summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.
after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?
pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader
genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff (?)
word count: 5.1k
warnings: you’re gonna get sick of the title loll, brief alcohol consumption, this is lowkey pwp (there will be more plot soon i promise) swearing, explicit sexual content (mdni), kissing, making out, fingering, oral (m. receiving), he’s very cocky but also pathetic, multiple orgasms, lots of banter and teasing as dirty talk, petnames (baby), jk calls oc a brat x2, multiple positions, insinuated aftercare, let me know if i missed anything!
notes: you guys built this fic!! this was supposed to be out on thursday but i realised i was being wayy to ambitious cuz i definitely needed more than two days to write this loll. but alas, it’s here :3 as always, likes, comments, reblogs, feedback and asks are very appreciated! enjoy reading angels <33
ps. THERE WILL BE A PART TWO!!
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You fumble with your keys, swaying just slightly as you try to jab the right one into the lock. Behind you, Jungkook’s laughing under his breath, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on the back of your neck.
“Need help?” he asks, the amusement in his voice unmistakable.
“I’ve got it,” you say, jabbing the key with exaggerated precision. The door finally clicks open, and you push it in with a triumphant, “Ha!”
“You’re so competent,” he deadpans, clapping a mock applause as he follows you in. His shoulder bumps yours as he passes. “It’s honestly inspiring.”
You kick off your shoes, tossing your keys into the bowl by the door. “And you’re so annoying,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it.
Jungkook drops onto your couch like it’s his own, sprawling out like he owns the place. Which, in some ways, he kind of does.
A hoodie of his is already slung over the back of a kitchen chair, from some night two weeks ago when he stayed too late and decided not to drive home. There’s an energy drink in your fridge with his name written on the lid in Sharpie. The blanket he’s tugging over his lap? That’s the one he gifted you for Christmas, mostly so he could use it whenever he came over.
It’s always been like this.
He tosses his denim jacket on the couch as you grab two bottles of water from the fridge, chucking one to him without warning. He catches it with the ease.
“You were definitely flirting with that bartender,” he says, unscrewing the cap and looking at you with that maddeningly smug smile.
You scoff. “He had a mullet and called me ‘miss.’ It wasn’t flirting— it was survival.”
“Sure,” he says, nodding like he totally believes you. “That’s why you laughed at everything he said, even when he asked if you liked your tequila neat.”
“It was neat!” you say, defensive and laughing at the same time. “And besides, you flirted with the girl in the fishnets for, like, an hour.”
He shrugs. “Guilty. She had good taste in music. And thighs.”
You groan and flop down beside him on the couch, letting your head fall back against the cushion. Your thigh brushes his, but you don’t move. Neither does he. The buzz from the party is still warm in your blood, and the apartment feels too quiet now — too intimate without the noise and lights and other bodies.
“You ever think we’re just... really bad at dating?” you ask, staring at the ceiling.
“Constantly,” Jungkook says, without hesitation.
You glance at him. “Like, maybe we peaked in college.”
He makes a face. “Don’t say that. I refuse to believe my best years happened while I was still eating instant ramen and failing comp sci.”
You laugh, and he turns his head toward you, watching you with that soft-eyed expression you know too well. There’s something about Jungkook when he’s like this — no bravado, no teasing smirk, just... present. His hair is a mess from the wind, and a dark tank top hugs his figure.
He’s too comfortable here. Too familiar.
“I genuinely think I’ve forgotten what a good kiss feels like,” you say, mostly to the ceiling, like it’s a throwaway thought.
Jungkook hums. “That bad, huh?”
“It’s not even bad, it’s just...” You trail off, searching for the word. “Empty. Mechanical. Like everyone’s going through the motions, but nobody’s actually there.”
He shifts slightly, angling his body more toward you. “So no decent kissers at all lately?”
You shake your head. “No decent anything, if I’m honest.”
He raises an eyebrow, curious.
You hesitate, but the alcohol in your system makes it easier to say what you probably wouldn’t sober. “I haven’t slept with anyone in like... almost a year.”
Jungkook blinks, not in judgment, just surprised. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” You rub at your temple with a laugh. “I didn’t plan it or anything. It just kind of... kept not happening. And then it became this weird streak, and now here we are.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
“Well,” he says eventually, “maybe your standards are just too high.”
“Or maybe men are just mid,” you shoot back.
That gets a laugh out of him, loud and bright. He tips his head back, and you watch his throat move as he laughs. Too long. Too hard. When he calms down, he gives you a look — something mischievous that you've grown to know too well over the years.
"What?" you ask, narrowing your eyes at him with a smile.
He shrugs. “I mean... I could help."
“With my standards?”
“With the streak.”
You snort. “What, you offering?”
“Maybe.”
You tilt your head. “So what? You wanna bang it out?”
It’s meant to be funny. You’re grinning when you say it. But when you look at him — really look — he’s not laughing.
His gaze lingers on your mouth for a beat too long. Then his eyes flick up to yours.
“Just this once?” he asks, voice low. Careful. Like he’s giving you an out.
You don’t answer right away. The room goes still. The hum of the fridge feels too loud. His eyes are still on you, and it’s not a look you’ve ever seen from him before.
Your heart stutters in your chest.
You swallow. “Wouldn't it be weird?”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away.
“Only if we let it be.”
You sit there for a second, the weight of it all hitting a little too fast. Your brain’s still catching up to your mouth, to the way your body’s buzzing — not from the alcohol anymore, but from him. From the heat in his eyes, the way he said it — almost like a dare.
And then his expression shifts.
His eyes flick away, and his tongue runs over the silver ring on his bottom lip, like he’s pulling it back, reeling it in.
“Only if you want to, obviously,” he says, quieter this time. “We don’t have to.”
He starts to lean back like he's resetting the mood — like this moment can still be folded back into the safety of your usual teasing — but you stop him.
You move first.
You grab the front of his tank top — not hard, not dramatic, just enough — and you pull him in.
You kiss him.
It’s abrupt. Heat over hesitation. A split-second decision that tastes like tequila and impulse, like comfort and fuck it all wrapped up in the same breath.
At first, he doesn’t move, frozen in surprise. But then he kisses you back — really kisses you back — and suddenly you're not thinking anymore.
