of tall where you have to crane your neck just slightly to look up at him, which is offensive because you’re not exactly short yourself. He smells like a mix of sawdust, a hint of pine, laundry detergent, and a 2002 Nissan Altima. It’s oddly specific.
He glances around like he’s surveying a battlefield. “Power cut out completely?”
You nod, shuffling behind him as he moves farther into your apartment with the kind of confidence like he’s somehow been to your home before. His boots thud across your hardwood floor, scuffed and loud. The tool belt clinks. His shirt rides up when he stretches his arm to check something near the ceiling and there’s a flash of golden skin and low-slung cargo pants and—
You’re not doing well.
He pops open the panel in the ceiling like it’s nothing. “Y’all been having issues with this before? Flickering? Dead outlets?”
“Sometimes the kitchen light hums like it’s possessed,” you say, which you regret immediately. “I mean, not literally possessed. Not like.. haunted. Just… you know. Buzzing.”
He chuckles. It’s a low, gravelly sound that sinks its teeth into your spine and doesn’t let go.
“Probably a loose connection in the junction box. Nothing too crazy,” he says, grabbing something from his belt that you will now dream about tonight. “You work from home?”
You nod again, helpless. “Yeah. Marketing.”
He glances back at you. “Tough with no WiFi.”
You turn around under the guise of “letting him work” but really just to text your roommate, Sana, with trembling fingers.
You: help. our power went out and the electrician we got sent is so hot
You: he has a MULLET. a mullet, sana. he said “junction box” and i almost moaned
You hear him grunt softly as he stretches to reach something and you nearly drop your phone.
Sana: SEND A PIC RN
You sneak a glance back — he’s perched on your step stool, arms flexing as he reaches into the ceiling. His hair is curling perfectly at the back of his neck, a little messy from the heat.
You don’t send a pic. You can’t. It feels criminal. You feel like you’re watching live porn with consequences.
Then he speaks again, casually. “You smell something burning last night? Or anything weird before it cut out?”
You nearly say “just my ovaries,” but God reaches down and slaps your mouth shut.
Instead, you clear your throat. “Nope. No sparks, no smell. It just… died this morning.”
He nods, focused. “Might be a fuse then. I’ll check the basement in a sec.”
He drops down from the stool with a casual thud and wipes his hands on that rag in his back pocket. That ass, that rag. This is no longer an apartment. It’s a crime scene.
You glance up just in time to see him walking toward your front door, lifting the back of his shirt to wipe his forehead. You black out for a second.
You: he just wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his shirt. i saw ab muscle. like cut definition. i think it smiled at me.
Sana: you need jail or a CONDOM stat. get his number???
You’re halfway through typing “I don’t even know his name yet” when the front door opens behind you, and you almost launch your phone across the room like it’s a grenade.
He steps back into your apartment with that casual, unbothered energy he’s so good at carrying. Hair slightly damp at the edges now, cheeks pink from the walk up your stairs, tool belt still jingling.
“Basement breaker’s fine,” he says, brushing his palm down the front of his shirt. “Might be a wiring issue. Gonna check one more thing.”
You blink. Nod. Attempt human speech. Fail. “Cool. Yeah. Check… stuff.”
Christ. You sound like you learned English from Duolingo five minutes ago.
He smiles then, actually smiles. Full teeth, little bunny front ones peeking out. His lip ring glints as he does it, and your brain goes completely static for a second.
“Want some water?” you blurt, and immediately hate yourself. “Or iced tea? Or, whatever I have in the fridge that isn’t expired?”
He huffs out a little laugh, shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good. But thanks, sweetheart.”
You freeze like you’ve been slapped by a porn star. He walks past you again like nothing happened, reaching for something in his tool bag, completely unaware that your soul just evacuated your body.
You unlock your phone immediately, fingers trembling, and text in all caps.
You: HE CALLED ME SWEETHEART.
You: arrest him. make him marry me. i don’t care just make it LEGAL
You barely get the message out when he turns slightly and casually, and says, “So… you live here with your boyfriend, or…?”
You blink hard.
The question hangs there, just slightly too relaxed. Like it’s not loaded with potential. Like it’s not every Wattpad plotline you’ve ever read come to life in front of your half-broken Ikea bookshelf.
Your brain short-circuits harder than your kitchen socket. Is he flirting? Was that… are you being flirted with? It’s been a minute. Like, a long minute since you’ve had someone show genuine interest in you. You can’t tell anymore. He could be asking because he needs to know whose ass he’s about to get chewed out by if he knocks something over, or because he’s just curious.
You manage to croak out, “Just my roommate. Sana.”
He nods and doesn’t press. He lets out a low, distracted, “Hm,” like that’s useful information. Like it slots into place somewhere in his head and he’s okay with it.
You, meanwhile, are mentally drafting a will because you’re not sure your heart’s going to survive the rest of this visit.
He leans over your couch armrest to reach the outlet near the floor. His cargo pants pull slightly tighter around his thighs and you look away so fast you give yourself whiplash. You try to look normal, like a woman who isn’t catastrophically horny over someone adjusting your voltage.
You: HE ASKED IF I HAD A BOYFRIEND
Sana: I AM SCREAMING. I’M IN LINE AT TRADER JOE’S. OFFER TO MAKE HIM LEMONADE OR SIT ON HIS FACE IDK CHOOSE FAST
He stands back up, wiping his palms on that stupid fucking rag again, and glances over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t take much longer,” he quips with that lazy, dangerous smile.
You nod, eyes wide, pretending you’re normal. “Cool. Thanks. No rush or anything. It’s not like I need power to… survive.”
He quirks a brow at that, like he finds you kind of funny, or kind of tragic.
You sit on the couch, phone hidden in your lap like it’s a shameful secret. He crouches near another outlet, testing something with one of those little gadgets that beeps and blinks.
“So, marketing,” he says over his shoulder. “Like… ads?”
You blink. “Uh. Yeah. I work for a beauty brand. Mostly social media, some campaign strategy. Lots of pretending I know what I’m doing and hoping the algorithm doesn’t hate me that day.”
He chuckles. That low, amused sound that makes your toes curl. “That why you’re so good at talking?”
You freeze. “What?”
He glances back, smile creeping in slow and lazy. There’s an unfortunate amount of sarcasm behind his tone. “You seem to stumble a bit over words.”
You blink again, officially out of working brain cells. “Sorry. I—I can stop. I don’t mean to be annoying, I just—”
“I didn’t say it was annoying.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it. He crouches lower again, tapping something against the outlet. But you hear it anyway and feel it, low in your stomach like a dropped elevator.
Your phone buzzes in your lap, blessedly interrupting the moment before you combust.
Sana: girl. do i need to walk around the block or are you gonna fuck him. be honest.
You bite your lip so hard you nearly draw blood. He straightens up, wiping his palms again. “So do you like it? The job?”
“Oh. Um. Yeah. It’s… stressful. But fun, sometimes. I guess,” You scratch the back of your neck.
“You good at it?” He grunts out, looking for something in his toolbox.
Your mind blanks. “What?”
He turns to look at you full-on now, arms crossed, shirt clinging to the curve of his shoulders. “Marketing. All that stuff. You good at it?”
You let out a nervous little laugh. “I mean, I hope so. I’ve been doing it for a few years now, and nobody’s fired me yet.”
“That’s not what I asked.” His tone isn’t aggressive. It’s low and relaxed. But something about the way he says it makes your pulse skip.
“I… I think I am,” you say, slower this time.
He nods once as if that answer pleases him. “You seem like you’d be.”
You’re gonna die. You’re going to actually die. This man is being nice to you, and it feels like your body isn’t prepared for that level of stimulus.
You glance at your phone again.
Sana: WHY ARE YOU TAKING THIS LONG TO RESPOND??? IS HIS DICK OUT. BLINK TWICE
You look back up and he’s leaning against the doorframe that divides your kitchen and living room now, arms still crossed, lip ring catching the light. “So your roommate…?”
You nod, trying not to choke. “Yeah. Her name’s Sana. We’ve lived together since college.”
“She at work?” You swear he looks at your legs in your shorts, but could also be wishful thinking.
“Not right now. She works night shifts at the hospital 15 minutes away from here.,” You twiddle your thumbs in your lap.
He hums, still watching you. “So you’re here all alone today.”
It’s not a question. It shouldn’t be hot. It’s just a sentence. But, the way he says it? The tone? The slight lilt at the end, like it means more than it says?
You let out a strangled sound that you hope reads as a laugh. “Yeah. Just me. Alone. In this… apartment. Where you are. Currently.”
He tilts his head, smiling again. “You’re kind of funny for someone with no electricity.”
You hesitate. Then, blurting before you can stop yourself, “And you’re kind of cocky for someone who still hasn’t turned my lights on yet.”
He raises an eyebrow, a smirk slowly appearing. “Hm?”
You shake your head way too fast. “I mean—just—like, you’ve been here for a bit now and you’re fixing my power and it is taking quite long, but I promise I’m not mad about it.. I’m sorry.”
He lets out a real laugh this time. Full, low, and stupidly hot. He pushes off the wall and walks back toward the kitchen like he didn’t just wreck your central nervous system.
You take another breath and text Sana.
You: he’s flirting. he’s literally flirting. i want to crawl inside the oven
Sana: girl. jump on the counter and say “while you’re fixing things, i’m also broken.”
Almost like he was trying to prove a point to you, the lights come back on with a quiet click, a whirr of electricity humming back to life through your walls, and you swear the sound might as well be a death knell.
He steps back from the panel in your hallway, tapping the side of it with a knuckle like he just fixed your entire infrastructure. “There we go,” he says, “Should be good now. Might’ve just been a loose connection behind the breaker, it’s common in these old buildings.”
You nod slowly, like you understood a single word of that. All you really heard was competency and your brain whispered: breedable.
“That’s… great,” you reply, way too softly. “Thanks.”
He wipes his hands again on that same rag and starts packing up his tools, metal clicking together as he slips things back into place. His forearm flexes with every movement, tattoos shifting across his skin like they’re in on the joke.
“Need help with anything else?” he asks casually, not looking at you as he zips up the tool bag. His voice dips slightly.
Your heart stutters. You should say actually, yeah, my back is acting up and I think the solution involves that couch and maybe you using me like a handrail. But instead you go, “Nope. That’s all.”
Your phone vibrates against your thigh, dragging you back to earth.
Sana: have you ever heard of blue collar dick??? this is ur chance
You squint at that text, thumbs pausing mid-reply.
Blue collar dick.
The phrase unlocks something buried deep in your brain. A memory. A TikTok you watched half-asleep one night at 1:37AM, under the glow of your LED lights, while eating dry cereal out of a mug. The girl had looked straight into the camera, wide-eyed and deadly serious, and whispered: “Blue collar dick is not just a concept. It’s a lifestyle. It’s the kind of unholy grip someone develops on you after a man with calloused hands and a union paycheck fixes your sink and rearranges your soul in the same afternoon.”
You’d laughed. Scoffed, even. How dramatic.
He zips up the last pouch on his tool bag and stands tall, glancing toward the door like he might head that way but he doesn’t. He stays.
He rolls his shoulder a little, absently adjusting the strap, and you watch his fingers drag across the curve of his neck.
“You think everything working alright?” he asks, voice low and unhurried like he’s trying to fill the silence. Like he knows you’re still stuck in some sort of horny trance and he’s being generous enough to let you catch up.
“Yeah,” you say, breathier than intended. “Power’s on. Looks like the WiFi is back. I can check if my laptop came back to life.”
You gesture toward your computer like it matters. Like any of that is worth focusing on when he is standing six feet from you.
He hums, looking around your living room where you’re still on your couch. “Place is cute.”
You blink. “Oh. Uh. Thanks. It’s… falling apart slowly, but charming.”
He doesn’t really acknowledge that. “Anything else broken in here?” he asks, stepping away from the wall a little. “Leaky faucet? Shaky table leg? My dad taught me how to fix a ton of stuff, I’m pretty handy with anything. You want me to check something else?”
Your mouth opens and closes. Your brain struggles to find the words, and the words you want to say are not coming out easily, so you just respond with, “No. I mean… no, I think we’re good. You fixed the lights.”
His eyes flicker and stay on you just a second too long. Then he shifts slightly, sets the tool box down again with a thud, and stretches his arms overhead like he’s got nowhere to be. Shirt rides up just enough for you to see the line of his waistband and the shadow of toned skin beneath it, and you almost bite your tongue off.
“You sure?” he asks again, tone casual, almost amused now. “You looked kinda… bummed when the lights came back on.”
Your head jerks up. “What? No. I wasn’t.. I mean, not bummed. Just surprised. Happy. Grateful. Electrified, if you will.”
Electrified. You’re going to throw yourself off the balcony.
He laughs again, and you swear it vibrates in your chest. “I could hang out a sec,” he offers, and it’s not subtle anymore. “Just make sure everything stays stable. Sometimes the lights will turn back off randomly.”
Everything’s stable, you repeat in your brain like an idiot. I am not.
He’s leaning one shoulder against the wall now, lazy and relaxed, eyes still on you like he’s just waiting to see what you’ll say next.
Before your brain can stop your mouth from doing anything reckless, you blurt out, “Have you eaten?”
His brows lift. “What?”
You clear your throat. “Lunch. Have you had any?”
He tilts his head, eyes flickering down to your mouth for one half-second too long. “Not yet,” he says, “Didn’t get the chance.”
You nod like this is normal. Like offering food to electricians with tool belts and stupidly sexy mullets is part of your daily routine. “I can make you something if you want.”
His mouth curves, slow and teasing. “Yeah? You feed all the guys your landlord sends over?”
You roll your eyes so hard they nearly eject from your skull. “Only the ones who save me from having to live in darkness.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Then yeah. I’m kinda hungry.”
He walks over to where you’re sitting, drops his bag beside the couch, stretches with a casual groan that shoots straight between your thighs, and flops onto your couch like he’s done it a hundred times. Like your couch is a perfectly acceptable throne for his man-spreading, bicep-showcasing, very-much-staying presence.
You twiddle your fingers, “If i make you food, it’s only right if I get your name.”
Smooth. Real fucking smooth.
“Jungkook,” He looks over to you, trying to bite back a grin. “And yours is [Y/N], right? Saw it on the assignment sheet.”
“Yup. Cool,” You gulp down some saliva that was lodged in your throat.
You march to the kitchen like a woman on a mission, flinging the fridge open with the determination of someone prepping for an exorcism. It’s not that you want to impress him. It’s just that… okay. No. You do want to impress him. You want to serve this man a sandwich so good he files a formal complaint against your thighs for being too far from his face.
You find good bread. Not the sad white slices. You find turkey. Cheese. Lettuce that isn’t slimy. A tomato you aggressively pat dry with a paper towel like a psychotic housewife. You toast the bread and add a little mustard. You even cut the sandwich diagonally, because if you’re going to be delusional, you’re going to be domestically deranged about it.
Your phone buzzes for the billionth time.
Sana: DID YOU FUCK HIM YET
You ignore her. You grab a little paper plate with a cup of water and a napkin and present this meal like you are some Michelin chef. You walk it out carefully, feeling like you should have a white linen apron and one of those vintage Coke ads playing behind you.
“Damn,” he says when you hand it to him, voice warm with surprise. “You really went all out.”
You shrug, trying to act chill. “Just a sandwich.”
He takes a bite and groans.“No, this is next level. Wife-tier sandwich.”
Your face goes hot. You sit down beside him on the couch, one cushion away, legs crossed, heart racing. You grab your phone and finally reply to Sana before she drives to the apartment and physically removes you.
You: sana i need you to take a lap. actually take a five-mile lap. this house needs to be mine for two hours minimum.
Sana: i will literally be gone until sunset
You set your phone down and glance at him again. He’s halfway through the sandwich already, clearly enjoying the hell out of it, crumbs on his fingers, lip ring glinting as he chews.
“So,” you say casually, “how’d you get into electrical work?”
He swallows, wipes his mouth, and shrugs. “Started out helping my uncle with his crew back home. Learned enough on the job that I stuck with it. Took the exam, got certified, picked up my own clients.”
“That’s hot,” you say before thinking.
He pauses, blinks, then smirks again. “Yeah?”
You want to shrivel into the cushions. “I mean, just like the hands-on thing. Fixing stuff. Being good with your hands.”
He glances at you, faintly amused. “It’s a bold choice… Flirting with the guy who knows your wires inside out better than you ever could.”