His hand slides to your thigh, just enough pressure to ground you, and you shift toward him instinctively, knees brushing his. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of focused laziness, like he’s savouring it. Like he’s trying to figure out exactly how you taste.
You pull back half a second, just to breathe, lips brushing his as you mutter, “Took you long enough.”
He laughs into your mouth, low and smug. “You kissed me.”
“Yeah, well. You looked like you were gonna bail.”
“I was being respectful,” he says, voice muffled against your jaw as he starts kissing along it. “But sure, let’s call it bailing.”
You gasp a little when he nips at your neck, just enough pressure to make you arch toward him. Your hands slide under his top, fingers skimming the warm skin of his back, and he shivers under your touch.
“Jesus,” you murmur. “How are you this built? You eat, like, gas station snacks and leftover noodles.”
“I work out,” he mutters between kisses, grinning as he drags his mouth back to yours. “Also, you’ve seen me shirtless.”
“Yeah, but not like this.”
“Like what?”
You tug him closer until your chest presses to his. “Like I get to touch.”
That shuts him up real quick.
He kisses you again, this time more urgently, and you feel the change in the air — less teasing, more want. Your legs shift to straddle his lap without thinking, your hands sliding up into his hair, tugging just a little.
He groans, deep and rough, biting down on your bottom lip before kissing it better. You rock your hips forward slightly and he bucks up into you with a hiss.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
You smirk against his mouth. “You offered, remember?”
“Yeah, and I’m rapidly realising that was a dangerous choice.”
You laugh, breathless, before kissing him again. He tastes like beer and something sweeter — probably the gum he always chews. You bite his lip and feel him groan into your mouth, hips jerking beneath you.
His fingers slip under your shirt, warm on your skin. Not rushed, just exploring — like he’s been curious for a while and is finally allowed to look.
You roll your hips again, slower this time, and his head drops back against the cushion with a low fuck that makes your stomach flip.
“You still sure about this?” you ask, teasing, as your hands drag down his chest, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt.
His eyes open — dark, focused, amused.
“You gonna stop me if I say no?”
You shake your head. “Nope.”
“Then yeah,” he says, breath hitching as your fingers reach his abdomen. “I’m very sure.”
He catches your fingers before you can finish unbuttoning his jeans.
You raise a brow, breath still uneven. “Seriously?”
He nods, steady, calm in a way that only makes your pulse pound harder. “I said I was helping you, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, but I thought that was like... a mutual helping situation.”
His mouth twitches. “You always gotta argue when I’m trying to do something nice?”
You open your mouth to throw something back — something biting, something stupid — but he leans in and kisses you before you can get the words out. One hand still wrapped around your wrist, the other cupping your jaw.
He pulls back just enough to speak.
“Let me take care of you.”
You stare at him for a beat, heart kicking hard in your chest.
“Fine,” you mutter, trying to sound unbothered. “But don't expect any thank yous or shit.”
“I’ll survive,” he says, already smirking as his fingers work at your jeans. “Though, for the record, I think you’re gonna want to.”
You snort — right before he pops the button of your jeans and drags the zipper down, knuckles brushing your skin. You shiver.
“God, you’re cocky.”
He glances up, eyes flicking to yours. “You saying I haven’t earned it?”
You don’t answer. Your breath stutters when his hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties, palm flush against you.
He stills.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice dropping. “You’re wet already?”
“Shut up.”
He smiles cockily.
You roll your eyes — try to, anyway — but your thighs are already parting, your body moving without conscious thought. His fingers slide into you, testing the waters, and your head tips back with a soft sigh.
He watches your face like he’s waiting for something. When your mouth parts, when your hips twitch toward his hand, that’s when he moves.
His thumb finds your bud and he's gentle at first. Circling, then rubbing just a little firmer. You bite your lip hard, trying not to give him the satisfaction of the noises building in your throat.
“Still not thanking you,” you say through clenched teeth.
“Oh, you will,” he says, low. “Eventually.”
You glare at him. He grins back, fingers dragging lower, slipping in without resistance. You suck in a breath, and he laughs softly under it.
“Okay?” he asks, suddenly serious again.
You nod, maybe too quickly. “Yeah. More than okay.”
He starts moving his fingers — slow at first, too slow. Like he’s enjoying making you wait. You squirm, trying to rock your hips into his hand, but he tightens his grip on your thigh.
“Nuh-uh,” he says, eyes gleaming. “You’re letting me do the work, remember?”
“I hate you.”
“You’re literally grinding on my hand right now.”
You reach out blindly and smack his chest. He doesn’t even flinch — just slips another finger in, and your breath catches so hard it punches the air from your lungs.
“There it is,” he murmurs.
His thumb picks up a rhythm again, and the pressure starts to build fast. He knows it, too. His free hand slides around your waist, steadying you as your body starts to shake. Your fist curls into the soft fabric of his top, needing something to hold onto.
“Still hate me?” he asks, voice rougher now, his breath tickling the shell of your ear.
“Don’t flatter yourself— fuck—”
“Yeah?” His fingers curl just right, and your whole body tenses. “Right there?”
You nod, desperate, eyes squeezed shut. Your thighs are shaking. You’re so close you can’t even keep up the bit.
“Say it,” he says.
“Say what?”
“Tell me how good I make you feel.”
You groan. “Jesus, Jungkook—”
He slows down suddenly, barely moving his hand.
You whine. Actually whine.
“That’s not what I asked for.”
“God, you’re annoying,” you say, breathless.
He grins. “You're the one being the brat here.”
You drag your eyes open and glare at him, but it’s all heat now. All want. You lean in close, lips pressing against his.
"Fuck— fine. You feel so fucking good, Kook. Please, just don't stop."
He doesn’t.
He kisses you hard and fast, and his fingers start again, slick and firm and relentless. Your body clenches around him and this time, you don’t even try to hold the sounds back. His name leaves your mouth like muscle memory, and he groans into your kiss, like he’s the one coming undone.
When you break the kiss to suck in air, he presses his forehead to yours, voice rough in your ear.
“That’s it. Let go for me.”
You do.
Your body arches, thighs trembling as the orgasm washes over you sharp and fast. Your fingers dig into his back, into his top, into anything that keeps you tethered.