You’ve made your decision. You’ve committed to the bit. You’re going to have him. You don’t care how. You don’t care if it’s a terrible idea. You’re already halfway there, and if blue collar dick is a myth, you’d like to be the one to confirm or deny it firsthand. You smile, tilting your head. “I like living on the edge.”
He finishes the sandwich and sets the plate on your coffee table with a little sigh. “Damn. Guess I should’ve been in this line of work sooner.”
You let out a soft laugh, glancing at him through your lashes like you’re not actively in the process of losing your mind.
He shifts slightly on the couch, one arm thrown casually along the back cushion, knee brushing yours now, and your whole body tightens at the contact. You look down at his hand, rough, calloused, fingers spread just enough to imagine what they’d feel like anywhere else.
Focus. Focus.
“So,” you start, aiming for casual but landing somewhere around unhinged, “do you, like… do this for a lot of people?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Fix electricity?”
You laugh too fast. “No! Well, yeah. I mean. Yes. But like… do you do this for one person a lot? Regularly? Like… someone special. Like a client. A consistent client.”
He’s still watching you, brows slightly raised, clearly trying to follow your logic. “Huh?”
You look down, embarrassed. Shit. Too subtle. You double back. “Sorry, I meant… like… is there someone who, you know, gets their power fixed all the time? Like a… girlfriend?”
Oh my god. Girlfriend. You say it like you’ve never spoken English before, like the concept of casual inquiry never existed.
His lips tugging up like he knows exactly what you’re asking. “Nah,” he replies. “No girlfriend.”
He reaches for the glass of water you’d set on the coffee table earlier, and you watch his throat work as he takes a slow gulp. His lip ring catches the light again, and your brain completely flatlines.
No girlfriend.
No girlfriend. That’s… fine. That’s great. That’s also dangerous.
Your heart is pounding so loud in your ears you barely register that he hasn’t looked away. When he sets the glass down again, his eyes don’t drift back to his phone or the room or the vague distance.
They stay locked on you.
You shift slightly, suddenly hyperaware of how close you’re sitting. His fingers are still relaxed against the couch cushion, a breath away from the curve of your shoulder.
“Should I expect a full background check with your next outage?”he says, voice low now.
You’re officially in the danger zone now with no intentions of stopping. “Already ran yours. Five star reviews all around. “
He chuckles, quietly. “I’m honored.”
Your breath catches. It’s a small sound. Barely audible. But his gaze dips lower at the sound of it, flickering between your mouth and your throat. He doesn’t hide it anymore. There’s no playfulness left.
“Stop staring” you mutter, trying to keep your voice even.
He lifts a brow. “I’m not.”
“Are you… thinking about kissing me?” This is worse than that one time in 10th grade when you got put in a closet with your crush and you practically slammed him against the door begging him to kiss you.
However, Jungkook doesn’t smile or smile. His gaze lingers on your lips still like he’s counting the seconds. “Would that be a problem?”
Your stomach drops. The air between you turns solid. “No,” you say softly. “It’d be the opposite of a problem.”
He doesn’t move right away, or lunge and lean in. He lets the silence fill with heat, with potential, like he wants you to feel the choice stretch out and make sure you want it just as much as he does. (Is he insane? Of course you do)
You want him to kiss you so bad it’s physically painful. Every nerve in your body is waiting for it, screaming for it, for the weight of his hand on your jaw, the feel of his lip ring pressing into yours.
You inch just slightly closer and your knee brushes against his fully now. Your face is tilted up toward his without even thinking.
“Are you gonna?” you whisper, voice barely there.
His eyes flicker again and then he smiles. “Thought you’d never ask.”
He leans in, not in some clumsy rush. He drags it out just long enough for you to feel your whole body tense with anticipation. His hand finds your jaw first, thumb brushing your cheek, fingers curling gently under your chin.
And then his mouth is on yours.
He kisses you like it’s his job, like he’s done this a thousand times but still finds something new in the shape of your lips. His mouth moves with intention, none of that awkward fumbling, none of the soft, shy hesitation. It’s confident. His lip ring drags against your lower lip and you actually whimper, because of course he knows how to use it.
He groans low in his throat when your fingers knot in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer. One hand slips around the back of your neck, the other finding your waist, pulling you across the couch and into him like he can’t stand even a breath of space between you.
He tastes like faint mint and the sandwich you made him. Your legs shift, tangling with his. His hand is already on your thigh, rough palm skimming under the hem of your shorts, gripping hard enough to make your breath stutter into his mouth.
You gasp when he bites down lightly, but enough to make you feel it. He soothes it with a kiss immediately after, dragging his mouth down your jaw, and murmurs into your skin, “You’re a good kisser.”
You could die. You could die right now and it would be worth it.
You tilt your head back to give him more access, voice breathless. “Yeah? You’re not so bad yourself.”
That earns you another groan, this one deeper, more possessive. His hand slides up your side, under your hoodie, fingers grazing bare skin and making your back arch instinctively.
He kisses you again, messier now and wetter. Tongues tangling, teeth clashing. His fingers sink into your thigh, pull you closer until you’re practically straddling him on the couch and you feel him, hard beneath his cargo pants, pressed against your hip like a threat.
“You sure you don’t need anything else fixed?” he murmurs against your mouth.
And all you can do is nod, eyes heavy, hands trembling against his chest as you whisper: “Hmm. I think my body is out of order. Needs fixing.”
Big hands grip your thighs, and with one swift, greedy motion, he’s pushing you back into the couch cushions. You land with a quiet gasp, hair fanned out, lips swollen, hoodie riding up over your stomach.
He’s hovering, body caged above yours, weight pressed into one arm braced beside your head, the other skimming up your waist and dragging your hoodie even higher. His silver chain dangles loose from his neck and every time he leans down to kiss you again, it smacks against your throat, cold and heavy, sending a shiver straight through you.
He groans when you arch up into him, letting your hips roll slightly, needy and desperate, and he feels it, feels how bad you want him and how worked up you are.
His bicep flexes beside your head, holding himself up so he doesn’t crush you but you kind of wish he would. You let your hand drift up, fingertips grazing the muscle slowly, shamelessly.
Holy fuck, he’s strong.
Strong in the way that makes your thighs press together, that makes you want to find out what else those arms can hold you down against. You squeeze just a little, test the resistance, and he grins against your lips.
“That’s what you’re thinkin’ about?” he murmurs, dragging his mouth to your neck now, teeth grazing your jaw. “My arms?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Your brain is literally melting.
He licks a stripe up the side of your throat and bites, just enough to make you whimper, and the damn chain swings again, cold against the same spot.
“You like that?” he asks, “Hmm?”
You nod frantically, whining. You’re gone.
His hand slides down to grip your thigh again, hiking it up around his waist, and the angle has you gasping. His hips dip into yours just enough to make it obvious: he’s hard, and he’s not even trying to hide it now.
“You gonna let me take care of you?” he mutters, biting your earlobe. “Since you fed me and everything. Feels only fair.”
You nod again, breathless. “Yeah.”
“Good,” he says, lips brushing yours. “Been thinkin’ about kissing you since the second you opened that door.”
His hands are already slipping under the hem of your hoodie, thumbs dragging across the skin of your waist as he mutters, low and sinful, “Lift your hips for me.”
You do instantly and he slides your shorts down so slowly it feels like punishment. They snag slightly at your thighs before he gets them off, flinging them somewhere over the armrest, and then he just stares. Lets his eyes drag from your knees to the place between your thighs like he’s about to pray and commit a felony in the same breath.
You’re not even fully naked, but you already feel exposed. Every part of you twitching with anticipation because the way this man looks at you? It’s like he already knows what you taste like.
He lowers himself, right between your knees and spreads your legs open with two hands and drags your body closer to him.
“You’re already shaking,” he whispers, lips brushing along the inside of your thigh. “What’s got you so worked up, sweetheart?”
You want to answer. You try to answer. But then he presses a kiss right above your knee, then lower and lower. It’s like he’s savoring every inch of you, kissing a trail up your thigh like you’re dessert and he’s been starving all day.
When he finally gets to your underwear, he lets out a low hum.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, thumb dragging along the edge. “You’re soaked.”
You choke on your own spit. He hooks his fingers under the waistband, and looks up at you, eyes dark. You’re propped up on your elbows, watching him like you’re in a live-action fantasy, because that’s exactly what it feels like.
“Gonna take these off now,” he says, almost too gently.
You nod like a bobblehead. “Please.”
He tugs them down painfully slow, and when they slip off your legs and drop to the floor, he doesn’t even hesitate. He just dives in.
Tongue flat, broad, ruthless against you, dragging through your folds. You jolt, hips bucking off the couch, and his hands immediately slide up to pin you down, fingers bruising your thighs as he holds you in place.
He moans into you, tongue curling, lips wrapping around your clit with slow, maddening pressure. The suction makes you cry out, hand flying to grab at his hair, soft, messy strands you curl your fingers into.
“Fuck, J-Jungkook,” you gasp. His grip tightens on your thighs in response. He flattens his tongue again, licking long and slow, nose nudging against your clit just enough to make your legs shake. Then he shifts, tilts his head just slightly, and flicks the tip of his tongue in tight, fast circles.
You swear you see God.
He doesn’t stop, and it’s obscene how good it is. You can hear it. Mapping out every flick, every swirl, every suck that makes your thighs twitch and your head fall back in helpless, high-pitched whines.
He’s so good at it, it’s almost infuriating. Like he’s been training for this specific moment, like he knew your body before you ever laid eyes on his goddamn toolbelt.
“Shit,” you whimper, your fingers gripping the edge of the couch like you’ll fall off the earth if he keeps going.
He pulls back barely, enough to murmur against your soaked skin, “What’s that, sweetheart?”
You look down at him, wide-eyed and desperate, and the sight makes your stomach flip.
His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, locked on yours with zero shame. His lips are wet, his lip ring gleaming, his chain dragging down your thigh. His hands are still gripping your legs tight. “You’re already shaking,” he taunts, “You gonna fall apart before I even get my fingers in?”
You let out a sound you don’t recognize. Your hips buck without permission, trying to chase more friction, more pressure, anything, and he laughs.
“Thought you were gonna take it,” he mutters, kissing your inner thigh again, right where it’s already slick. “Thought you were tough.”
“Jungkook,” Your voice breaks.
“Yeah, baby?” he smiles, “Want more?”
You nod frantically. “Please. Please, please.”
“Mmhmm.” He drags his tongue back up, slow and torturous. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want—” you gasp as he suckles your clit again, just hard enough to make your legs spasm. “I want your fingers please. I can’t—”
“You can,” he says, way too calm. “You’re gonna. Not done with you yet.”
He slides one hand down between your thighs, dragging his fingers through your slick folds, slow and unhurried. You feel the first press of his fingertip at your entrance and it’s over.
When he finally pushes in just one thick finger, your mouth drops open in a silent gasp. It feels so good, too good.
“You’re so tight, baby,” he notes more to himself than to you. “Fuck. Gripping already.”
He curls his finger and you practically wail. You slap a hand over your mouth but he sees it, and then lowers his mouth back down to your clit like he’s starving for it.
His tongue and his finger move in tandem. Circles and pressure and heat all at once, building you up, pushing you higher, dragging desperate sounds out of you that you’ve never made before.
“Jungkook, fuck, please,” you sob, grabbing at his hair. “Please, I need—”
“You need what?” he murmurs against you, adding a second finger slowly, the stretch perfect, his mouth never leaving your clit.
“I need, need to cum, please—”
“Nah,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours as his fingers start to fuck into you even deeper, “Not yet.”
You’re near tears at this point.
He flattens his tongue and moans into you, and your hips jerk off the couch. Your hands are clutching at him now, your stomach tightening, thighs trembling around his head as he talks you through it.
“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he exhales, eyes locked on your face. “All needy and loud. Fuck, baby. I could eat you all day.”
You’re so close it hurts. He can feel it, the way your walls clench around his fingers, sucking him in.
“That’s it,” he coaxes, voice hoarse against you. “Come on, pretty girl. Cum for me.”
And you do, embarrassingly hard. It crashes over you like a power surge, hot and fast and blinding. Your hips jerk, your mouth drops open in a silent cry, and you’re cumming so hard you forget your own name.
He doesn’t stop until you’re twitching, until your legs are shaking uncontrollably and you’re pushing at his shoulder with a broken gasp.
Still, he doesn’t let up. His tongue is relentless, fingers even more ruthless. You’re sweating, teary-eyed and so close you’re practically vibrating, when you finally snap.
“Jungkook,” you moan, throat raw. “I need you to fuck me. Please. I can’t—“
That gets him to cease. He pulls back, mouth soaked, lip ring gleaming. His hand lingers between your thighs for a second longer before he pushes himself up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, panting.
You reach up, fingers clutching the front of his shirt, dragging him down so you can kiss him. You taste yourself on his tongue, and it just makes it worse, makes you needier.
He stands up, stripping down as fast as humanly possible. The black tee comes off first, revealing a chest that’s all muscle, abs that flex when he tosses the shirt aside. Then the cargo pants get shoved down, and…
Holy fucking shit.
It swings free and heavy into his palm, and you gasp.
That’s what they meant by blue collar dick. Thick, veiny, the prettiest goddamn cock you’ve ever seen. Long, curved just right, flushed and leaking at the tip as he wraps his hand around the base and starts stroking himself, slow and lazy.
He tilts his head back with a low groan, lashes fluttering, chain swinging over his chest and you just stare.
You’ve seen good dick before. You’ve had great dick, even. This is different. This is the kind of dick that installs central air and breaks bed frames. The kind that fucks through creaky floorboards, says “good girl” like a prophet, and pays in cash everywhere.
“Yeah?” he rasps, still jerking himself slowly, eyes dark as he looks down at you. “You want it, baby?”
You nod like your life depends on it. “Please. Need it so bad.”
He doesn’t waste another second. “Turn over,” he says, voice commanding. “Face down, ass up. I want that spine arched.”
You scramble to obey, flipping onto your stomach, shoving your hoodie up out of the way. You bury your face in the couch cushion, arms stretched forward, hips high in the air and the sound Jungkook makes behind you is inhuman.
“Fucking hell,” he licks his lips, hands gripping your hips, thumbs spreading you open. “Look at you.”
You feel him line up behind you, thick head sliding through your slick folds, teasing but not pushing in yet, and your whole body twitches.
“You’re perfect like this,” he says, one hand sliding up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades until your arch deepens. “Back all pretty, ass in the air, soaked for me. Fuck, baby.”
He leans forward, voice rasping hot in your ear. “You gonna take it for me like this, yeah? Gonna let me fuck you nice and deep?”
You moan out, whimpering into the pillow. “Yes. Yes, please.”
“Atta girl.”
He pushes in slow, allowing you to feel every inch. You feel the thick, burning stretch of him as he sinks in deeper, splitting you open around his cock. Your breath catches on a whimper, eyes rolling back as he fills you.
“Fuuuuck,” you choke out, voice strangled. “You’re so big.”
Behind you, Jungkook lets out a guttural groan.
“Yeah?” he rasps, still sliding in, forcing your walls to open around him. “That too much for you, baby?”
You shake your head, barely able to breathe, cheek pressed into the cushion. “No, no, it’s so good, just, fuck—”
He bottoms out, hips flush against your ass, and you swear you see stars. You’re so full it’s almost unbearable, like he’s in your stomach, You’ve never felt anything like it; your walls clenching, dripping, pulsing and he’s barely even moved yet.
He pulls out halfway and slams back in, then does it again… and again… and again.
His pace is brutal, deep, pounding thrusts that send shockwaves through your spine and bounce off the walls. Skin slapping, the obscene wet squelch of your cunt sucking him in over and over, the couch creaking beneath you. You’re a full mess under him, and he’s moaning now too.
“Fuck,”Jungkook growls behind you, breath ragged. “You hear that? You hear how wet you are for me?”
You do. The sound of your pussy squelching around his cock is loud, echoing with every thrust as your juices coat his length and drip down your thighs onto the couch cushions below.
“Fucking soaked,” he growls again, hips snapping into you.
His hand finds your hair, grabbing a fistful at the base of your neck and pulling. Your head lifts from the pillow you grabbed from nearby in a panic, back arched to its limit, body bent like a bowstring as he fucks into you harder now that he has you right where he wants you.
“Taking it so good, baby,” he pants, yanking your head back just enough to make you moan. He keeps pounding into you, dragging that cock so deep it feels like he’s carving himself into your soul, keeping your head held high by your hair, whispering filth that makes your legs shake.
“You wanna cum, don’t you?” he growls, tone thick and mean. “Wanna fall apart right here on my cock?”
You’re shaking too hard to answer, all that’s coming out are some babbles you nor him have any energy to interpret. Somehow, your brain flashes back to that fucking TikTok. That girl that described “blue collar dick” like it was some natural disaster.
Now you’re living it.
You’re bent over on your own couch, spine arched, tears in your eyes, unable to even think as Jungkook wrecks you with his cock and whispers filthy praise in your ear like it’s his job. This is blue collar dick. This is the goddamn thesis statement of that TikTok. You’re going to send that girl flowers.
“Please,” you cry, “Please, Jungkook.”
“Yeah?” he pants, breath hot against your neck as his fingers reach down and work your clit cruelly enough to keep you from tipping over. “That desperate for it, sweetheart?”
You nod, choking out sobs, your body twitching around him, clenching hard enough that he starts to fall apart.
“Fuck,” he groans, cock twitching inside you. “You’re so tight. Keep squeezing me like that and I’m gonna cum before you do.”
You moan loud into the pillow, your whole body wrecked and burning, still locked in this purgatory he’s created, his cock fucking you deep and hard, his fingers rolling over your clit with precision, holding you right there.
“Say it,” he growls, “Tell me how bad you need it.”
“I need it, please, I need it so bad. I can’t, I’m so close, please let me cum.” Your self -control has exited the apartment.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he grits out behind you, “Fuck, baby, feel how tight you are? How bad your pussy wants to cum for me?”
You can’t answer. You’re drooling into the pillow, gasping, your body jerking with every thrust like you’re being electrocuted.
“Let go,” he groans, voice shaking. “You’re gonna cum for me now, yeah? Go on, baby. Fucking cum.”
The second his thumb presses tightly just right against your clit, you shatter. It hits you like a wave. Your body locks up, thighs clenching, back arching so hard it lifts your hips even higher as your orgasm rips through you, hot and overwhelming. You scream as your pussy clenches around his cock, pulsing and gushing as you cum so hard your vision goes white.
Your arms give out completely. You collapse forward onto the couch with a breathless sob, ass still arched up as your cunt throbs around him, wetness dripping down your thighs in sticky trails. Your face is buried in the cushion, your legs are trembling.
“Oh my fuck,” Jungkook groans, “Just like that. You feel that, baby? Feel how good it is when you cum on me?”
He curses, pulls out fast and you let out a weak little cry at the loss, at the ache he leaves behind.
But then he’s jerking himself over you, his hand wrapped tight around his cock, wrist snapping fast, hips stuttering as he pants over you, chasing his own high.
His head tilts back, bottom lip tucked under his top teeth. A deep, broken moan is ripped straight from his chest as his hips twitch forward and he spills across the curve of your ass in thick, hot ropes. His chain swings with the motion, clinking gently as he fucks his fist through it, painting your skin in messy, perfect streaks.
“Fuckfuckfuck,” he groans, his eyes squeezed shut. “You’re… fuck, baby. You’re unreal.”
You’re too far gone to speak.
You stay face-down on the couch for a full minute post-impact, naked and glazed like a donut.
Jungkook exhales somewhere behind you, like he too is processing the life-altering events that just occurred in your living room. You hear his body move as he leans back, chest rising and falling, the distinct sound of a man who just came so hard he forgot his social security number.
There’s cum on your ass. Your hair’s stuck to your cheek. The throw pillow has a bite mark in it. You are not well.
You finally lift your head a fraction of an inch. “I think I just met God.”
Jungkook lets out a soft, post-nut laugh. “Yeah?” he rasps. “Tell him I said hi.”
You look over at him from where you’re sprawled out on the couch, now on your stomach. “…So do I owe you money, or…?”
He snorts. “For what?”
“For fixing my power?” You say it like it’s obvious.. which it should be.
Jungkook leans over and smacks your ass, casual, affectionate. “Nah. This one’s on the house.”
Eventually, he helps you sit up, grabbing the nearest clean towel in your bathroom like this is all completely normal. You look at each other and you don’t know whether to laugh or cry or call your landlord and thank him for being so aggressively useless.
You’ll deal with that later.
Right now, you accept the towel, take a shaky breath. You blink at him, dazed, legs still jelly. “So if I break something else… just a hypothetical, should I call you..?”
He smirks, tugs his pants back up without bothering to button them, and says, “Depends. If you break something else, I expect a personal invitation. No middleman this time.”
You and Jungkook have been broken up for six months and the two of you have to co-parent your daughter. You may or may not still have feelings for him...
genre – parents au, exes to lovers, fluff, smut.
pairing – Jungkook X female reader.
warnings – explicit language and smut.
word count – 8k+
The second you push open the glass door of the daycare, the smell of crayons, spilled juice and some weird scent of baby powder mixed with sweat hits you.
Your feet are hurting in your stupid work shoes, your back is aching and your hair's a mess. If one more client asks you "Can you squeeze me in really quick?" you might actually lose your mind completely...
"MAMA!"
Luna's voice cuts through your thoughts. She's already halfway across the room, her chubby legs pumping and hair bouncing wildly around her cute face. Miss Ji-eun is chasing behind her with that exhausted, but fond smile teachers perfect after six months.
"Someone's been waiting for you," Ji-eun laughs, catching Luna by the back of demin overalls before she face-plants into your knees. "This little troublemaker decided that nap time was optional today. Again."
Luna crashes into you anyway with her arms up, her fingers grabbing your blouse tightly. Her cheeks are flushed, there's yoghurt in her hair and she smells like crackers and... grass? You drop your bag on the alphabet rug and scoop her up, burying your face in her neck, just to breathe her in.
"Hi baby," you whisper, making her sequel and kick her sneakers against your hip, the pink flashy ones that she loves them so much. Jungkook bought them last because he said that she needed cool shoes like her dad. You hate how much you love that.
Ji-eun hands you Luna's daily report sheet and there's a little frown face sticker next to "Listens to instructions" and a sunshine next to "Shows love to friends." Classic Luna.
"She shared her blocks with her friend Mijun during free play," Ji-eun says before lowering her voice so the other parents don't hear. "Then five minutes later she threw them across the room because he looked at her wrong. She's very... Passionate."
You snort. Yeah, passionate is one way to put it. "Tell me about it. Last she night she screamed for twenty minutes because I broke her banana in half. A felony apparently."
Ji-eun laughs with kind eyes. "She missed you today. Kept dragging that photo of you and her dad to the play kitchen, making everyone pretend to eat dinner with her Mama and Dada."
Your chest does that stupid twist it's been doing for six months straight. You forge a smile.
"Yeah, well. She–"
Luna chooses that moment to grab your face with both of her hands and plant a loud, wet kiss on your cheek.
"Mama home now!"
"We're going home baby," You hitch her higher on your hip and grab her backpack. "Say bye-bye to Miss Ji-eun."
"Bye-bye, Miss Ji!" Luna waves so hard, she nearly topples the both of you over.
In the car, you wrestle her into the car seat while she kicks and sings Baby shark... Well more like, screams it.
You're sweaty, your blouse is ruined and there's a suspicious, wet spot on your skirt that you're praying is just drool.
Luna reaches out with her tiny hands and pats your cheek. "Mama pretty." she says, matter-of-factly. You almost cry in the daycare parking lot. She's just so sweet sometimes.
────── · · ୨୧ · · ──────
The apartment smells like baby shampoo and chicken nuggets you made for dinner because it's the only thing Luna will eat without protesting.
You're on the living room floor, knees aching, trying to dress your squirming toddler into the cutest denim jacket Jungkook bought her last month. She's got one arm in, one arm out and she's doing some dance like a maniac.
"Luna, baby please. Dada's gonna gonna be here any minute. You wanna look cute for Dada, right?"
"Dada?" her whole face lights up instantly.
"Yeah, sweetheart. It's the weekend so dada's coming to fetch you." You force the words to come out cheerful, even though your stomach is knotting.
Luna starts bouncing and singing, while you chase her to dress her up properly. By the time you finally get her zipper up, she looks like a baby model.
You're stuffing her bag – diapers, clothes, her stuffed bunny and her toothbrush – when your phone buzzes on the table. It's Jungkook. You swipe answer and put it on speaker so you can fold her tiny socks.
"Hey, we're nearly ready," you say before he can even speak. "Shes been missing you and asking for you since day care. Like nonstop."
There's a pause. Then the sound of the tattoo machine buzzing in the background, along with someone laughing.
"I can't come tonight." His voice is low and regretful. "This client flew in from Japan, paid triple for a full-day session, and he wants to finish everything tonight. If I leave now I lose the deposit and–"
You laugh and it's definitely not a nice one. "Of course. Of course it's always something with you."
"Babe, I'm trying –"
"No, you're not." You're shaking a little.
Luna's staring at you with those big doe eyes, her bottom lip wobbling because you raised your voice – which you hardly ever do around her.
"You've missed two weekends with her this month. I had to beg my mom to take her last minute so I wouldn't lose my job. And now you're bailing again?"
"I'll make it up–"
"You always say that." Your voice cracks. "You know what? Don't worry about it."
You hang up before he can finish whatever half - assed promise was coming next. You leave your phone back on the table and run your hand through your hair.
"Dada coming?" Luna's asks, confused.
You drop to your knees on the rug and pull her into your chest so hard she squeaks.
"No, baby," you whisper into her hair. "Not tonight."
She doesn't cry – not right away atleast. She just pats your back like you're the one who needs comforting.
"Mama sad?" she asks.
"Yeah," you swallow the lump in your throat. "Mama's real sad."
She pulls back, grabs your face again – God, this kid and her face grabs – she plants a loud kiss on your nose.
"Luna make Mama happy. We eat ice cweam?"
You laugh at that. "After broccoli, you little con artist."
She squeals and runs circles around the coffee table, one of her shoes are already kicked off. You watch her go as your heart breaks into a million pieces. Atleast you have your sweet, silly baby girl and that's more than enough for you.
────── · · ୨୧ · · ──────
It's 11:47PM and the apartment is quite, the only sound that can be heard is the soft creak of the rocking chair you've been trapped in for the last forty minutes.
You're so tired, you just want to get up and go to bed, but every time you make the slightest movement, Luna's little first tightens in your shirt.
She's heavy on your chest, dead weight, finally drowsy after a long bedtime battle. You've done the whole routine : You had to bath her again because she dropped ice cream on herself, read her three stories and sang "Wheels on the Bus" twice.
You thought she'd be asleep by now, but her lashes start fluttering. She pops one eye open and mutters a sentence that wrecks you.
"I want Dada."
"Baby, dada's sleeping," you lie, caressing her hair. "He'll see you real soon, okay? Tomorrow tomorrow."
She stubbornly shakes her head. "No. Want dada now."
She raises her voice on the last word and her tears start to fall.
"Shh, shh..." You shift her higher so her cheek is over your heart and you rock her again, faster this time. "Mama's here, baby. Mama's got you."
But she's not having it. Her cry turns into sobs. Her whole body shakes and her legs kick. You feel that helpless panic, because you just fix this with a hug, a kiss or a snack.
"Dada sing," she wails, snot bubbling. "Dada sing Moon song!"
You know exactly what she means. Jungkook's stupid little made-up lullaby about the moon being Luna's night-light. He always sings it to her in his perfect voice. You've tried to copy it but you sound like a dying cat.
You try anyway but your voice is obviously nothing like Jungkook's
"Little moon, watching over my Luna..."
"No,Mama! Want dada."
You press your lips together so you don't start crying too. Your head is starting to pound. You're so desperate for some rest that you'd sleep on the floor if she'd let you.
"Okay, okay," you whisper, rocking her so hard that the chair groans. "No more singing. Just breathing, yeah? In and out with Mama."
She's still sobbing but it's slower now, they shallow into exhausted hiccups. You pat her back, trying to copy the rhythm that Jungkook would normally pat her back with.
Her cries turn into whimpers then into a pitiful little whine that means she's losing the battle with sleep. You keep going, even though your arm is numb and your butt is sore from the lack of movement.
"Shh, baby girl. Mama's right here. I'm not going anywhere."
"Dada... love me?" she hiccups.
You swallow a sob so loud, you're scared it might wake her right up.
"More than all the stars. He loves you so much it's stupid."
She doesn't hear the last part. Her first finally uncurls from your shirt. Her breathing evens out, and she's asleep.
You sit there for another ten minutes since you're scared to move, scared to even breathe too loud. When you finally ease out of the chair, your joints are aching! You carry her to her bed, lay her down and tuck her stuffed bunny under her arm.
She sighs in her sleep, one last tiny "Dada..." that breaks what's left of your heart.
────── · · ୨୧ · · ──────
It's just past 11AM and the apartment is finally, finally quiet. You tie off the trash bag, kick it towards the door and let out a heavy breath.
You're in a silky peach camisole and shorts you slept in (really just rolled out of bed and started cleaning, because if you sat down for a second, you'd probably start crying).
The top clings to your chest, your nipples perky against the fabric and the shorts ride up enough that your ass peeks out every time you bend just a little. You don't care about your appearance since no one's supposed to see you like this.
You're wiping down the table when three knocks tap against your door. You freeze... You know that knock. You stomp over and yank the door open without bothering with the peephole.
Jungkook's leaning against the doorframe. You don't let your eyes trail down to note what he's wearing. But, you do notice that his hair's longer and curling at the ends. He looks good, so good. He looks like he slept twelve hours and had a bath in the fountain of Beauty.
"Hours late." your voice is flat and kind if bitter.
He opens his mouth, closes it and then just nods. "I know."
You sigh and step aside to let him slide past. You turn and pad toward the kitchen. You don't see the way his eyes drop the second your back is to him.
Jungkook gaze travels down your spine, over your waist and locks on the way those silky shorts that barely cover you. The weight you've picked up since Luna (barely ten pounds – all of it's soft and lush) has settled in the exact places that haunt his dreams.
Your ass is rounder... it feels like you're moving to slowed down music that only he can hear. The silky shorts ride up with every step you take, flashing the crease where thigh meets cheek, and his mouth goes dry. He bites his lip hard.
A memory suddenly hits him :
A month after Luna was born. You were standing in from of your shared bedroom mirror in nothing but one of his oversized shirts. There were tears in your eyes, your hands were pressed on the soft pouch of your belly.
"I'm chubby now," you'd whispered. "Everything's... bigger. You don't have to pretend it's cute."
He dropped to his knees right there on the floor before you. He pushed up your(his) shirt and kissed you in every spot you thought was chubby. His palms slid over your hips and his thumbs traced your stretch marks.
"Chubby?" He laughed against your stomach. "Baby, you'll always be perfect to me."
He spent the next hour – Yes, unfortunately one mere hour, because one-month old Luna had woken up to interrupt him. He'd spent that time proving that you're his perfect woman.
He had been kneading the extra softness you grew, his hips slammed into you as you screamed his name.
He'd told you over and over again that you were the sexiest and most beautiful woman on this planet. He couldn't keep his hands off you and he knew that he would be ruined for life.
He made you come twice before flipping you over to take you from the back so he could watch your perfect ass bouncing while you begged him to take you harder.
"This body grew our daughter. You think I'm not gonna worship every single inch of it?"
Back in the present, Jungkook blinks hard, dragging himself out of the memory. His jeans are suddenly way too tight. You disappear into the kitchen, oblivious.
"She's asleep. Don't wake her up or I swear I'll murder you and dump your body in the Han River."
He exhales shakily, adjusts himself without thinking and follows you toward the kitchen. He wants to say that he loves how fiesty you are, but then again – you probably mean what you're saying so he wouldn't want to push your buttons more than he already has.
You slam the coffee tin down on the counter harder than you mean to. Your hands shake as you scoop up the powdered coffee to pour into a cup.
You're not even sure if you want coffee anymore. It's just something to do with your hands so you don't turn around and slap that stupid, perfect face of his.
Behind you, Jungkook walks closer to you until you can kind of feel him standing behind you. He's close, way too close. You can smell his cologne, the one he's had even when you two were still a couple. Before it gave you comfort, now it makes your stomach twist.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I know I keep saying it, but I really am. I fucked up last night. I should've told the client to reschedule. I should've –"
"Should've what, Jungkook?" you turn the faucet on, trying to drown his voice, but he doesn't stop.
"Been here. For her. For you."
You feel his warm breath on your neck and his hands hovering over your waist. His hands also shake a little, since he's practically fighting himself not to touch you.