He doesn’t stop until you’re gasping, twitching, pushing his hand away because you’re too sensitive now.
He pulls back finally, breath warm against your skin, his fingers wet. He looks at you, gaze heavy, lips parted.
Then, without a word, he brings his fingers to your mouth.
“Open,” he says, low and steady.
You blink at him, your body still humming, brain half-melted. “What—?”
He brushes two slick fingers against your bottom lip, and your mouth parts on instinct.
“You said no thank yous,” he says, smirking. “So this’ll do.”
You glare at him, but your lips close around his fingers anyway. He watches every second — the way your mouth wraps around them, the way your tongue slides against the pads. His expression flickers from cocky to wrecked.
“Shit,” he mutters, voice rough now, the smugness cracking around the edges.
You suck once, slow and purposeful, eyes locked on his, and he jerks slightly under you — hips twitching like your mouth is on him instead. When you pull off with a soft pop, your lips are swollen and wet.
“You said mutual help,” you murmur, breath still catching on the end of every word. “It’s your turn.”
He blinks, like he’s short-circuiting.
You slide off his lap slowly, hands dragging down his chest, and his breath catches when you settle between his legs on your knees. You palm him over his jeans, and he hisses, already hard under your touch.
“Fuck,” he mutters, head tipping back.
“You okay there?” you ask, voice sweet, taunting. “Or do you need me to go slower?”
He looks down at you, pupils blown, jaw clenched. “Don’t be a brat.”
You unbutton his jeans, real slow, enjoying the way he twitches under your hands. “No promises.”
You drag the zipper down, tugging his jeans and boxers low enough to free him. He’s flushed and heavy, tip already glistening, and you swear you see his hips flex at just the sight of your mouth this close.
“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You look way too good down there.”
You wrap your hand around his cock, giving one slow stroke, and he groans like it surprises him.
You start slow. Just your hand. Thumb brushing over the sensitive ridge under the head, watching his thighs tense beneath your touch. His head drops back against the couch cushion, and you feel the way his hips subtly shift toward you, like his body’s trying to chase more without him even realising it.
You lean in and lick a slow stripe from base to tip, tongue flat, deliberate. His breath catches — then shudders out of him like you’ve knocked the air from his lungs.
“Shit,” he mutters again, voice strained.
You hum like you agree, and wrap your lips around the head, just barely. You suck, not hard — just enough to make him twitch. Your hand works in tandem, slow, steady strokes, and your mouth follows, inching lower until the tip presses against the back of your throat.
He moans, raw and wrecked. “Fuck, baby—”
The pet name is barely more than a gasp, almost like it slipped out without permission. Your stomach flips at the sound it.
His voice borders on the line of sounding pathetic, and it makes you want to press your thighs together.
You fall into rhythm — your lips sliding over him, tongue pressed firm underneath, hand twisting where your mouth leaves off. Every now and then, you let yourself get sloppy. Let the sound of it echo between you, let him hear what he’s doing to you.
He’s falling apart above you. You can tell by the way his hand flexes and releases in your hair, the way his thighs tremble every time you sink a little deeper. He’s breathing hard now, jaw slack, eyes barely open. Watching you. Like he still can’t believe this is real.
“God, your mouth—” His voice cuts off into a moan when you swallow around him, deep and slow. "You're gonna be the death of me."
You pull off just long enough to breathe, lips slick, chin wet. “You deserve it.”
He laughs, but it breaks halfway through. Your hand doesn’t stop moving.
“You like watching me fall apart, huh?”
You look up through your lashes, tongue flicking over the head. “More than a little.”
You go back down — deeper this time — and he chokes on a groan. His hips jerk up too sharply and he curses, hands fisting hard in your hair.
“Shit— I’m—” He’s panting now, thighs shaking. “I’m not gonna last if you keep— fuck, don’t—”
You suck harder, then moan around him just to hear the sound he makes. It’s almost a whimper.
“Baby, stop— wait— fuck— please—”
You pull off with a wet pop just before he tips over the edge, lips red and swollen, saliva clinging to your chin. He’s barely keeping it together. Chest heaving, flushed to the neck, cock twitching where it rests against his stomach.
“You were right there,” you say, feigning innocence, voice soft and ruined.
“Exactly," he says, sitting up. "I'm not done with you yet."
He drags the fabric of his top over his head, tossing it aside without a second thought. The moment it’s off, your breath catches.
Fuck.
He’s all golden skin and sharp lines, chest heaving, abs flexing with every breath. His tattoos curl over his shoulder and down his arm, black ink stark against flushed skin. His cock’s still hard, flushed dark, resting against his stomach, twitching when he sees the way you’re looking at him.
And you — still kneeling between his legs — can’t look away.
Then you rise, shaky but determined, and pull your top over your head, letting it fall. His eyes snap to your chest, lips parting like he’s just been punched in the gut. You're movements are purposefully slow as you pull down your jeans, then your panties.
“Jesus,” he mutters, eyes dragging down your body. “You’re a fucking dream.”
You crawl back into his lap, your bare skin meeting his, and the contact makes both of you gasp. You straddle him, knees on either side of his thighs, and he groans the moment your heat presses against his cock.
He fumbles for a condom, pulling it out from an inner pocket in the jacket he’d draped onto the couch earlier.
You watch as he tears it open and rolls it on, fingers practiced but tense. You reach between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance, and the second his tip slides against your soaked folds, his grip tightens on your hips.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice shaking.
You sink down slowly, inch by thick inch, and your nails bite into his shoulders as you stretch around him. He’s big — your pussy gripping him tight, wet and pulsing as he fills you up. Every nerve lights up, every breath gets harder to catch.
“Holy fuck—” His head drops to your chest, groaning against your skin. “You’re so tight. So fucking warm. Gonna make me lose it.”
You whimper as you bottom out, walls fluttering around him. You can feel every vein, every twitch. It’s almost too much. Almost.
But not enough.
You start to move — slow, dragging lifts of your hips, circling them on the way back down. He watches, hands clamped on your ass, guiding the grind of your body like he already knows how to make you fall apart again.
You ride him, pace picking up fast, desperate. Every time your hips drop, the base of his cock grinds against your clit, slick sounds filling the room with every slap of skin against skin. His cock hits deep, stretching you wide, and a moan passes your lips.
He groans are low and guttural, eyes locked to where your bodies meet. “Goddamn, baby. Watching you fuck yourself on my cock— shit— never gonna forget this.”
You’re panting now, thighs burning, rhythm faltering. You try to keep going, but your legs are shaking.
He notices.
Without a word, he shifts under you, plants his feet flat on the floor, and grabs your hips tight.
“Let me help you, yeah?”
You nod. “Please.”
He starts thrusting up into you.
You cry out, spine arching, hands flying to his shoulders to hold on as he fucks you from underneath, sharp and deep. His hips snap up into you, cock pressing into your sweet spot over and over again.
The new angle is obscene. Filthy.
“Fuck, Jungkook— holy shit—”
He smirks up at you, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. “That’s it. Take it, baby. Look at you— so cockdrunk already.”
Your pussy clenches around him, soaked and messy, and the sound of it is downright pornographic. His balls slap against your ass with every brutal thrust, and you can’t even think anymore. Just feel.
Your head falls back, hips rocking with his. “W-we’re still best friends, right, Kook?”
His rhythm stutters, hips slamming up too hard, too deep, and his jaw drops slightly like he’s not sure if he actually heard you right. His pupils are blown, face flushed, and he stares at you like you just kicked the last brain cell out of his skull.
“What the fuck,” he pants. “You can’t say that. Not when I’m— fuck— inside you.”
You whimper, walls clenching around him like your body’s reacting to how wrecked he sounds.
“That’s so fucked up,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Say it again and I might actually come on the spot.”
You huff out a weak laugh at that, hands tangling in his hair, and he groans, fucking you harder, deeper — like he needs to wipe the thought of friendship off your brain with every snap of his hips.
“Y-Yeah,” you gasp. “So close, fuck— don’t stop—”
He doesn’t. One hand slips between your bodies, fingers rubbing tight, fast circles over your clit while he pounds into you. You sob his name, hips stuttering, body locking up.
“Come on,” he grits out. “Wanna feel you squeeze me.”
That’s all it takes.
You break with a cry, body clamping down around him as your orgasm hits like a fucking freight train. Your pussy pulses around his cock, milking him, soaking him, your whole body shuddering with the force of it.
He slows just a little — just enough to let you ride it out — but he doesn’t pull out. He’s still hard inside you, jaw tight, eyes blown wide.
You collapse forward, panting into his neck, spent.
His hands slide down your spine, warm and possessive. “You good?”
You nod, still breathless. “Yeah. Jesus.”
"Good." He swiftly lifts you off him just enough to slip out, and you whimper at the sudden emptiness. But he doesn’t give you time to think.
He shifts, guiding you onto your back, his body following yours down to the couch. His hands frame your face as he settles between your legs, and when he presses back into you — thick and hard.
His eyes roam over you like he’s never seen anything more obscene or more beautiful. Your lips are swollen, parted in a messy moan. There’s a faint smudge of mascara under one eye from when you’d cried out his name, and your skin’s glowing — sweaty, flushed, wrecked.
“You’re so pretty like this,” he says, voice gone rough. “All fucked out for me.”
You pull him down into a kiss before you can think. It’s open-mouthed, greedy, teeth clashing a little. His hips start to move again, slow at first — long, deep thrusts that make your breath catch every time he bottoms out.
You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back to pull him deeper. His chest brushes yours, sticky skin against sticky skin, and your nails rake down his back.
He gasps into your mouth. “Fuck—”
“More,” you breathe, nails dragging again, leaving angry red lines down the muscle of his back. “Please.”
His hips snap harder, pace picking up again. He braces one hand beside your head and the other slides up your thigh, gripping tight enough to bruise. Your body rocks with every thrust, his cock slamming into you, the slap of his hips against yours louder now.
“You feel that?” he grits out, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “How tight you are around me? Fuck— I’m so deep, baby, you’re taking me so fucking good.”
You moan loud at his words, head falling back against the cushions.
He kisses down your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breast — open-mouthed, wet kisses that make your skin burn. Then he’s back at your mouth, kissing you like it’s the only way he knows how to breathe.
He watches you with the kind of hunger that makes your stomach flip, watching how your brows pinch, how your mouth trembles, how you twitch around him with every stroke like you’re on the edge all over again.
And fuck, you are.
“Touch me,” you gasp, voice raw. “Kook, please—”
His fingers snake down your stomach, rubbing tight, perfect circles against your clit, synced with the rhythm of his thrusts. You cry out, thighs shaking around his waist, and he just watches — eyes dark and wild, like he can’t believe what he’s doing to you.
You clench hard around him, and he curses, slamming into you deeper, grinding at the end of each stroke.
“Gonna come again?” he pants. “Wanna come on my cock like that, baby? Let me feel you soak me?”
You’re nodding before he finishes, tears prickling in your eyes from how fucking intense it is. “Yes— yes, fuck, don’t stop—”
He kisses you as you fall apart — moaning into your mouth, swallowing every sound. You come again, whole body seizing around him. Your nails dig in, and he hisses at the pain, thrusting through it, fucking you right through the high.
When it ebbs, your body goes limp under him, chest heaving, lips swollen, slick dripping between your thighs.
Jungkook fucks into you again — slow, deep, like he’s trying to memorise the feel of you pulsing around him. His breath stutters, muscles drawn tight, every thrust rougher than the last.
“I’m not gonna last,” he pants, voice wrecked.
You bring your hands up to his hair, lightly tugging at his locks as you whisper, “Wanna feel you.”
He chokes on a moan, slamming into you one final time as he comes hard, cock twitching deep inside as he fills the condom.
His arms shake, muscles locked tight, and his face is buried in your neck as he rides it out, breath ragged, skin flushed and burning. You feel every pulse of it, every tremble in his frame, and all you can do is hold him there — legs wrapped tight around his waist, arms tangled around his shoulders, your nails still leaving stinging trails across his skin.
He presses kisses against your neck and jaw, eventually trailing up to your lips before pulling back to just look at you.
"I— you're perfect."
You smile, a familiar warmth enveloping your cheeks. "Yeah, yeah, you can stop with the flattery."
But he doesn’t smile back right away. He just watches you, quiet. Like he’s still catching up to the weight of what just happened. What’s still happening.