"Don't." you warn.
But he does. His fingers brush your sides, they're light at first then a bit firmer. They wrap around your waist in that way he used to when he'd pull you back against him in the mornings, before everything went to shit. He tugs you gently, turning you into his chest.
"Y/N, please. I'm sorry. Let me make it right."
For a second, you almost lean in. He's so warm and you can feel his heart hammering against you. But then your anger surges back bitterly. You shove at his chest with both hands.
"Get off me." you free yourself from him.
Jungkook's hands drop to his sides and the look on his face – it's almost pathetic. His eyes are wide, his lips parted like you just slapped the shit out of him.
He takes a step back, nodding once then twice, like he's trying to convince himself it's fine.
"Okay. Yeah. I'm sorry." He runs his tattooed hand through his hair, tugging at the roots.
It hurts him – this rejection. Much more than he'll ever say out loud. He's tried, he's tried so hard. Leaving flowers on your doorstep two months after the breakup. Drunk and sober texts in the middle of the night, telling you that he missed you. He once showed up at your mom's house one evening, hoping you'd see how desperate he was, without him having to spell it out for you. He even cancelled a convention gig once, drove three hours in the rain just to hold Luna while you napped.
But you always push him away. Like you've built a wall around yourself to make sure he stays out. And yeah, it's his fault. He gets it. But it still stings.
Jungkook lingers in the doorway, his arms crossed now, subtly watching you.
"I'll just... Wait in the living room. For her to wake up."
"Fine." you mutter, not bothering to even glance at him.
He turns, makes his way to the couch and sinks onto it with a loud sigh.
A few minutes tick by – maybe about seven. It's been quiet. You're busy in the kitchen and you haven't said a single word to him.
Soon, soft footsteps patter down the hallway. Luna appears in the doorway to the living room, rubbing one eye with a chubby fist. She's dragging her stuffed bunny by one ear behind her. Her hair is wild and she's still in her cute pajamas with one sock missing. She looks so sleepy, like she can drop back to sleep any second. That is until she sees Jungkook.
"Dada!"
The tiredness evaporates immediately. Her whole face splits into a grin and she bolts, arms out toward her dad. Jungkook's off the couch in a heartbeat, scooping her up before she can trip over her own feet.
"Hey, princess! There's my girl!"
She squeals, wrapping her arms around his neck like a koala, kicking her legs in pure joy.
"Dada! Mama, Dada here!"
You peek around the corner and your lips twitch at the sight. Luna's giggling now, planting soft kisses on his cheek and Jungkook's laughing too.
The living room turns into a jungle gym in ten seconds flat. Jungkook has Luna up over his head like she's an airplane, her little arms spread wide as he zooms her around the coffee table.
"Incoming missile!" he roars and she shrieks with the loudest laugh.
"Dada, higher! Higher!"
He obliges, tossing her into the air and catching her against his chest with a dramatic "OOF!" that makes her loudly giggle again. She grabs his nose, his ears, his lip ring, anything she can reach.
"Missed you, missed you, missed you," he says between kisses, peppering them all over her cheeks, her forehead and the tip of her nose.
His voice is extremely soft and gentle, a voice he'd never use with anyone else. "Daddy missed his baby so much." Luna squeals again.
Front the kitchen, the smell of food fills the apartment. You've got the rice cooker hissing and chicken sizzling in a pan.
Jungkook's trying not to look at you, but he can't help it. His eyes keep sliding over you while Luna chatters in his ear about her week – he can't understand most of what she's saying, but still – the sound of his daughter's sweet gibberish is one of his favourite things to listen to.
You feel his stare burning into you, but you don't turn around. You just focus on cooking up lunch.
"Five more minutes, you lunatics," you call over the noise. "Wash those dirty hands before you touch anything else."
Luna wriggles down from Jungkook's arm and barrels toward the bathroom, yelling, "Dada help! Dada help!"
He follows, laughing, letting her drag him by two fingers.
When they come back, Luna's got water splashed all over her pajamas and Jungkook's shirt is damp at the hem, but they're both grinning and beaming like they won the lottery.
He lifts her onto the counter stool, buckles the little booster seat and steals a carrot piece from the cutting board before you can smack his hand away.
"Thieves get no dessert," you warn, almost playfully.
Jungkook grins with his mouth full and Luna copies him, crunching loudly and swinging her little legs.
You set three bowls on the table : two glass bowls for you and Jungkook, and a plastic one for Luna. You dish up steaming rice, chicken and cucumbers cut up into stars because Luna refuses to eat them any other way.
You watch Jungkook help Luna scoop rice with her spoon, the way he wipes the sauce off her chin then without thinking, licks it clean.
Your chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with anger or heartache. You love them. You love the way Luna's eyes turn into little half-moons when she laughs at her dad's goofy faces. You love the way Jungkook's voice drops into that gentle register he only uses with your daughter. You love how, for five stupid minutes, the three of you fit together like a little family.
You sit across from them and let yourself smile. "Eat your stars, baby." you tell Luna.
She holds one up. "Look, Mama! Star for Dada!"
Jungkook catches it when she flings it at him, pops it into his mouth and winks at you over your daughter's head.
────── · · ୨୧ · · ──────
The sun's dipping low now. Jungkook's got Luna on his hip, her necessity bag slung over his shoulder and her little dinosaur backpack bouncing against his thigh.
Her head is calmly resting against his neck, hair tickling his jaw. One thumb is in her mouth and the other hand is clutching the collar of his t-shirt tightly.
You zip the necessity bag after checking it one last time. Making sure there are diapers, spare pajamas and teething gel. After that, you cup Luna's face.
"Bye, my baby." you whisper, pressing kiss after kiss to your daughter's face. "Mama loves you so much okay? So, so much. Be good for Dada. Use your words. No throwing food at Uncle Jin when he FaceTimes. And if you wake up at night, tell Dada to sing the Moon song, not the dinosaur one because that one makes you hyper."
Luna giggles softly. "Moon song, Mama. Pwomise."
You give her another kiss and another. You can't stop. Your lips find new spots – the shell of her ear, the small birthmark on her temple, the corner of her mouth.
Jungkook watches the whole thing with a quiet and fond smile, he used to give you when you'd dance around the kitchen at night pregnant and craving junk food.
When you finally straighten up, eyes a little glassy, Jungkook shifts Luna higher and he leans forward, puckering his lips in the most dramatic pout known to man kind.
"Where's my kiss?" he whispers, wiggling his eyebrows.
You don't even blink, you just roll your eyes at him. "In your dreams, Jeon."
He pulls back, clutching his chest like you stabbed him. "Wow. Ice cold. My own daughter gets a million kisses and I get rejected in 4k."
Luna (bless her tiny heart) reaches out and pats his cheek. "Dada kiss!" She plants a big, wet, open-mouthed smooch right on his lips.
Jungkook's whole face melts. "That's my girl. Atleast someone loves me."
You snort before giving a small smile. "Text me when you get home. And if she spikes a fever, call me before googling anything. I swear Jungkook if she comes home sick again –"
"I know, I know, you'll end my bloodline." He's already backing toward the door, Luna's head lolling against his shoulder.
"We'll be fine. Say bye-bye princess." Jungkook tells her.
"Bye Mama!" she waves floppy fingers. "Love you!"
Your throat closes. You blow one last kiss. "Love you more." The door clicks shut behind them.
For a few seconds you stand there, trying to hear his footsteps leaving but then you hear Jungkook's voice through the door, talking to Luna.
"Don't worry, baby. Mama's just grumpy. She'll give Daddy kisses again one day. We'll wear her down. Team Jeon never quits."
The sound of the footsteps retreat down the hall. You press your forehead against the door, fighting a smile...
It's already Sunday evening and you're three episodes deep into some trash movie while drinking a glass of wine.
The apartment is too quiet. No naughty toddler demanding juice and snacks, no tiny feet stampeding across the floor.
You had the longest bath in human history, shaved your legs, painted your toes. It's been heavenly. You check your phone to see what Jungkook and Luna have been up to yesterday.
At 10:12AM, Jungkook sent photo of Luna playing on a swing with a big grin on her face and wild hair.
At 10:45, he sent a video of her trying to feed a penguin a pretzel at the zoo.
Then at 2:30PM, he sent a photo of the two of them. He looks tired, Luna is passed out on his bare chest, drool puddled on his tattoo, with the caption : "Someone refused to nap until 2 seconds ago.
That photo makes you stare way too long. Jungkook shirtless, his tattoos on full display. Luna's little hand curled over the inked writing he got for her first birthday.
The same chest you used to fall asleep on almost every night. You zoom in like a creep, then immediately feel pathetic and lock your phone, before opening it again because Jungkook texts again right now.
Jungkook [4:12PM]: She really wanted this, I couldn't say no🥴 *sent a photo of Luna in the mall, holding the biggest teddy bear you've ever seen*
You [4:14PM] : you're the weakest man alive. also why is that bear bigger than me?? where is it even gonna sleep?
Jungkook [4:15PM] : on top me apparently, "Mr fluffy needs Dada to keep him warm"
You [4:16PM] : tell mr fluffy he can have my spot on your chest. i've been replaced by a toddler and a stuffed bear 😓
You hit send before you can overthink it, then immediately regret every life choice that has led to this moment. Shit, what are you doing?
The three dots appear, disappear and appear again.
Jungkook[4:17PM] : ur spot's been empty for 6 months, baby. teddy's just keeping it warm for u
Your stomach flips and you get a weird sensation in you belly that can be described as collywobbles.
You [4:20PM] : smooth, Jeon. real smooth.
Jungkook [4:20PM] : I try. also she's currently eating ice cream for dinner... Don't look at me like that, it's the rainbow flavour :(
You [4:22PM] : THAT IS NOT FOOD. you're spoiling her rotten.
Jungkook [4:22PM] : she looked at me with ur eyes, what was I supposed to do?? say no to those eyes?? impossible 🙅🏻♂️
You bite your lip unconsciously.
You [4:23PM]: you're lucky she's cute and i miss her face... both of your faces, i guess 🙄
Jungkook [4:23PM] : we miss urs too. counting down the hours tbh.
Another photo comes through : Luna on his lap at the kitchen counter, ice cream smeared across her cheeks, giving the camera a toothy grin while Jungkook kisses the top of her head, eyes closed with the softest smile you've ever seen... Your heart does something complicated.
You [4:26PM]: tell her mama's waiting with broccoli and no screen time, tell yourself... I'll think about the spot thing.
Jungkook [4:27PM] : broccoli threat noted. Spot thing bookmarked, highlighted and underlined. see you tomorrow ❤️
You lock the phone, press it to your chest and groan into the empty living room. You might be screwed.
It is now the evening and you're now currently pushing out of the convenience store with a plastic bag swinging from your hand.
You thought you'll have this last night all to yourself, but you realize that you actually miss your little rascal more than expected.
You came by the store for essentials – a few groceries, milk and tampons.
Jungkook's apartment is only two blocks away. Why wait until tomorrow morning? You'll surprise them, scoop Luna up early and avoid that Monday morning rush.
You pull out your phone to call Jungkook. It rings, but he doesn't pick up. His phone is probably on silent or maybe him and Luna are making too much of noise to hear it ring.
You get to his apartment and make your way up the stairs. Your heart rate picks up a little because showing up unannounced feels... bold. But it's for Luna. You knock and you hear muffled voices inside – laughing and deep voices.
The door swings open and Jungkook's standing there, a beer bottle dangling from his fingers. His eyes widen, surprise flashing, before his face breaks into an easy smile.
"Y/N? Hey, everything okay?"
"Yeah, fine. I was in the neighbourhood – convenience store run." you pick up the bag as proof. "Tried calling, but...anyway, figured I'd grab Luna early. Save you the morning drop off."
He blinks, then steps aside, gesturing you in. "Uh, sure. Come in. She's crashed out in the bedroom, we had a fun weekend."
The apartment smells like pizza and faint weed smoke. And his friends are sprawled on the couch and floor.
Yoongi in the armchair, with his own drink, Taehyung cross-legged on the rug with a controller in hand and Minho leaning against the kitchen counter, smirking.
"Boys," Jungkook says, closing the door behind you. "You remember Y/N."
Yoongi nods, chill as ever. "Hey, long time."
Taehyung waves and grins. "Sup Y/N? Luna's been telling us all about her mommy."
Minho pushes off the counter, his eyes lingering on you as he steps closer.
"Y/N,damn. Looking good. Motherhood suits you." His tone lowers and his gaze flicks over your figure, admiring it. You just laugh it off.
"Thanks, Minho. Been a while..." You turn to Jungkook. "So, where's my girl?"
"In my room," he says, jerking his head toward the hall. "Go check on her. She's out cold, but you know how she is – might wake up if she hears your voice."
You nod, slipping past them with a quick "Nice seeing you guys" tossed over your shoulder.
The bedroom door creaks open and you find Luna curled peacefully under a blanket on Jungkook's king-sized bed with her thumb in her mouth.
The massive teddy bear from the mall photo is beside her like a guardian. Your heart squeezes at the sight of your precious baby. You sit gently at the edge, brushing some strands of hair from her forehead, whispering,
"Hey, sleepyhead. Mum's here."
Back in the living room, the vibe changes the second you're out of earshot. Minho let's out a low whistle.
"Holy shit, Jungkook. Your baby mama's even hotter now. That ass in those jeans? Post-baby glow or whatever – they weren't lying. Thicker in all the right places."
Yoongi shakes his head. "Dude, chill."
But Minho doesn't, the beer loosens his filter too much. "Nah, for real. I'd hit that in a heartbeat. Bet she's wild now – mom bod like that? Imagine bending her over, grabbing those hips, making her–"
Jungkook's blood boils. He's been half - listening, scrolling his phone but the words hit him. The beer bottle clatters to the floor as he lunges.
Before Minho can utter the next words, Jungkook's got him by the collar, yanking him up and slamming him against the wall with a thud that rattles the frames.
"The fuck did you just say?" Jungkook's face is inches from Minho's. His knuckles whiten as he pins Minho harder. "That's the mother of my kid, you piece of shit. Say that again. I dare you."
Minho's eyes go wide, not expecting his friend's sudden protective outburst. He picks up his hands in surrender but there's still a smirk twitching on hips lips.
"Whoa, easy –"
"Shut your mouth," Jungkook snarls, shoving him more for emphasis. "You don't talk about her like that. Ever. Or I'll break your fucking jaw."
Taehyung's on his feet now, pulling at Jungkook's arm. "Hey, cool it. He's just talking shit."
Yolngi stays seated but his voice comes out loud. "Jungkook, let him go. Not worth it."
Jungkook's chest heaves, frustration boiling over – Not just from Minho, but at everything now.
The breakup he mainly caused by himself, the weekends he's flaked and the way you sometimes look at him with a mix of longing and disappointment. And now this asshole he called a friend, reducing you to some fantasy? He releases Minho with a shove and steps back.
In the bedroom, you hear some commotion. Thuds, raised voices and maybe a curse or two. Luna stirs, her brows furrowing in her sleep and a whimper escapes.
Your head snaps toward the door, confused. What the hell? You lean over Luna, rubbing her back.
"Shh, baby, it's okay. Go back to sleep."
Luna sighs, nestling closer as you stroke her hair. But your mind races – what's going on out there? Jungkook sounds so pissed.
The living room falls silent and tense. Minho straightens his shirt with a forced laugh.
"Didn't know you were still whipped."
Jungkook glares, his fists still balled. "Get out. Now."
Minho grabs his jacket, muttering something under his breath, but he leaves. Jungkook runs a hand through his hair. He should've known better than to let them hang over when Luna was here. And you, if you heard any of that, you'd be so mad.
A minute later, you peek out with your eyebrows raised.
"Everything okay? Sounded like World War Three."
Jungkook forces a tight smile. "Yeah. Just guys being idiots. Minho left."
You nod, not buying it entirely but Luna's soft snores pull you back.
Days have passed since your unexpected pop in at Jungkook's place. It's Wednesday evening now, and you're not okay.
Your blouse if half untucked, your hair escaping it's former beat bun in untidy strands. Luna's been screaming since you picked her up from daycare.
Apparently she bit her friend Minjun, threw sand at some kids and gave Miss Ji-eun a hard time today. The teacher's polite smile had cracked into pure exhaustion when she handed Luna over and muttered, "Rough day."
Rough day is an understatement.