His hand drifts to your waist, thumb brushing lazily over your damp skin. “Let me run you a bath.”
You blink. “A bath?”
He nods, lips brushing your temple. “Yeah. You’re shaky. And I kinda wrecked you.”
You snort, catching the smugness in his voice. “What happened to, ‘Shit, baby, if you don’t stop I’m gonna come down your throat’?”
He groans, laughing. “Okay, first of all— rude. Second, I don’t sound like that.”
“Mm, you definitely do.”
He pinches your side lightly. “Keep talking, I’ll re-enact it right now.”
You shut up. But you’re smiling.
He stands a moment later, disappearing into the bathroom. You hear the water running, the soft clatter of bottles, his voice humming something low and familiar.
When he comes back, he tosses you a towel and holds out a hand, that same easy smile on his face. The one you’ve known forever. The one that makes everything feel… normal.
Even now.
You lace your fingers with his, let him pull you up.
Your legs are jelly. His hand doesn’t let go.
And as you follow him into the bathroom, skin still marked by his touch, lips still swollen from his kiss, a quiet thought flickers at the edge of your mind.
You guys were still best friends.
Right?
→ read part two here
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summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.
after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?
pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader
genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff
word count: 8.3k
warnings: more porn but with a tiny bit more plot :0, swearing, explicit sexual content (mdni), car sex, kissing, making out, oral (f. receiving), again he’s very cocky but can we blame him, breast play, multiple orgasms, banter and teasing as dirty talk, petnames (baby), jk's actually a menace but lowkey down bad, the ending deserves a warning (i’m sorryy), let me know if i missed anything!
notes: thank you SAURR much to my bae j @tranquilreign for beta reading!! (i’m still giggling at all ur comments pls :3) likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are so so appreciated. enjoy reading my angelss <3
ps. READ PART ONE HERE!!
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You wake up to the dull throb of sunlight pressing through your curtains and the sharper ache between your legs.
It's not unpleasant — just a lingering reminder. A hum under your skin, like a bruise you don’t mind touching again and again.
You blink slowly, your eyes gritty from sleep, mouth dry, brain hazy in that half-dream state where everything feels like it could be made up. The heavy comforter is kicked down to your hips, your legs tangled in each other, and for a second — just one — you think maybe it was a dream.
But then you shift, and your thighs protest, and it all comes back.
The couch. His fingers. His mouth. The way he looked at you like he’d already had you a thousand times in his head. The things he said — low, teasing, mean. The things you said back. Your stomach tightens, breath hitching as your body tries to replay it too fast, too much.
You squeeze your eyes shut and will your brain to shut up.
You don’t usually let people sleep over. Not like this. Not in your bed, under your sheets, in your space.
But Jungkook’s always been the exception to things. It’s not new, waking up with him in your apartment. He’s been here for movie nights that turned into sleepovers, for hangovers that turned into late mornings, for heartbreaks that turned into shared pints of ice cream and shit talk.
You’ve seen him in your space more times than you can count. But never like this.
You breathe in slow and exhale even slower, eyes fluttering open. The room is still, the air thick with the kind of silence that begs to be broken but doesn’t quite want to be. You shift again, turning onto your side, and your eyes land on the shape beside you.
He’s lying on his stomach, one arm thrown across your pillow, the other tucked under his chest. The blanket’s halfway down his back, exposing the mess of tattoos curling across his shoulder and the dip of his spine. His hair’s a wreck — pushed off his forehead, flattened in the back — and his lips are parted, soft. He looks young like this. Calm. A little too good for your peace of mind.
You stare at him a moment too long.
And then you very, very carefully roll onto your back again.
You feel like you’re in a minefield. Like one wrong move will detonate something you're not ready to name.
You slept with your best friend.
Not just slept. Fucked.
Fucked him like you meant it. Like you’ve wanted to for longer than you’re willing to admit, even to yourself.
You exhale again. A sharp, quiet puff of air through your nose. Maybe if you stay still long enough, he’ll just keep sleeping. And you can sneak to the bathroom. Or back in time. Whichever’s easier.
You’re not panicking. Not technically. You’re just… thinking. Overthinking. Remembering how you sounded begging him not to stop. Remembering how he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted. Remembering how, when it was over, he held you like it meant something.
You feel his warmth next to you, steady and real. His leg brushes yours, his knee nudging slightly against your calf, and your whole body goes still again.
You wonder what he's going to say when he wakes up; if he'll still smile at you like he did last night — like nothing about this is complicated. Like your world didn’t tilt just a little off its axis the second he kissed you back, like he wasn't allowed to and never planned on stopping.
You should feel weird. You should feel guilty. Or ashamed. Or something more than this weird, electric calm.
But mostly, you just feel like you don’t want to move.
His breathing shifts — subtle, but enough that you know he’s starting to wake up.
Your heart trips a little.
He shifts, and the arm he’d slung over your pillow curls slightly in, fingers brushing the back of your hand. He lets out a groggy hum, the noise half in his throat.
You freeze, eyes still closed.
“Mm,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “What time is it?”
You swallow. Your voice doesn’t come right away, caught somewhere behind your tongue. When it does, it’s soft, a rasp. “No idea.”
He exhales. Shuffles a little closer. You can feel the heat of him now, bleeding through the sliver of space that still separates you. A moment passes. Then another. You brace for it — for the tension, the shift, the stammered joke to smooth over the jagged memory of last night.
But all he says is, “Damn. My back hurts.”
You blink, startled by the normalcy of it. “You’re not supposed to sleep like that. You looked like a crime scene victim.”
“Sexy,” he mutters, eyes still closed. “That’s what I was going for.”
You huff a quiet laugh. And weirdly, the knot in your stomach loosens just a little.
Another silence stretches. But it’s not bad. Not heavy. He makes a small sound as he shifts again, propping himself up just slightly on one elbow. You don’t look at him, not yet, but you can feel his eyes on you.
“How do you feel?”
You hesitate.
He waits.
You turn your head slowly toward him, and finally meet his gaze. His hair’s a mess, his eyes still sleep-warm, but there’s something sharper under the surface. Not regret. Not even nerves. Just… attention. He’s watching you the way he did last night — carefully. Like you matter.