The second you're inside, Luna flings her backpack, kicks off her shoes, throws them somewhere and starts a tantrum.
You try everything. Milk, Bluey, ice cream. But nothing works. You're on the verge of tears yourself. You grab your phone and decide to call Jungkook. You hardly ever call on weekdays, but you're desperate. He picks up on the second ring.
"Hey, what's-"
"I can't," you cut in. "Just... Please come. I can't do this tonight."
He doesn't ask any questions. "I'll be there in ten minutes."
He makes it over in eight minutes. You open the door, he takes you in before reaching for your screaming toddler. Luna's still wailing, face red and splotchy but the second she spots him, she stops.
"Dada?"
"Hey, little monster." He scoops her up, one arm under her butt, the other hand patting her back. "We do not make Mama cry, you hear me? That's rule number one."
Luna sniffles, burying her face in his neck. You just stand there, arms wrapped around yourself, watching him easily take over.
"Go shower," he tells you softly. "I got this."
You don't argue. You disappear into the bathroom, let the hot water wash away your rough day and change into the softest pajamas you own.
When you come out, the apartment is quiet. Jungkook is in the kitchen, one hip against the counter, stirring something in Luna's favourite bowl. He's got her perched on the counter beside him, legs swinging, happily eating pieces of banana that he feeds her.
"Someone was just hungry and real tired," he murmurs, not looking up. "And missing her dada."
You lean in the doorway, arms crossed and throat tight. He cleans Luna up, carries her to bed and sings for her. You're in the living room, curled on the single couch, knees to your chest.
When Jungkook comes back, he doesn't say anything at first, he just sits in the middle of the three-seater couch with his legs spread.
"Come here."
You're too tired to pretend that you don't want to. You shuffle over, standing between his thighs, staring at your fuzzy socks. Tears embarrassingly slip out before you can stop them.
"Hey," his voice drops to this gentle thing he never uses with anyone else, not even with Luna. "Look at me, baby."
You do, the tears keep falling. Jungkook reaches up, thumbs brushing them away so gently, it hurts.
"Whats going on in that head, hmm?"
"Everything sucks," you whisper. "Work was hell, my body is aching, I'm gonna be bleeding soon. I'm emotional. Our kid turned into a little dictator today and I just –" you take a breath. "I'm so tired, Kook."
He doesn't mention the use of his old nickname slipping out. He just slides his hand to your hips and tugs you until you're straddling his lap, your knees sink into the couch on either side of him.
He wraps his arms around your back, pulling you into his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head.
"I know," he murmurs into your hair. "I know how hard you try every single day, being the best mom in the world."
You cry a bit harder, your face buried in his neck, hands fisting his shirt.
"I got you," he whispers, rocking you side to side like he does with Luna after she has nightmares. "I'm here, Y/N."
You don't know how long you two stay like that. Long enough for the tears to slow, for your breathing to match his and for your chest to loosen a little
Your face is tucked into Jungkook's neck, your breath warm against his skin. You've melted against him, chest to chest, thighs spread over his. This is the closest you've been in six months.
Your fingers slide up the back of his neck, gently scraping over his scalp and threading through the soft hair at his nape.
You do it again, scratching his scalp in lazy circles. Jungkook's eyes flutter shut without permission. A low, involuntarily sound rumbles in his throat.
Fuck, he missed this. Miss your hands, missed the way you know exactly how to touch him, missed how you know all his weak spots.
You shift a little, hips moving forward like you're trying to get closer. The movement makes your core press right against him.
He feels heat flaring low in his stomach. He's half hard already (has been since you climbed onto his lap, if he's being honest). Your pajama shorts are so thin, he can feel your warmth.
When you move against him again, his hands tighten on your waist by pure instinct. Jungkook's brain short-circuits. Are you... Do you feel that? Do you know what you're doing to him?
You sigh a shaky exhale against his collarbone, your nose nudging just under his jaw. Your nails keep moving, scratching gentle at the roots of his hair – the way you used to when the two of you would lazy-fuck on early mornings and when you wanted him to fuck you deeper.
His hips twitch up before he can stop, it's like a reflex. That movement earns a soft, almost-soundless whimper from your throat.
Jungkook freezes. You freeze too, for a second, then relax again, like nothing happened. Your thighs tighten around him and you decide to roll your hips against him once more.
Jungkook's heart is hammering so hard, he's scared that you might feel it. His hands slide down to grip the backs of your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft skin just under the hems of your shorts.
He doesn't dare say anything. Because if he's reading this wrong, if you're just emotional, clingy and riding the emotional rollercoaster and not actually aching for him the way he's aching for you, he'll ruin everything. Again.
So he stays quiet, breathing through his nose, letting do what you want on him. Letting you scratch him until his eyes cross, letting you press as close as you want, letting you feel exactly what you do to him.
His fingers flex against your thighs, a silent question he's too scared to voice. Your lips brush the shell of his ear, almost a kiss. You don't move away and Jungkook thinks that maybe, just maybe, he's not imagining it after all.
"... Kook." your voice comes out a little whiny.
His cock jerks hard against the inside of his pants and he has to swallow a groan.
"Yeah?" he rasps.
His hands slide up higher, fingers curling over the swell of your ass, squeezing it gently but desperately at the same time.
"Tell me what you need, baby."
Your tongue flicks out, tracing his earlobe, you catch it between your teeth for half a second before letting go.
"Help me," you whisper. Your hips move again, grinding yourself along the hard line of him. "I'm hurting, Kook. I need you to make it stop."
That plea cracks something in him. He doesn't ask if you're sure nor does he give you time to second guess. He surges up, mouth crashing onto yours, swallowing the little gasp you make when he flips you.
Your back hits the couch cushions, legs still wrapped around his waist. He grins down hard, letting you feel exactly how fucking desperate he is.
"Anything," he growls against your lips, sounding wrecked. "Anything you want, I'll give it to you."
You bring his mouth back to yours, kissing him like you're starving, your teeth clashing and your tongue sliding in his mouth.
Your thighs clamp tighter around his waist, ankles locked at the small of his back.
You break the kiss and pant against his lips. "Fuck me, Jungkook. Please."
He can't quite believe his ears. He yanks his hoodie off and tosses it somewhere across the room. Your eyes go wide and glassy, eye-fucking him like you forgot how beautiful he is.
Jungkook comes back to kiss you stupid. One of his hands is braced beside your head, the other goes down, straight between your legs. He doesn't bother with the shorts, he just shoves the fabric aside and groans when his fingers find you.
"Fuck –"
"Shh," you hiss, but it turns into a whimper when he sinks two fingers deep inside you and curling them just right. You're dripping, coating his hand as his fingers move. "Luna's –"
"I know, I know," he whispers, but he can't stop the moan that rumbles out of him. He pumps his fingers faster as his thumb circles your clit. It hasn't even been long but you're already close. Your thighs tremble and nails rake red lines down his shoulders.
"Kook, I'm gonna–"
"No," he growls, pulling his fingers out to lick then clean.
You desperately whine at the loss, but he's already shoving his pants and boxers down to free himself. His cock slaps heavy against your thigh, leaking at the tip. The sound you make is pure filth.
"I need to be inside you," he groan. "Six months, Y/N. Six fucking months."
He pulls your shorts and panties down your legs in a rough tug, then yanks your top over your head.
You're naked underneath him now, a few stretch marks across your hips, your breasts fuller than he remembers, your nipples perky and begging. His eyes actually sting.
"Look at you..." he manages to choke out. "You're so fucking perfect."
He drops his mouth to your chest, sucking hard on one nipple then the other,, leaving marks across your skin. You arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt.
Jungkook lines up at your entrance, rubbing the tip of his throbbing cock along your slit twice, coating himself. Then he pushes in slowly, watching your face the whole time.
You're tighter and warmer than he remembers. The way you moan, makes his vision blur. Your legs tighten around his waist, heels digging against his ass, pulling him deeper until he's buried to the brim. You both still, breathe ragged, trying to listen if Luna might've woken. When you hear nothing, you carry on.
"Move," you whisper shakily. "Please move."
He does. Slow and deep thrusts into your pussy, pulling out almost all the way before sinking back in. Each thrust earns a beautiful moan from you.
He keeps his pace slow at first, savouring you. Six months of dreaming about this exact moment has him in a daze.
"Still so fucking tight," he groans against your neck, bucking in deep. "Taking me so good, baby. You're made for me."
You can only whimper, legs tightening to pull him impossibly deeper.
Your eyes become glassy, tears spiking over as you claw at his shoulder.
"Kook, I'm –"
"I know, baby. I feel it." he pants.
Your walls clench and unclench around him. You're close, so fucking close, and again, it's only been a few minutes.
Six months without a single touch has made you a bit easy. He bucks his hips hard, the couch creaking under you, skin slapping against skin in the quiet room.
Your nails rake down his back, deep enough to leave more marks. He hisses at the sting that only makes him go faster now.
"Come for me," he growls against your ear.
Your whole body locks up, a broken cry rips out your throat as you come. Your pussy claps down so tight around him, it's almost painful.
Jungkook is right there too. After a short while, he pulls out before he releases inside you. His first wraps around his cock, jerking himself twice before he releases across your stomach with a groan.
He shakes as he presses his forehead to yours, trying to remember how lungs work.
"Fuck," he whispers. "Tell me this was real."
You don't answer with words. You roll over, getting on your hands and knees Your back is arched, your ass is up and head turned so you can peek at him over your shoulder.
Jungkook's brain falters. But he gets into position behind you. His hands spread you open before he presses open-mouthed kisses to the round, perfect swell of your ass. First the left cheek then the right cheek. He bites one softly and you gasp.
Then he straightens, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise and slams into you in a hard thrust. You both moan loudly and you just hope that Luna doesn't wake up...
The angle is devastating. He's deeper than before, meeting spots inside you that makes you scream into the cushion. He sets a fast pace, hips snapping and balls slapping against you. The sound of that and the wetness of you fills the room.
Your arms give out so you drop to your elbows, your face pressed into the couch as you moan his name. Jungkook gathers your messy ponytail, wraps it around his fist and yanks your head back until your spine arches beautifully.
He leans over, his chest to your back so that his mouth finds yours in a mess and desperate kiss. His tongue dominates and he swallows every sweet sound you make because of him. You hum into it needily and your fingers reach back to dig into his thigh.
"Harder," you say against his lips. "Don't stop, please don't stop–"
He won't and he can't. He's so high on the way you're taking him. Another orgasm is building in you, he can feel it by the way your walls flutter again.
Jungkook tightens his grip on your hair and his hips piston faster. You can hear and feel his ragged breath against your ear.
"Come on, baby. Come for me. I'm right behind you."
Your second orgasm comes, your walls pulsing wildly around his cock. You moan way too loud as your fingers dig into the couch.
"Fuck, yes –" he grits out, fucking you through it.
He wants to bury himself inside you forever, fill you until you're dripping. The thought dangerously flashes in his head.
At the last second, sanity kicks in. He pulls out with a groan, his fist wrapping around his cock to stroke it hard.
He squirt his release on your ass. He watches it paint your skin before it drips down.
You collapse forward, burying your face in your arms. Your body is limp and trembling from aftershocks. You're gasping, whimpers fade into heavy breaths and then... Nothing. Your eyes flutter shut and you're out.
Pretty much passed out right there, ass still up, marked by him and looking like one of his beautiful dreams. Jungkook slumps back on his heels, staring at you in awe.
His cock softens against his thigh but his heart is still pounding loudly. He can go again. He'll gladly flip you over and slide back inside, make you come a third time just to hear you beg his name.
But he looks at you – you're limp, lips parted in sleep and he knows better. You're done. Wiped out from the day and the strenuous exercise he just made you endure.
He takes a breath, wipes the swear from his forehead with the back of his hand and gently rolls you onto your side.
"Hey, baby," he whispers, brushing away wet hair from your forehead. "Let's gets you cleaned up."
You mumble something incoherent and your eyes crack open to register him before shutting again.
Jungkook scoops you bridal style, your head lolling against his chest and legs dangling. He carries you to the bathroom, sets you on the counter and turns on the shower.
The steam fills the bathroom as he helps you under the warm spray. You're half-asleep through it all, leaning heavily onto him as he soaps you and cleans you up – kissing you a few times in the process.
By the time he towel dries you, you're snoring. Cute, little sounds that make his chest ache. He laughs under his breath, shaking his head as he carries you to bed.
After dressing you in some new pajamas and himself in his old shirt and pair of boxers he found, he tucks you in and slides in beside you.
You immediately curl into him, your arm over his waist and face pressed to his chest, legs tangling with his.
Jungkook just lies there staring at the ceiling, one of his hands circle patterns on your back. He can't believe this. His heart's still racing and his mind is spinning.
What if the two of you can just work things out? Atleast, one more time?
A/N – I don't know if I'm shadow-banned on Tumblr but if this doesn't get any hype I'm going to delete it and repost it again because it took me so long 🥴.
Can I make a vday request? 🥺 Joey not feeling in the mood to go out for Valentine’s Day because packed restaurants all over the place and he rather stay home. He gets her something cute anyway, but girly is the one pampering him all day. Joey fully pillow princess while she takes over 🥺
Your stories are everything. It makes my day reading them ♥️🥺
parings: joe burrow x reader
wc: 5500 (i think)
an: i’ve never written joe being a full-on pillow princess before, so this was a really fun side of him to explore. there’s something about letting him be the one unraveling instead of always in control that just… hit. i hope you like it, anon. 🤍
also! i have a poll going to decide if we keep the valentine’s day marathon going or pivot to other requested content (hello, stoned joe 👀). it’s here — please go vote!
It started on a Sunday morning, a week before Valentine’s Day.
You were half-asleep, face buried in his chest, one of his legs hooked over yours in a way that should have been uncomfortable but wasn’t. The bedroom was gray with early light, and neither of you had moved in at least twenty minutes. His hand was doing that thing it did in the mornings — tracing slow, absent lines up and down your spine like he was running through a play in his head, but his fingers hadn’t gotten the memo.
“Hey,” he said. Voice rough. Morning-low.
“Mm.”
“On a scale of one to ten—”
“It’s too early for scales.”
“—How would you feel if I cancelled the Valentine’s Day reservation I made?”
You opened one eye. He was staring at the ceiling, jaw working slightly, which meant he’d been thinking about this for a while and had been waiting for a window to bring it up. Classic Joe — sitting with something for days before testing it on you like a trial balloon.
“What restaurant?” you asked.
He told you. It was nice. Really nice, actually. The kind of place with a three-month waitlist and a dress code.
“When did you even get that reservation?”
“November.”
You propped yourself up on your elbow. “You made a Valentine’s Day reservation in November?”
“I was being proactive.” He still wasn’t looking at you. “But now I’m thinking about it, and it’s gonna be packed and loud, and I’ll spend the whole night being aware of people’s phones and—” He rubbed his face with one hand. “I just want to be here. With you. I don’t want to perform a date.”
You looked at him — this man who’d booked a restaurant three months in advance because he wanted to do the right thing, and was now lying in bed at 8 AM trying to figure out how to undo it without disappointing you.
“Joey.”
“Yeah.”
“One.”
He finally looked at you. “One what?”
“One. Cancel it. I’d rather have you on this couch in sweats than in a restaurant pretending you’re not counting the exits.”
Something in his face loosened. Not a lot — just the jaw, just the shoulders dropping half an inch back into the pillow. But you knew what it meant.
“You sure?” he asked, because he was always going to ask twice.
“I’m sure.” You dropped back down against his chest, pressing your face into the warm skin below his collarbone. “Besides. You in sweats is my favorite version of you.”
His arm tightened around you. His mouth found the top of your head.
“Okay,” he said. And you felt him reach for his phone on the nightstand with his free hand, already pulling up OpenTable before you’d even finished the conversation.
You smiled into his chest.
The reservation was cancelled before either of you got out of bed.
---
Valentine’s morning started with Joe being annoying about breakfast.
You’d set your alarm for 6:30, planning to have coffee and something warm waiting before he surfaced from whatever REM cycle currently had him in a chokehold. But when you padded into the kitchen, he was already there — leaning against the counter in grey sweats and nothing else, hair a disaster, eyes barely open, the coffee machine already gurgling behind him.
“No,” you said from the doorway.
He looked up. “No, what?”
“Go back to bed.”
“I’m making coffee.”
“I see that. Go back to bed.”
He studied you for a moment, one of those long, quiet looks that meant he was deciding how much to push back. Then he reached for a mug. “I’m already up.”