You chew your lip for a second. "Sore," you eventually say, voice quiet.
He smiles. “Good sore or bad sore?”
You raise an eyebrow. “You want a Yelp review?”
He shrugs, still smiling. “I mean, if you’re offering. I’d love a star rating.”
You stare at him for another second. Then you snort, burying your face in the pillow. “You’re such a dick.”
“You didn’t mind last night.”
You groan, muffled. “Please don't. It's too early for this.”
He laughs — really laughs — and you feel it wash over you like a warm breeze. He’s not weird about it. Not cagey or distant. And maybe it’s a little disarming how himself he still is. Like nothing’s changed.
Like everything has, but it’s fine.
He shifts again, flops onto his back beside you with a loud sigh and an arm flung dramatically over his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungover and this smug at the same time. It’s honestly kind of impressive.”
You glance at him, lips twitching. “Your ego’s going to explode.”
He peeks at you from under his arm. “Can you blame me? I mean, damn.”
You roll your eyes and toss a corner of the blanket over his face.
But your heart’s still racing.
You don’t know what you were expecting — some awkward shuffle out of bed, a strained goodbye, maybe even him pretending it hadn’t happened. But he’s still here. In your bed. In your space. Making you laugh.
Just like always.
Your fingers brush against his under the covers. Neither of you pull away.
You stare at the ceiling for a moment, letting yourself breathe. Letting the silence settle between you again. It feels different now, not loud with questions or demanding anything from you.
It feels like… him.
And maybe you’re not ready to ask what it means yet.
But for now?
This doesn’t feel like a mistake. Not even a little.
You’re standing outside your office building, arms crossed and scowling.
The sidewalk’s sticky with the leftover heat of the day, and there’s a cluster of your co-workers behind you laughing about something you’re not a part of. Their voices blur into the honks and hum of Friday traffic, and all you can focus on is the time.
Jungkook is two minutes late.
You know how stupid it is — two minutes. But today, even two seconds of anything feels like too much.
You shift your weight from one foot to the other, the back of your neck damp with sweat, the strap of your bag digging into your shoulder in just the wrong way. Your phone sits heavy in your palm. No new messages. No “almost there.” No “sorry, traffic’s ass.”
Nothing.
The week has wrung you out like a wet towel. Every day, some new tiny disaster: deadlines moving without warning, your boss micromanaging you like you’re an intern again, and a meeting yesterday where a client talked over you so many times you wanted to crawl under the table and scream.
You’ve barely slept. Your eyes are scratchy. You snapped at someone in the break room this morning because they made a passive-aggressive joke about your “resting bitch face.” And now, Jungkook is late. On your day. Friday. The one consistent thing in your life.
Every Friday, he picks you up from work.
It started almost a year ago, after a breakup left you crying into your salad at your desk. When Jungkook had texted you to come down that day, you'd expected takeout and tissues. But instead, he’d cranked up the music in his car and driven you to a late-night ramen spot where you ended up laughing so hard you nearly choked on your noodles.
It became tradition. No matter what kind of week you’d had, no matter what mood either of you were in — Friday nights belonged to you two. You didn’t even have to plan anything. Sometimes it was tacos in the car and talking shit about your co-workers. Sometimes it was video games at his place or walking around the city until your legs ached and your cheeks hurt from laughing.
He always showed up. Early, even.
But today, the sun is setting in your eyes, and he’s late.
You tap your foot. Then stop, because that’s annoying. Then sigh loud enough to get a look from a passing stranger.
You grip your phone tighter, squinting down the street. Still no sign of his car. Your thumb hovers over the call button.
Three minutes late now.
Your stomach twists — not from worry, but frustration. Because this — this quiet, unnecessary delay — is the cherry on top of the shit sundae that has been your entire week. And you hate that it’s him. That even Jungkook gets to be a part of the unravelling now.
You lean against the metal pole of the bus sign, letting it bite into your spine. A bead of sweat slips down your back. The sun is way too bright for this hour.
Your phone buzzes.
Finally.
You snatch it up like you’ve been waiting for a lifeline, and there it is:
Kook 🍜: here in a min
You glare at the screen. Then type:
You: You’re late.
Kook 🍜: exactly 3 min. that’s barely anything
You: You’re lucky I’m too exhausted to castrate you.
Kook 🍜: bet you'll still get in the car
You don’t respond.
You just shove your phone back in your bag and take a breath that doesn’t do anything to help.
Jungkook’s car pulls up slow, music low, window already halfway down. He’s in that stupid black bucket hat he always wears, curls pushed out from under the brim. You catch the grin he’s wearing before he even says anything — wide, lazy, like he’s proud just to have found parking.
He leans over and calls out through the window, “Damn. Which poor intern did you kill today?”
You glare at him.
His smile falters a little, but he keeps going, still trying to crack you open like usual. “I mean, you’re kinda glowing with hate. It’s kinda hot. Very—”
“Jungkook,” you cut in, sharp.
His eyes snap up to yours.
You immediately hate how sharp your voice came out. You look away, fingers curling around the strap of your bag.
“Sorry,” you mutter after a beat. “I just… I’ve had a fucking awful week, and I’m really not in the mood for jokes right now.”
There’s a pause. Just the hum of the engine and a soft beat coming from the speakers — some song with a lazy bassline and breathy vocals.
Then he shifts. You hear the click of the lock before he leans over to push the door open for you. “Get in.”
You do. Without arguing.
The cool air hits your face the second the door closes, and you let your head lean back against the seat. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just starts driving, hands loose on the wheel, his bottom lip tugged between his teeth like he’s thinking.
“You wanna talk about it?” he asks eventually, softer this time.
You shake your head. “Not really. Just one of those weeks where everything goes to shit in slow motion. Work, people, the world. My brain. I think I hate everyone.”
He hums. “Cool. We can start a club.”
You huff a laugh, just barely. But it’s something.
He glances at you sideways, like he’s measuring how far he can push. “So when do I get to punch your boss?”
“I’m serious, Kook.”
“I'm serious too! I’ve been doing push-ups.”
You snort, against your will. “You do three push-ups and call it training.”
“First of all, way more than three. Second, the form was perfect. Don’t disrespect me in my own car.”