You crossed the kitchen, took the mug out of his hand, and set it back on the counter. His fingers twitched at the loss of it, but he didn’t reach for it again.
“Today,” you said, looking up at him, “you don’t do anything.”
“That’s not—”
“Not a negotiation.” You pressed your palm flat against his chest, right over his heartbeat. It was slow, still heavy with sleep. “You take care of everyone, Joey. All the time. Today you let me.”
He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you with that particular expression — the one that lived somewhere between skepticism and wanting to believe you. His hand came up to cover yours against his chest. Warm. Automatic.
“I don’t know how to do that,” he said. Quiet. Not a joke.
“I know.” You turned your hand under his, lacing your fingers together. “That’s kind of the point.”
He exhaled through his nose, jaw shifting like he was physically biting back a counterargument. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
“I said fine.” He turned toward the living room, then looked back. “But I’m making my own coffee. You put too much sugar in it.”
“I do not put too much sugar in it.”
“You do.” But he was already reaching for the coffee maker, so you let him have it.
He almost smiled. Almost. “Couch?”
“Couch.”
---
You brought him coffee the way he liked it, set it on the side table, and when he reached for the remote, you handed him the blanket instead.
“I’m not sick,” he said, but he took the blanket.
“I know you’re not sick. But you never let anyone do anything for you unless you’re injured, and I’m not waiting for that.”
Something in his jaw shifted. He didn’t argue — just pulled the blanket over his lap like he was humoring you. Which he was. But he was also staying put, so you’d take it.
You made French toast because it was his favorite and you’d gotten good at it — the trick was stale bread and too much cinnamon, which wasn’t really a trick at all, but Joe acted like it was every time.
When you brought the plate over, his eyebrows lifted.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Eat.”
He took the plate. Cut a piece. Chewed slowly, and something in his face went quiet — not sad, just far away for a second. The way he got sometimes, when food tasted like a memory he wasn’t expecting.
“Good?” you asked.
He nodded, still chewing. Then, after a second, “My mom makes it like this. The cinnamon.”
“I know.”
He looked at you. You looked back. Neither of you made it a thing.
“Eat your breakfast, Joey.”
He did.
---
The gift came after.
He’d been fidgeting for twenty minutes — that restless energy he carried when he had something he wanted to say or do but was waiting for the right moment. You’d noticed, of course. He wasn’t subtle when he was like this, no matter how much he thought he was.
“Okay,” he finally said, standing up from the couch. “I know you said today’s about me, but I need you to let me do one thing.”
“Joe—”
“One thing.” He held up a finger. “Then I’ll sit back down and let you do your whole thing.”
You narrowed your eyes. “One thing.”
He disappeared into the bedroom and came back with a small box — not jewelry-box small, but not big either. Matte black, no bow, no wrapping paper. Simple. Like him.
He sat beside you and held it out, not with any ceremony, just extending it toward you as if it were obvious. Like giving it to you was as natural as breathing.
You opened it.
Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a bracelet. Delicate gold chain, thin enough to be barely there, with a small charm — a tiny, imperfect crescent moon. Not polished or pristine. It looked almost hand-carved, slightly asymmetrical, like someone had made it rather than manufactured it.
“It’s not—” Joe started, then stopped. Tried again. “You said something once. About how you liked the moon better when it wasn’t full. Like, just a sliver. You said the full moon was overrated and the little ones were prettier.”
Your chest went tight. You remembered saying it — a throwaway comment on his back porch, two glasses of wine deep, looking up at the sky while he sat beside you with his hand on your knee.
“I found a jeweler who does handmade stuff,” he said, watching your face with that careful attention he gave to everything that mattered to him. “Each one’s a little different. I liked that this one wasn’t perfect.”
You ran your thumb over the charm. The tiny ridges of it. The warmth of gold that had been sitting in a box in his bedroom, waiting.
“Joey.”
“If you don’t like it—”
“Put it on me.”
He took the bracelet from the box, and you held out your wrist. His fingers were precise — surgeon-steady, athlete-trained — but gentle as he worked the clasp. The chain settled against your skin, light as a whisper.
His thumb brushed across your pulse point before letting go. A habit. A signature.
“I love it,” you said. “I love that you remembered.”
“I remember everything you say.” It came out matter-of-fact, like he was stating a statistic. But his eyes were warm when they met yours, and the tips of his ears were pink.
You cupped his face and kissed him — slow, deliberate, trying to say everything that words would have made too heavy. He leaned into it, one hand finding your waist, and for a moment you just stayed there, mouth on his, the morning light pooling around you like something out of a painting neither of you would ever hang.
When you pulled back, you pressed your forehead to his.
“Okay,” you whispered. “That was your one thing.”
“That was my one thing.”
“Now sit back down and let me love you.”
He laughed — quiet, real, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”
---
By noon, you had him on the floor.
Not in any exciting way — though the look on his face when you’d told him to lie down suggested his brain had briefly gone somewhere else entirely. But no. This was about the knots in his shoulders that he’d been carrying since training started, the tension in his lower back that he mentioned once and then never again because acknowledging pain wasn’t something Joe Burrow did willingly.
You’d laid out a thick blanket, grabbed the oil you kept in the bathroom cabinet — unscented, because he was particular about that — and pointed at the floor.
“Shirt off. Face down.”
“You’re very bossy today,” he observed, but he was already pulling his shirt over his head.
“You like it.”
He didn’t deny it.
Joe settled onto the blanket, arms folded under his head, and you straddled his lower back, settling your weight carefully. He was warm beneath you. Always warm. His skin was smooth over the hard architecture of muscle underneath, and you could see the tension he held — right there, in the rigid lines of his shoulders, the cords of his neck that never fully relaxed.
You poured oil into your palms, rubbed them together, and pressed your hands flat against his upper back.
He made a sound. Low, involuntary, surprised — like his body had been waiting for this and hadn’t told his brain.
“When’s the last time someone did this for you?” you asked, working your thumbs along the ridge of his spine.
“Trainer. Last week.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s getting paid and he doesn’t love you.”
Joe went quiet at that. You felt it in the way his breathing shifted — not deeper exactly, but more deliberate. Like he was choosing to stay present instead of deflecting.
You worked in silence for a while. Found the knot below his left shoulder blade that made him hiss through his teeth when you pressed into it. Spent time there, patient, feeling the resistance give way slowly beneath your fingers.
“That’s—” He exhaled hard. “Jesus.”
“Bad?”
“No. Just—” Another breath. “I didn’t know that was there.”
“You never do.”
You moved to his neck, cradling the base of his skull with one hand while the other worked the tight muscles on either side. His hair was soft against your fingers, still messy from sleep. You felt the exact moment he stopped holding himself up — the subtle surrender when he let the full weight of his head rest in your palm.
You swallowed hard. Kept going.
You traced down the column of his neck to his shoulders, spreading your hands wide across the breadth of him. He was built like a contradiction — lean enough to be fast, solid enough to take a hit, but underneath all of it was a body that absorbed every impact and stored it somewhere he didn’t talk about. Every sack. Every late hit. Every surgery scar that had faded to a thin white line but never fully disappeared.
Your fingers found one now — the faint ridge along his right wrist where the pins had been. You pressed your mouth to it without thinking. A small thing. A reflex.
Joe’s breath caught.
“Sorry,” you murmured against his skin. “I just—”
“Don’t apologize for that.” His voice was rough. Muffled by his arms. “Don’t ever apologize for that.”
You kissed the scar once more, then moved on.
His lower back was the worst — years of pocket pressure, of bracing for contact, of standing in a way that protected his knee without realizing he was overcompensating. You dug your thumbs in on either side of his spine and felt him tense, then release, then tense again.
“Breathe,” you reminded him.
“I am breathing.”
“You’re holding your breath and clenching your jaw. That’s not breathing.”
He huffed out a laugh into the blanket. “You sound like my PT.”
“Your PT doesn’t do this after.” You leaned down and pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades. Then another, lower. Then another. A trail of warmth down the valley of his spine, your lips finding each vertebra like you were counting them. Like you were saying, I know you’re tired without making him admit it.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But something in him shifted — you felt it under your hands, under your mouth. The last wall of resistance crumbling like sand. His body went heavy against the floor, muscles releasing in a wave that started at his shoulders and rolled all the way down.
You stayed there. Hands moving slowly now, more touch than technique. Tracing the topography of him — the width of his back, the ridges of his ribs, the dip at his waist where your hands fit like they’d been designed for exactly this. Your palms slid over oil-warmed skin, and you weren’t working out knots anymore. You were just… being with him. Learning him again the way you did every time he let you this close.
“You carry so much,” you said, quiet enough that he could pretend he didn’t hear it if he wanted to.
He didn’t pretend.
“I know,” he whispered.
That was the thing about Joe. He knew. He always knew. He just couldn’t put it down on his own.
You bent forward, pressing your cheek against his back, and felt his breathing beneath you — slow, deep, finally even. Your arms slid around him as far as they could reach, your body draped over his like a second skin.
“You don’t have to carry it today,” you said.
His hand found yours against the floor. Squeezed once and held on.
---
The afternoon was easy.
You made him stay horizontal for most of it. He fought you on it, because of course he did — got up twice to refill your water glass, once to check his phone when it buzzed (you confiscated it), and once just because he couldn’t stand being still and someone else doing the moving.
“Sit down,” you said for the fourth time, pushing gently on his chest.
He caught your wrist. “I’m not a golden retriever.”
“You’re right. A golden retriever would listen.”
He gave you a look — flat, unimpressed — and you grinned, and then he was fighting a smile too, and the whole bit fell apart the way it always did between you.
He sat down.
You put on the documentary series about the ocean he’d been meaning to start. Made popcorn. Brought him a Body Armor without asking. When he reached up to help you set things on the table, you swatted his hand away, and he leaned back with his arms crossed, watching you with a look he was trying to pass off as annoyed but wasn’t.
He wasn’t used to this. You knew that. Not the acts themselves — people did things for Joe all the time. Agents, assistants, trainers, staff. But those were transactional. Professional. This was someone choosing to take care of him with no agenda, no obligation, no expectation that he’d perform or produce anything in return.
This was someone saying you are enough when you’re doing nothing.
And for a man who’d built his entire identity around what he could do, that was disorienting.
You could see him trying to metabolize it. The way he’d reach for you and then stop himself, unsure if pulling you close counted as “doing something.” The way his eyes followed you around the room with a focus that would have been unnerving from anyone else, but from Joe, just felt like being held without hands.
Halfway through an episode about humpback whale communication, you felt his arm slide around your waist. He pulled you into his side, tucked you under his chin, and pressed his mouth against the top of your head.
“Hey,” he said into your hair.
“Hey.”
“I don’t know how to just… take.”
“I know.”
“It feels wrong.”
You tilted your head to look at him. His face was close, eyes serious, that furrow between his brows that appeared when he was wrestling with something internal.
“Joey,” you said. “You give me everything. Every single day. You give me your attention and your time and your patience and your loyalty. You remember things I forget I said. You show up even when it’s hard.” You touched his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble he hadn’t shaved. “Letting me give something back isn’t a weakness. It’s trust.”
He held your gaze for a long time. Long enough that you could see the words land, settle, take root somewhere behind his ribs.
Then he exhaled — shaky, almost — and pulled you closer.
“Okay,” he said. Just that.
And you felt the weight of what that one word cost him. What it meant, coming from someone who’d spent his whole life earning love through performance.
Okay, I’ll let you.
Okay, I’ll try.
Okay, I trust you enough to stop.
You pressed a kiss to his collarbone and stayed there, listening to the whales sing through the speakers and the sound of his heart finally, finally slowing down.
---
By evening, the kitchen smelled like cumin and lime and the chorizo you’d been browning on the stove. Nothing fancy — just tacos, because Joe liked them and because making a whole production out of dinner would’ve defeated the point of staying in. You’d set everything out on the counter like a little assembly line: warm tortillas under a towel, bowls of toppings, a cutting board of avocado you’d sliced too early so it was already starting to brown at the edges.
You’d lit candles. Not because you were trying to set a mood, but because the overhead lights in his kitchen were harsh and you’d always thought the space needed help. The flickering glow caught on the clean lines of his countertops, softened everything, made the room feel less like a showroom and more like somewhere people actually lived.
Joe leaned in the doorway, watching you plate the food. His hair had dried from the shower he’d finally been allowed to take — unsupervised, though you’d considered following him just to make sure he didn’t start cleaning the bathroom out of restless habit.
“You know,” he said, arms crossed, one shoulder against the frame, “I could have helped with dinner.”
“You could have.”
“But you wouldn’t let me.”
“But I wouldn’t let you.” You carried both plates to the table and pulled out his chair. “Sit.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m enjoying this so much, Joey. You have no idea.”
He sat. Picked up his fork. Took a bite and paused, chewing slowly with that evaluative expression he wore when he was taking something seriously.
“This is really good,” he said, and it wasn’t flattery — it was genuine surprise, which was almost more flattering.
“Don’t sound so shocked.”
“I’m not shocked. I’m impressed.” He was already building a second one. “You made the chorizo from scratch?”
“The seasoning, yeah. The meat is just from the store. I’m not insane.”
He grinned — open, easy. The kind of smile he kept locked away from cameras and press rooms and everyone who wasn’t sitting at this table right now.
You ate together. Talked about nothing important — the documentary, a text from his mom, a debate about whether octopuses were smarter than dolphins that he took unreasonably seriously. He kept reaching across the table to touch your hand, your wrist, the new bracelet sitting delicately against your skin. Like he needed to confirm you were real. Like the day had made him feel something he didn’t quite have language for yet, and touching you was the closest he could get to articulating it.
After dinner, you washed the dishes while he dried — the one concession you allowed because he’d looked so genuinely lost sitting at the table with nothing to do that you’d taken pity on him.
He stood beside you at the sink, towel slung over his shoulder, handling each plate with that careful precision he brought to everything. Your hips bumped. Water splashed. His elbow knocked yours, and he didn’t apologize, just moved closer.
“Today was—” He stopped. Held a plate, staring at it like it might finish the sentence for him.
You waited. Didn’t push. Just kept washing, letting him find it.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever done this for me,” he said finally. “Not like this.”
You turned off the water. Looked at him. His eyes were on the dish towel now, folding it with the exact same precision he folded everything — corners matched, edges neat, a tiny act of control in a day that had asked him to let go of it.
“Like what?” you asked. Not because you didn’t understand. Because you wanted to hear him say it.
His jaw worked. That familiar struggle — the feeling arriving before the words did, and him chasing it, trying to catch it with language that never felt adequate.
“Like I was enough,” he said. “Without doing anything.”
The kitchen was quiet. Candlelight flickered. The faucet dripped once.
You took the towel from his hands, set it on the counter, and stepped into him. Your arms went around his waist, your cheek pressed against his chest, and you held on — not tight, not desperate, just steady. The way you’d hold something precious. Something that might not believe it deserved to be held.
His arms came around you slowly. One hand at the small of your back. The other cradling the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair.
He didn’t say anything else.
You stood there in his kitchen, swaying slightly in the candlelight, no music, no sound but breathing. Two people who’d chosen each other not for what they could do but for who they were when they stopped doing.
After a long time — minutes, maybe — Joe pressed his mouth to the top of your head.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he murmured into your hair.
You smiled against his chest. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Joey.”
His arms tightened. Just a little. Just enough to say everything he couldn’t.
And you held him there, in the quiet, in the stillness, in the soft and unspectacular center of a love that didn’t need to perform to be real.
It just was.
---
You weren’t sure who moved first.
One moment you were swaying together in the candlelight, his mouth warm against your hair, and the next his lips found the spot below your ear and lingered there — not a kiss exactly, just heat, just the drag of his mouth across your skin in a way that made your breath catch and your fingers tighten against his back.
“Joe,” you murmured.
“Mm.” His hand slid lower, settling at the base of your spine. His thumb traced a slow circle there, and you felt the intention in it — the shift from comfort to something else. Something deeper.
You pulled back enough to look at him. His eyes were dark. Not heavy the way they’d been all day — soft with rest, warm with gratitude. This was different. This was the low fire he carried beneath all that composure, the one that only came out when every wall was already down.
“Come to bed with me,” you said.
His jaw shifted. You watched the thought move through him — the instinct to take over, to pull you against him and walk you backward down the hall with his hands in your hair and his mouth on your neck. You knew that version. You loved that version.
But that wasn’t tonight.
“Same rules,” you added. “You don’t do anything.”