You smile — tiny, fleeting — but it’s the first time today you’ve felt even remotely human.
“Thanks for picking me up,” you murmur after a second. “Even if you were late.”
“Exactly three minutes,” he says, defensive. “And I was texting you while driving, which is dedication. Illegal, but dedication.”
You glance over at him. He’s wearing his usual all-black like he’s trying to look tough, but the corners of his mouth are soft. His grip on the wheel is loose. Familiar. Like this is just another Friday, like nothing’s changed since last week.
But something has. You feel it.
You clear your throat. “Can we just go back to mine? I kind of want to curl into a blanket and pretend I don’t exist.”
“Nope,” he says instantly.
You blink. “What?”
“I have a plan.”
“A plan?”
“Yep.”
“What kind of plan?”
He just grins, eyes still on the road. “You’ll see.”
You narrow your eyes. “I swear to god, if this ends with me getting roped into karaoke—”
“No karaoke,” he says with a laugh, holding up one hand solemnly. “I promise. You’ve suffered enough.”
You sigh and let your head fall against the window. The glass is cool against your temple, and you let your eyes slip closed for a second. “I’m serious though, Kook. I really don’t think I have the energy to be around people right now.”
“No people,” he assures you. “Just us. Little detour. Nothing dramatic.”
You peek one eye open at him. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m being nice.”
“That’s what’s weird.”
He smirks. “Okay, that’s fair.”
You fall quiet again. The road noise fills the silence, the gentle whir of tires and the low pulse of the bass. It’s soothing in a way, the way riding with him always is.
Your fingers drift to your lap, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. He doesn’t ask again about your week. He just drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually near the gearshift, fingers tapping to the beat of the music.
You glance at him again.
He looks good when he’s focused but relaxed. The way he hums along to the music without realising. The way the light paints the side of his face gold as it streams through the windshield. You feel it crawl up your chest: that annoying, warm pressure. That thing you haven’t named yet.
That thing you’re starting to feel more often when he’s near you.
And it’s so stupid. So inconvenient.
You stare out the window, try to shake it off.
He turns down a street you don’t recognise.
“Seriously,” you say, finally. “Where are we going?”
He just grins again, eyes still forward.
“You’ll see.”
You’re parked at the top of a hill you didn’t know existed.
Below you, the city stretches out — tiny glints of light catching on glass and metal, and cars threading through the streets like slow-moving ants. It’s not some tourist lookout spot. There’s no crowds, no fences or coin-operated telescopes. Just a dusty turnout on the side of a winding road and a view that makes you feel like the world finally shut up for a minute.
It’s quiet up here. Real quiet. Even the music in the car has been turned down to a soft background hum — just instrumental now.
You’ve got a milkshake in your hands, condensation slipping down the side and catching on your fingers. It’s thick and rich, the kind that takes actual effort to sip through a straw. The sweetness coats your tongue, dulls the bitter edge that’s been living in your chest all week. In your lap is the discarded wrapping of a burger so good you had to ask where the hell it came from.
“I’ve literally never heard of this place,” you say around a mouthful of fries. “Is this one of those ‘secret menu, don’t tell anyone or they’ll kill you’ joints?”
Jungkook grins around his own bite, sauce already on the corner of his mouth. “Maybe. The guy who owns it doesn’t even do social media. Total off-the-grid.”
You nod like that explains the magic burger. “They probably sold their soul to the devil for the recipes or something.”
He laughs, mouth full, and leans over to wipe the sauce off with the back of his hand. “You okay now?”
You pause.
The question isn’t heavy. He doesn’t even look at you when he says it — just stares out at the view like he’s asking casually. But you hear the real version underneath. You always hear it with him.
You take a slow sip of your milkshake before answering.
“Yeah,” you say. “I think I am.”
And for once, it’s not a lie. Your body still feels wrung out, your muscles sore from being tense for too many days in a row, but something about this — about being here, with him, with real food and fake silence and a breeze that smells like clean air and french fries settles something in you.
You glance over. He’s sitting back against the driver’s side door, one knee propped up. His hat’s on the floor somewhere — he'd thrown it off after complaining about the heat — and the curve of his neck is exposed just enough to distract you when you look too long.
Which you are. Looking too long, again.
“So,” you say, casually. “How many women have you brought up here to seduce with mystery burgers and pretty views?”
He snorts. “You’re the first. Most of my dates prefer the classic ‘come over and watch a movie, but don’t actually watch the movie’ route.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. Such effort.”
“Right? I’m kind of romantic like that.”
You toss a fry at him. It bounces off his chest and lands in his tray.
He doesn’t flinch. Just picks it up and eats it. “Thanks.”
You roll your eyes, but you can't help the smile that tugs on your lips.
The air settles into a rhythm again. You chew slowly, the kind of silence between you that doesn’t need filling. It's never been hard, being around him. Even now — after everything — you find yourself slipping back into the easy groove of just existing next to him.
Your phone buzzes in your bag, but you don’t reach for it. You don’t even want to know.
You glance over at him again.
He’s still working on his burger, brows furrowed like he’s trying to solve it. Like he’s mad at how good it tastes.
It should be funny.
It is funny. But your heart stutters instead.
You don’t laugh. You just watch.
The way his lips press together before each bite. The little crease between his eyebrows. His jaw, flexing with each chew. The thick column of his throat when he swallows.
You’ve seen him eat a thousand things in a thousand places. Messy tacos. Gas station snacks. Instant noodles straight from the pot. But somehow, this moment feels different.
Or maybe you do.
Something in you has been tilting all week.
You’ve been tired, angry, brittle with exhaustion. But under it — every time he texts you, looks at you, shows up — there’s something else rising. Warm and low.
You’re not sure when being around him stopped feeling simple.
Maybe it was that night. Maybe it’s been creeping in longer. But it’s louder now. Clearer. It fills your throat and sits behind your ribs and presses up against the edges of your self-control.
He licks ketchup from his thumb.
And you can’t stop staring at his mouth.
He glances up and catches you looking, raising an eyebrow. “What?”
You blink. Swallow. Try to think of something else, anything else, but your body’s already too aware. Too wired.
“Would you hate me if I did something?” you ask, voice low.
His head tilts. “What kind of something?”
“Would you?” you repeat, ignoring his question.