Something flickered in his expression — caught between wanting to argue and wanting to see where you’d take him.
“That’s—” He exhaled, a quiet laugh pressed against your temple. “That’s not how this usually goes.”
“I know.” You took his hand and laced your fingers through his. “That’s the point.”
---
The bedroom was dim. Just the lamp on his nightstand and the thin glow of the moon through the window, casting everything in amber and silver. You led him in, and the shift in his body language was immediate — the controlled ease he carried in shared spaces tightening into something more alert. More aware. He knew what was coming, and he was already bracing himself to take the wheel.
You didn’t let him.
You turned to face him, your back to the bed, and placed both hands flat against his chest. His heart was faster than you expected — he hid it well, but his pulse was hammering under your palms.
“Sit down,” you said softly.
He searched your face, that assessing look he gave to everything. Then he sat on the edge of the bed without a word, hands settling on your hips as you stepped between his knees.
You stayed standing, looking down at him. He tilted his head up, and something about the angle — Joe looking up at you, throat exposed, jaw soft, waiting — made your chest ache with the intimacy of it.
You cradled his face in both hands. Ran your thumbs along his cheekbones, down the line of his jaw, across his lips. Just looking at him. Taking him in like you hadn’t already memorized every angle of his face months ago.
Slow. So slow his hands flexed at your waist like the patience was costing him. You kept it gentle, your mouth soft against his, your fingers threading into his hair. He groaned — quiet, involuntary — and tried to deepen it, tried to pull you down into his lap, tried to tip the axis back toward what he knew.
You didn’t let him.
“Lie back,” you murmured against his mouth.
He hesitated. You could feel it — every muscle in his body coiled to resist, to redirect, to take over. This was a man who controlled everything. The pocket. The play. The press conference. The room. His body didn’t know how to surrender unless it was too wrecked to fight.
But his eyes stayed on yours, and something in them softened — not defeat, just trust — and he leaned back, lowering himself onto the bed, arms falling to his sides.
You climbed over him, knees bracketing his hips, and settled your weight against him. His hands came up immediately — ribs, waist, the small of your back — already mapping, already trying to participate.
You caught his wrists. Pinned them gently against the mattress beside his head.
“No,” you said.
His breath caught. Not from the restraint — you weren’t holding him hard enough for that. From the meaning of it.
“I can’t just—” He swallowed. “I need to touch you.”
“You will. After.” You brought one of his hands to your mouth, kissed the center of his palm, then pressed it back against the sheets. “Right now, you just feel.”
He looked up at you like you were asking him to step off a cliff.
Maybe you were.
---
You started slow. Unhurried. Because that was the thing Joe needed most and tolerated least — someone taking their time with him.
You kissed his forehead first. Then his temple. The bridge of his nose, because it made his eyes flutter shut. The corner of his mouth, where his smirk lived when he wasn’t hiding it.
Then you moved lower.
His jaw. The hollow of his throat. That spot at the juncture of his neck and shoulder that always made his breathing change — there. Right there. You felt the catch, the slight arch of his body toward yours, and you stayed, pressing your mouth to his pulse point until you’d memorized the rhythm of him.
“You spend so much time performing,” you said against his collarbone, lips dragging over bone. “On the field. In front of cameras. Even with people who love you, you’re always giving them the version you think they need.”
You kissed the center of his chest. Felt his ribs expand beneath your mouth.
“But I don’t want a version, Joey.” Lower. Across his stomach, the muscles are contracting under your lips. “I just want you. Exactly like this.”
His hand moved — you felt his fingers twitch against the sheets, fighting the urge to reach for you. He made a sound, quiet and strained, like the words were landing somewhere he didn’t have armor for.
You pulled his shirt up slowly, and he lifted — just enough to help you get it over his head. The compliance of it, the way he surrendered the movement without trying to take control — that told you more than anything he could have said.
You sat back, straddling his hips, and just looked at him. The lamplight painted him gold — the lean definition of his chest, the cut of his shoulders, the way his stomach rose and fell with breaths that weren’t quite steady. His hair was a mess against the pillows, jaw tight, eyes dark and half-lidded, watching you watch him with a vulnerability he couldn’t have faked if he tried.
Your hands found his chest. Palms flat, fingers spread wide. You felt the heat of him, the dense muscle beneath skin that was softer than it had any right to be. You traced the topography of him the way you’d traced his back that afternoon — not clinically, not like a trainer looking for injury, but like someone memorizing a landscape they never wanted to leave.
Down his ribs. Across the sharp plane of his hip. Along the line of muscle that disappeared beneath his waistband.
His hips shifted under you. Involuntary.
“Easy,” you murmured, pressing him down with a hand on his stomach. “I’ve got you.”
“You’re killing me,” he managed, voice cracked open in a way you rarely heard.
“I know.” You leaned down and kissed just above his navel. “Let me.”
---
You took everything off him slowly. Piece by piece. Like unwrapping something sacred.
His sweats first — he lifted his hips without being asked this time, and you dragged them down his legs, your fingers trailing behind the fabric. Then his briefs, your knuckles grazing the sharp lines of his hips, the soft skin of his inner thigh.
Joe’s breath was audible now. Not ragged — not yet — but deliberate. Controlled the way his breathing was controlled before a snap. The last thing he had left to manage.
You didn’t rush. Didn’t reach for him right away.
Instead, you knelt between his legs and kissed the inside of his knee. Then higher. The inside of his thigh, where the muscle was taut and warm and trembling just barely enough that you knew he was holding back with everything he had.
“You don’t have to hold back,” you said against his skin.
“If I don’t hold back, this is going to be over embarrassingly fast.” The joke was there, but his voice was too wrecked for it to land the way he wanted. His hand found your hair, not guiding — just resting there, fingers curling loosely through the strands like he needed something to hold.
You kissed higher. The crease of his hip. The flat plane below his navel. He sucked in a breath that sounded like it hurt.
And then you took him in your mouth, slow, and his whole body went taut beneath you.
“Fuck—” The word fell out of him broken, his hips twitching once before he caught himself. His hand tightened in your hair, then loosened, like he didn’t trust himself to grip.
You kept your pace slow. Deliberate. Not teasing — reverent. Your tongue moved over him in long, dragging strokes, your hand wrapping around the base, finding a rhythm that was less about urgency and more about making him feel every second of it.
Because that was the point. Not getting him there — keeping him here. In his body. In this room. With you.
His thighs tensed under your free hand. You felt the effort it cost him not to move, not to thrust, not to take control of the pace. His breath came in sharp, bitten-off sounds — like he was trying to stay quiet by instinct, like even here, even now, he didn’t fully trust himself to let go.
You pulled back enough to speak, your lips still brushing the head of him. “Joey.”
His eyes opened. Heavy. Hazy. The green of them was almost swallowed by black.
“You don’t have to be quiet.” You kissed him, right there, and felt his whole body shudder. “Not with me.”
Something in his face changed. Not a lot — he was still Joe, still composed even at the edges of composure. But the jaw unclenched. The breath he’d been holding released. And when you took him back into your mouth, the sound he made was open. Unguarded. The kind of sound he didn’t let anyone hear.
You took your time with him. Learned him all over again — what made his breath hitch, what made his hips cant forward despite himself, the exact pressure that pulled that low, broken groan from somewhere deep in his chest. You weren’t performing. You were worshipping. And he knew it, and that was the part that was undoing him.
“Baby—” His voice cracked. His hand slid from your hair to your jaw, cradling it, thumb brushing your cheek. The tenderness in the gesture, right in the middle of everything else — it hit you in the chest like a fist. “You gotta — I’m—”
A warning. Trying to give you an out.
You didn’t take it.
You took him deeper, hollowed your cheeks, and felt the exact moment he broke — his hips lifting off the bed, his hand tightening on the sheets, a sound ripping out of him that was half your name and half something wordless and wrecked.
You held him through it. Steady. Warm. Present. Let him give you everything — every pulse, every shudder, every raw, unfiltered sound he made as his body finally, finally let go of whatever it had been carrying.
When it passed, you pulled back slowly. Kissed the inside of his thigh. Rested your cheek against it and just breathed, your hand still stroking his hip in slow, calming circles.
Joe stared at the ceiling, chest heaving. One arm flung across his eyes. The other reached blindly for you until his fingers found your shoulder, your neck, the curve of your jaw.
“Come here,” he said. Rough. Barely there.
You climbed up his body and settled against him, your cheek on his chest, your legs tangling with his. His arm locked around you immediately — tight, like he was afraid you’d disappear. His heart was pounding beneath your ear, frantic and gradually slowing, returning to a rhythm that sounded like safety.
He pressed his mouth to the top of your head and held it there.
“I—” He stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. “I don’t—”
“You don’t have to say anything,” you whispered.
“No, I—” His voice wavered, and the sound of it — Joe’s voice, always so steady, always so sure — wavering like that made your eyes sting. “I want to. I just don’t know how to say what that was.”
You lifted your head to look at him. His eyes were bright. Not crying — but close. Closer than you’d ever seen.
“It was love, Joey,” you said simply. “That’s all it was.”
He looked at you for a long time. Then he pulled you down and kissed you — deep, slow, with a tenderness that felt like an answer to a question he hadn’t known how to ask.
When he broke away, his forehead rested against yours, and he breathed you in.
“Your turn,” he said, voice low.
You shook your head. “Not tonight.”
“That’s not—”
“Tonight was about you.”
He pulled back, something stubborn flickering through the softness. “You really think I can just—”
“Yes,” you said, smiling. “Because you promised. Same rules.”
His jaw worked. You could see the war in him — the need to reciprocate, the ingrained belief that receiving without giving was a debt. The absolute inability to let someone do something for them without immediately paying them back.
“Joe.” You traced the line between his brows, smoothed it away with your thumb. “You can take care of me tomorrow. And the next day. And every day after that. But right now, you let this be enough.”
He stared at you.
And then — slowly, like it cost him something fundamental — he exhaled. His body settled back against the mattress. His arms tightened around you.
“Okay,” he said. The same word as before. But heavier now. Fuller.
Okay, I’ll let you love me without earning it.
Okay, I’ll trust that this is real.
You kissed his jaw. His chin. The corner of his mouth. Then you tucked yourself against his chest, your ear over his heart, and let the silence settle around you like a blanket.
---
Later — much later — you lay tangled together, warm under sheets that smelled like him. His head on your chest, your fingers in his hair, his breathing deep and even against your skin. The lamp on his nightstand was casting the room in amber. The house was silent in a way that felt less like emptiness and more like peace.
His hand rested over the bracelet on your wrist, thumb tracing the crescent moon charm in absent, repetitive strokes.
“Hey,” he said, half-asleep, voice thick and low.
“Mm?”
“Next year, I’m taking you somewhere.”
You smiled. “You don’t have to.”
“I know.” His thumb stilled against the charm. “But I want to. Somewhere with no one around. Just us.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, Joey.”
He pressed a kiss to your collarbone — lazy, barely there — and settled back against you with a sigh that carried the weight of everything he’d let go of today.
You kept your fingers moving through his hair, slow and rhythmic, until his breathing evened out completely and his body went heavy with sleep.
The moon hung low through the bedroom window. Just a sliver. Honest and imperfect and not trying to be anything more than it was.
You watched it until your own eyes grew heavy, your hand still resting in his hair, the gold chain warm against your wrist.
And the last thing you thought, before sleep pulled you under, was that this — this quiet, unspectacular, entirely ordinary kind of love — was the thing worth keeping.
Ohhhh Daisy this was so beyond perfect. Wow. His vulnerability and his NEED to give, give, give that she slowly chipped away at and helped him unlearn… you captured this beautifully, bravo my love 🩷
Can we have one where Joe gets jealous of his girls reaction to bad bunny during the halftime show !!
parings: Joe Burrow x Reader 🏈🎤
wc: 4400
an: super bowl oneshots won so i'm pausing valentine's day for super bowl content. thank you guys for voting and being involved here in the community. if you want to be added to the tag list let me know. also @cozygirljay did something similar in the jealous joe/half time vein that is wonderful — please go check it out here.
Wanna binge all my work? Here’s the masterlist. Got a question or just wanna say hi? Drop something in the ask box. And if you wanna be the first to know when new chapters drop, message me, and I'll add you to the taglist.
Halftime
He’d been quiet all day.
Not his usual quiet. That was the kind you’d gotten used to over the months—the comfortable stillness draped over him like a second skin. Sometimes it came when he was thinking, or tired, or just existing in his body without needing to fill the air. That quiet was easy. That quiet was Joe.
This was different.
This was tight-jawed. Phone-checking. Watching-the-pregame-too-hard quiet. The kind of quiet that had a pulse.
You didn’t ask. You’d learned that much by now — that pressing Joe when he was wound up only wound him tighter. So you kept things easy. Made snacks. Let him have the remote. Curled into the corner of the couch while he sat forward with his elbows on his knees, watching the coverage like he was studying film.
Which, honestly, he probably was.
You knew what today was doing to him, even if he’d never say it. It had been almost four years since he’d stood on that field in LA—Super Bowl LVI. That one ended with the Rams hoisting the trophy and Joe walking off with his jaw so tight it could’ve cracked concrete. So close, since then. The AFC Championship the following year, just a few plays away from getting back. Then the wrist. Then this past season—the toe, the surgery, nine weeks on his couch watching his team lose without him. He came back for Thanksgiving only to watch the whole thing slip further away. Six and eleven. Again.
And now he was here. On your couch. Watching someone else’s Super Bowl.
You reached over and squeezed his knee. Didn’t say anything. Just let your hand rest there.
He glanced down at it, then at you. Something behind his eyes softened — barely, just a fraction — and his hand came down over yours. He didn’t lace your fingers together. Just held. Like he needed the weight of it.
“You good?” you asked, keeping your voice light.
“Yeah.” He gave your hand a squeeze. “Just watching.”
You let it go. Sank back into the cushions. Pulled the blanket over your lap, stealing a chip from the bowl on the coffee table. On screen, the commentators rattled off halftime predictions. Your own pulse kicked up a notch.
“I still can’t believe Benito’s doing the halftime show,” you said, more to yourself than to him.
Joe's mouth twitched as he looked over. "Yeah, you've mentioned that. Once or twice. Every day for three weeks."
“And you know every word now, so you’re welcome.”
Joe shot you a dry look. "I know every word because you held my aux hostage any time we’ve been in the car."
“And you liked it.”
He didn’t deny it. Just gave you a look — that dry, unreadable one that meant he was choosing not to argue because he knew you were right. You grinned and turned back to the screen, bouncing a little in your seat.
---
The second the halftime lights dropped, you were done pretending to be calm.
The stage erupted—bass hitting so hard you felt it in your chest, even through the TV speakers. Bad Bunny appeared. You lost your entire mind.
“OH MY GOD.” You were on your feet before you even registered moving, hands flying to your mouth. “Oh my God, Joe — LOOK.”
He leaned back on the couch, watching you with an expression that was — for the moment — genuinely amused. That half-smile, the one that crinkled the corner of his eyes. He was entertained. You were entertaining him.
You didn’t care. Not even a little.
The first song rolled into the second — one you’d played for him on repeat, one he definitely knew the words to, whether he’d admit it or not — and you were singing along, hips moving, pointing at the screen like you were in the crowd. The Spanish came out easy and loud, and you caught Joe’s eyebrow lift at a lyric you were pretty sure he’d learned to translate by now.
“Baby, LOOK at that choreography — are you seeing this?”
“I’m seeing something,” Joe said, and you were too far gone to catch the shift in his tone.
Because Bad Bunny was doing the thing — the body roll, the one from the music video you’d replayed approximately one thousand times — and you grabbed Joe’s arm hard enough to leave marks.
“Oh my God,” you breathed, actually breathless, your grip tightening on his bicep. “He’s so — Jesus Christ. That man is unreal.”
And that was the moment.
And that was the moment everything shifted. You didn’t see it happen—you were too busy watching the screen, flushed and grinning, your whole body buzzing with the performance. But beside you, you could sense the amusement start to drain from Joe’s face, his jaw tightening, his eyes fixed on the TV but no longer seeing it. Something in the room grew tense, the air shifting as his mood changed from entertained to distant, the way he got when he was processing something he didn’t want to feel.
You danced through the next two songs. Sang every word. At one point, you climbed onto the couch cushion to get a better angle, like being six inches taller would somehow put you closer to the stage.
Joe didn’t move. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t reach for you.
His phone was in his hand now. The screen stayed dark. His thumb ran along the edge of the case in that restless pattern you’d come to recognize.
By the time the halftime show ended — Bad Bunny was dancing off the field, fireworks exploding— you were breathless and sweaty and grinning so hard your cheeks hurt.
You collapsed back onto the couch beside him, flushed and loose-limbed, riding the high.
“That was the best halftime show I’ve ever seen,” you declared, reaching for your water. “Like, objectively. Historically. Of all time.”
You turned to him, still buzzing. Expecting—what? A sarcastic comment. A dry observation. The amused shake of his head that usually followed your enthusiasm.
Instead, you got nothing. Joe was looking at the screen, but his face was closed off—his features carefully arranged, the openness from earlier gone. You recognized this: the poker face, the one he used in press conferences when asked questions he hated, not the softer version he wore for you.
The buzz in your chest dimmed, replaced by a twinge of anxiety. You could feel the energy between you shifting, charged with something uncertain.
“Hey.” You nudged his knee with yours. “What’d you think?”
“It was fine.” His voice was flat. Controlled. “Good production.”
Good production. Like he was reviewing a spreadsheet.
You studied him — the tight line of his jaw, the way he’d moved just far enough away that your knees weren’t touching anymore. The micro-distance. The phone in his hand was like a prop he didn’t need.
The game came back on. Joe watched it. You watched him.
Two plays passed. Then three. He hadn’t looked at you once.
You replayed the last twenty minutes in your head. The dancing. The screaming. The —
Oh.
Oh.
Something warm and incredulous bloomed in your chest. You bit the inside of your cheek, hard, because if you smiled right now, it would be over.
“Joe.”
“Hm.” He didn’t look away from the screen.
“Are you jealous right now?”
The silence that followed was so sharp you could’ve cut yourself on it.
Joe answered immediately, still focused on the game. "No."
“You are.” You turned your whole body toward him, pulling your leg up onto the couch. “You’re jealous. Of Bad Bunny. Who is on a television screen. In a stadium two thousand miles away.”
His jaw ticked. “I’m watching the game.”
“Joe.” You softened your voice, the teasing edge fading. Because you knew this terrain — knew how fast humor could become a wall if you pushed too hard. “Talk to me.”
He exhaled through his nose. His jaw worked once, twice. You could almost see the deflection forming — I’m fine, it’s nothing, can we just watch the game — but it stalled somewhere between his brain and his mouth.
The silence stretched. On screen, someone scored. Neither of you reacted.
He finally spoke, voice low and tight. "It's not about him."
You waited. Didn’t push. Didn’t fill the space. Just stayed.
His thumb pressed hard into the edge of his phone case. “I should be there.” The words came out rough, like they’d been sitting in his chest all day and he was tired of holding them. “That’s my — I’ve been to that game. I’ve been on that field. And instead I’m sitting here watching because my fucking toe —”
He stopped. Swallowed. His eyes were still fixed forward, but they weren’t seeing the screen anymore.
“Four years,” he said softly. Four years since LA. And every season since then, something—" He stopped, his hand flexing on his thigh. "It’s fine. I’m being—"
“Don’t say stupid.”
He looked at you then. Finally. And the expression on his face made your chest ache — not anger, not coldness, but something rawer than that. Something embarrassed and exposed, like he’d shown you a wound he hadn’t meant to uncover.
“And then you’re —” He gestured vaguely at the TV, at you, at the space where you’d been dancing. His jaw tightened. “Looking at him like that. Moving like that. And I’m just sitting here.”
There it was. All of it. Not just Bad Bunny. Not just your reaction. The Super Bowl he wasn’t playing in, the field he wasn’t standing on, the seasons that kept ending wrong — all of it funneled into this one small, human moment of watching you light up for someone who wasn’t him while he sat where he didn’t want to be.
You moved slowly. Gave him time to see you coming. Then you climbed into his lap — one knee on either side of him, hands light on his shoulders — and dropped there, close enough that he couldn’t look anywhere but at you.
He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t reach for you either. Just sat there, hands at his sides, that guarded look still flickering behind his eyes.
You cupped his face. Tilted it toward you.
“Joseph Lee Burrow,” you said, quiet and sure. “I don’t care how good Bad Bunny looks.”
His mouth twitched. Just barely. Fighting it.
“I mean it,” you continued, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “That man could serenade me personally in three languages, and I’d still rather be right here. On this couch. With your grumpy, jealous, too-proud-to-admit-it ass.”
The fight went out of his jaw. His eyes searched yours — looking for the lie, the performance, the part where you were just saying what he wanted to hear. Checked your words against your face like he was reading a defense.
You held his gaze. Open. Unwavering. I see what you’re doing, and I’m not going anywhere.
Something cracked behind his eyes. Not dramatic — just a quiet release, like a breath he’d been holding for hours finally leaving his chest.
His hands came up. Found your hips. Fingers pressing into the soft fabric of your shorts like he was reminding himself you were real, you were here, you were choosing to be in his lap instead of anywhere else in the world.
“Yeah?” he asked, and his voice was rough, but there was something underneath it now — not vulnerability exactly, but the space where vulnerability lived when he let it.
“Yeah.” You leaned in, your forehead against his. “And hey, you’re going to get back there. You know that, right?”
His eyes closed. Just for a second. When they opened, something in them was different — still raw, still exposed, but calmer now. Like you’d touched the thing that actually hurt, and it hadn’t destroyed him.
“Yeah,” he said. Quiet. Almost to himself. “I know.”
You kissed him.
Soft at first. Just your mouth on his, your hands still cradling his face, giving him somewhere to land. He let you lead for a moment — let you be gentle with him in a way he’d never ask for.
Then his hands tightened on your hips, and the gentleness caught fire.
He kissed you back like he’d been holding it in all day — the frustration, the longing, the quiet ache of watching his life happen without him in it. One hand slid up your back, fingers pressing between your shoulder blades. The other gripped your thigh, pulling you closer, and you felt the shift in him — the moment vulnerability tipped into something hungrier. Something that needed to prove and claim and feel instead of think.
You gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his grip tightening like he wanted to take that too.
“Joe —”
“Shh.” His mouth dragged down your jaw, your throat. His teeth grazed the spot below your ear — the one he’d mapped weeks ago, the one that made your whole body go liquid — and you felt him smile against your skin when you shivered. “I’m making a point.”
“What point?” you managed, breathless.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. Eyes dark. Jaw set. That sharp, quiet intensity that had nothing to do with football and everything to do with the way you were pressed against him.
“That you don’t need a halftime show.”
His mouth found yours again, and this time there was nothing restrained about it. His hands moved like he was memorizing you — hips, waist, ribs, the dip of your spine — each touch intentional and possessive in a way he usually kept leashed.
You rolled your hips against him, and he groaned into the kiss — low, rough, the sound vibrating through your chest. His fingers dug into your thighs, guiding you, setting a rhythm that made your head fall back.
“Look at me,” he said, voice low and frayed at the edges.
You did. And the expression on his face nearly undid you — desire, yes, but underneath it something more fragile. Something that was asking without words: Am I enough? Even like this? Even sidelined and bruised and not where I’m supposed to be?
You pulled his shirt over his head. Pressed your palms flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat hammer beneath your hands.
“You’re the only thing I want to watch,” you whispered against his mouth. “The only thing I want to feel.”
He made a sound — not a word, just a raw, broken exhale — and then his arms were around you and he was standing, lifting you off the couch like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. His mouth stayed on your neck the whole way down the hall, teeth dragging across your pulse point, hands gripping your thighs hard enough that you’d feel it tomorrow.
He knew his way to your bedroom by now. Didn’t hesitate, didn’t bump into anything — just carried you through the warm, cluttered hallway of your apartment like he’d memorized the path. When he set you down on the edge of the bed, it wasn’t gentle. Your back hit the mattress, and he was over you before you could breathe, one hand bracing your head, the other already sliding under your shirt.
“Joe —”
“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he said against your throat, and his voice was wrecked — low and rough and stripped of every layer of composure he usually wore. “Sitting on that couch watching you dance around in these little shorts, singing in Spanish like you were trying to kill me.”
His hand shoved your shirt up, palm dragging hot across your stomach, your ribs, until his thumb grazed the underside of your breast and your back arched off the bed.
“That wasn’t — I wasn’t trying to —”
“Yeah, you were.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the hunger in his eyes made your breath catch. “You just didn’t know who you were doing it for.”
He kissed you again — harder this time, deeper — and stripped your shirt off in one motion. His mouth dropped to your collarbone, then lower, lips dragging a slow, bruising path down the center of your chest. He wasn’t rushing. That was the thing about Joe — even when he was wound up, even when the want was rolling off him in waves, there was precision underneath. Purpose.
He was making a point.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts and pulled them down in one smooth tug, taking everything with them. The air hit your skin, and you shivered, but his mouth was already there — kissing your hip bone, then the inside of your thigh, teeth scraping lightly against the soft skin.
“Joe.” Your voice cracked on his name. Your hand found his hair, fingers twisting in it. “Please.”
He looked up at you from between your legs, and the expression on his face — dark eyes, swollen mouth, jaw tight with want — almost broke you before he even touched you.
“Please, what?” Low. Rough. Not teasing. Asking because he wanted to hear you say it.
“Touch me. I need you to —”
His mouth was on you before you finished the sentence.
Your hips jerked off the bed, and his arm came down across your stomach, pinning you flat. He didn’t ease into it — just pressed his tongue against you like he had something to prove, and God, he did. Broad, slow strokes that made your thighs shake, then focused, relentless pressure right where you needed it until you were gasping his name into the ceiling.
Your fingers tightened in his hair. He groaned against you — felt it vibrate through your whole body — and the sound he pulled from you in response was embarrassing. High and desperate, and nothing you could’ve stopped if you tried.
“That’s it,” he muttered, barely pulling back, his breath hot against you. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
He didn’t let up. Just kept going — tongue and lips working you apart with the same focused intensity he brought to everything. And when he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, your vision went white at the edges.
“Oh — fuck — Joe —”
“Look at me.”
You forced your eyes open. Found him watching you — pupils blown, mouth wet, that sharp jaw clenched like holding himself back was physically costing him. His fingers moved inside you, slow and deep, and you watched his eyes darken when you clenched around them.
“You think about him when you’re like this?” he asked, voice quiet and dangerous. “When you’re falling apart under my hands?”
“No,” you gasped. “God — no. Just you. It’s only —”
“Say it again.”
“Just you, Joe. Only you.”
Something cracked in his expression — not smug, not satisfied. Relieved. Like he’d needed to hear it more than he’d ever admit. His forehead dropped to your thigh for just a second, and you felt his breath stutter against your skin. Felt the tremor in his hand.
Then he was back. Mouth on you, fingers curling, thumb pressing circles that made your whole body tighten like a wire about to snap.
You came hard — back arching, hand fisting in the sheets, his name tearing out of you in a sound you didn’t recognize. He worked you through it, didn’t stop until your legs were trembling and your hand in his hair went slack.
He kissed the inside of your thigh. Then your hip. Then the dip of your stomach, lips dragging slowly up your body as he climbed over you, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that felt like relief.
When his face was above yours, you pulled him down and kissed him — tasting yourself on his mouth, not caring, needing him closer. Your hands found the hem of his shirt, and he broke the kiss just long enough to pull it over his head.
You reached for his waistband. He let you push his shorts down, helped kick them off, and then there was nothing between you — just skin and heat and the sound of both of you breathing too hard.
He was hard against your thigh, and when you wrapped your hand around him, his whole body locked up. His eyes squeezed shut, a rough sound punching out of his chest.
“Fuck,” he breathed, hips pushing into your grip. “Baby —”
“I want you,” you whispered, pulling him closer. “Right now.”
He didn’t make you ask twice.
He lined himself up and pushed into you, slow — agonizingly slow — one long, deep stroke that made both of you groan. Your nails dug into his shoulders. His forehead dropped to yours, breath coming in rough bursts against your lips.
“Jesus,” he gritted out, jaw flexing. He held still for a second — not teasing, just feeling. Like he needed a moment to survive how good it was.
Then he started to move.
Not gentle. Not careful. Deep, rolling thrusts that knocked the air out of you, his hips snapping into yours with a rhythm that was all instinct — raw and hungry and fueled by everything he’d been carrying all day. His hand found your thigh, hitched it higher around his hip, and the new angle made you cry out.
“There?” he asked, but he already knew. He could read you like a defense — every sound, every shift, every catch in your breath. He hit that spot again, and your back bowed off the mattress.
“God — yes—right there, don’t stop —”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
His mouth found your neck, teeth dragging across your pulse, and his pace picked up — harder now, rougher, each thrust driving you into the mattress with a force that made the headboard tap the wall. You wrapped both legs around him, pulling him deeper, and the sound he made — low and broken and barely contained — sent heat flooding through your entire body.
“You have any idea what you do to me?” he panted against your ear, voice shredded. “Any idea how crazy it makes me watching someone else get this reaction from you?”
“Joe —”
“No one gets to make you sound like this.” His hand slid up your body, fingers wrapping around the base of your throat — not squeezing, just holding. Feeling your pulse hammer against his palm. “No one else gets to see you like this. Just me.”
“Just you,” you whispered, and you meant it with every part of you.
His rhythm faltered for just a second — something passing across his face that wasn’t lust. Something softer and more frightened than he’d ever let anyone see. His grip on your throat loosened, his thumb tracing your jaw instead, and he kissed you — not rough this time. Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that said things he didn’t have words for yet.
Then his hips snapped harder, and the tenderness caught fire again.
He pulled you up into his lap without breaking stride, your thighs bracketing his, his hands gripping your hips as you sank down onto him. The angle was devastating — deeper, fuller — and your head fell back as a moan tore from your throat.
“Look at me,” he said again, and this time his voice was ragged. Unraveling. “I need to see you.”
You looked. And what you saw almost wrecked you more than anything physical — Joe, stripped bare in every way that mattered, watching you like you were the only thing that had ever made sense in a world that kept taking things from him.
You cupped his face. Rode him slow, then fast, then slow again — watching his jaw clench, his breath catch, his eyes fight to stay open. His fingers dug bruises into your hips, and he didn’t apologize for it. Didn’t need to.
“I’m close,” you gasped, forehead pressed to his. “Joe — I’m —”
“I know.” His hand slid between you, thumb finding your clit with precision that made you jolt. “Come for me. Let me feel you.”
It hit like a wave — cresting fast, pulling you under. Your body clenched around him, and you buried your face in his neck, shaking, his name coming out broken and half-formed against his skin.
Joe held you through it — both arms locked around you, his face pressed into your hair, his own breathing gone ragged and desperate. You felt the moment his control finally snapped — his hips stuttering, his grip going bruising-tight, a low groan ripped from somewhere deep in his chest as he came inside you.
He held on to you like the room was spinning, and you were the only fixed point.
For a long time, neither of you moved. Just breathed. His face stayed buried in your neck, his arms still wrapped around you, your fingers tracing slow patterns at the base of his skull. You could feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest — hard and fast and gradually slowing to match yours.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were heavy-lidded and glassy. Wrecked in a way that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the fact that he’d let you see him — really see him — and you hadn’t looked away.
You brushed the hair off his forehead. He leaned into your hand like he couldn’t help it.
“You good?” you whispered.
He huffed out a breath — almost a laugh, almost not. “Yeah.” His voice was sandpaper. “Yeah, I’m good.”
He eased out of you carefully, then pulled you down with him, rearranging you both until you were curled against his chest, his arm heavy around your waist, the sheets tangled somewhere around your knees.
---
Later — much later — the bedroom was dim and warm, your head on his chest and his fingers drawing slow, absent lines along your spine.
The tension that had lived in his body all day was gone, unwound somewhere between the couch and the bed, between the things he’d said and the things he’d shown you instead.
You pressed your lips to his collarbone. “For the record,” you murmured, “you put on a much better show.”
Joe huffed — that quiet, surprised sound that meant a real laugh had snuck past his defenses.
“I’m serious,” you continued, grinning into his skin. “Benito doesn’t stand a chance.”
His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer. When he spoke, his voice was low and rough with sleep and satisfaction and something softer that he still didn’t have words for.
“Damn right he doesn’t.”
You smiled. Pressed closer. Let the quiet fold over both of you — not the tight, guarded quiet from earlier, but the kind that felt like home. The kind that didn’t need to be filled.
On the TV in the other room, the game had probably ended by now. You’d check the score eventually.
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