He puts his empty milkshake cup and spare tissues into the paper bag you got the food in, then puts it on to the dashboard of the car before meeting your gaze again.
“You know I could never hate you,” he says, voice casual.
Your pulse stutters.
And before you can talk yourself out of it, your fingers fist in the front of his shirt and you’re moving across your seat, crashing your mouth into his.
It’s not sweet or delicate.
You kiss him like you’ve been holding it back for weeks. Like you’ve hit your limit and there’s nowhere else for the feeling to go. Your teeth scrape his lip. Your noses bump.
He makes a startled sound, hands finding your waist instinctively. You pull back a bit, heart hammering in your chest, and for a beat, neither of you move. He just stares at you — wide-eyed, lips parted — like he’s trying to memorise this exact second.
His mouth opens and closes for a second before his lips are on yours again, chasing your mouth like he needs you to breathe.
Fuck. You weren't actually expecting him to reciprocate.
Then again, you hadn't been thinking at all.
"This is a horrible idea," you mumble.
Jungkook smiles into the kiss. "Mhm. Terrible."
But neither of you stop. You're not sure you could even if you tried. Jungkook's an addicting man, especially when he's kissing you like this.
You grunt into his mouth when your knee hits the centre console, frustrated — not at him, not at this, but at the fucking layout of his stupid car.
You pull back just far enough to say, breathless, “This car is the worst possible place for this.”
He’s panting a little, lips flushed. “You’re the one who launched yourself at me.”
You roll your eyes, shifting your position to try and get comfortable, but your impatience only grows with every second that your lips aren't on his.
“Fuck,” you mutter, pushing your hair out of your face. “This is so—”
“Hot,” Jungkook cuts in, his hand sliding under your shirt to palm your waist. His touch is warm. Steady. “It’s hot.”
You pause. Look at him.
His gaze is on your mouth again and his hand flexes against your skin like he’s trying to stay in control. But you see it — how much effort it’s taking.
And that…
Yeah, that does something to you.
With the help of his hands, your weight sinks down into his lap, both knees straddling his thighs.
The position isn’t comfortable — your head almost knocks the ceiling — but it’s better than before. Your mouths press together again, desperate.
Your tongue slides against his, your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and he pulls you tighter like you might disappear if he lets go.
One of his hands snakes up your back, under your shirt, fingers splaying across your spine like he wants to map it. You grind down against him, slow and deliberate, and his breath stutters.
“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth. “Do that again.”
You do.
He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, like he’s trying to taste everything you’ve never said out loud. You lose your balance for a second, your body leaning into him, your chest flush with his. His hand slips up to your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone.
You roll your hips again, slower this time, and he breaks the kiss with a gasp, resting his forehead against yours.
“Shit,” he says, voice wrecked. “We can’t do this here.”
“Why not?” you murmur, mouth still grazing his.
He laughs — short, breathless. “Because I’m gonna break the gearshift with my dick if we keep going.”
You laugh too, the sound getting lost between the kisses you press to his jaw, his neck, the line of his throat.
His fingers dig into your waist. “You’re evil.”
You bite his earlobe gently. “You like it.”
He groans, the sound full and needy, and his hands are on your ass, dragging you harder into him, his hips rolling up to meet yours.
You both freeze at the contact.
Your breath catches. His does too.
You pull back to look at him. His eyes are blown wide. His lips are red. His chest rises and falls like he’s run a mile.
His mouth breaks from yours, breath ragged, lips swollen.
“Backseat,” he says, voice a little raspy.
You blink, still breathless. “What?”
He grabs your waist again, eyes dark with lust pooling in his pupils. “Backseat. Now.”
You don’t question him this time.
You clamber into the back with far less grace than you’d like — knees catching on leather, thigh knocking the steering wheel hard enough to make the horn let out a pathetic chirp. Jungkook laughs behind you, but it’s breathless and reverent, the kind of sound that makes you feel seen. Wanted.
You fall into the back seat, legs tangled, heart hammering, your skin hot beneath your clothes. Before you can even fix your hair or adjust your position, he’s climbing in after you.
His body slots over yours, knee between your thighs, hands bracing on either side of your head as he dives back in.
You fist his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer as his mouth breaks from yours and moves lower — along your jaw, down your neck. His lips are soft but relentless, nipping at the skin just below your ear before sucking hard enough to make your hips buck into him.
“Fuck,” you whisper, head falling back. “You’re—god—”
“Still not tired of me?” he murmurs against your throat.
You grip his shoulders, legs falling open to make room for him between them. “Shut up.”
He huffs a laugh against your skin, but he listens. Fingers move to your buttons, surprisingly nimble despite how wrecked he looks. He doesn’t tear anything. Doesn’t rush it. He undoes each one slowly, as if he’s unwrapping a gift he’s been waiting way too long to open.
As each button pops free, his mouth follows — kissing down the newly exposed skin between your breasts, over the curve of your ribs. His hands slide beneath the fabric, pushing it open until your chest is bared, and hooks a finger beneath the centre of your bra, tugging it down and out of the way until you're fully exposed beneath him.
He pulls back to look.
And when he does, he breathes your name.
Low. Like a prayer.
You watch his eyes drag over you, dark and worshipful. One hand cups your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, lazy circles while the other grips your waist, holding you steady as your back arches into him.
He leans down again, tongue flicking over your nipple before his mouth closes around it — sucking just hard enough to make your toes curl. Your fingers fly to his hair, anchoring yourself in him as his teeth graze sensitive skin and his free hand teases the other side, drawing a sharp gasp from your throat.
“Kook—” you breathe, hips shifting beneath him, desperate for friction.
His mouth drags away with a wet sound. “Yeah, baby?”
The pet name sounds dangerous in his voice. Too natural. Like it belongs.
You don’t even call it out. You just say, “Need more.”
That’s all he needs to hear.
He drops one hand between your thighs, pressing it there over your pants with firm, maddening pressure. Just enough to make your breath stutter. His mouth is back on your chest, and his fingers start moving — slow at first, then harder, more purposeful, dragging against the seam of the fabric like he knows exactly how to push you to the edge.
He does.
And you’re already spiralling, body burning under his touch, chest heaving, lips swollen, the back seat of his car too cramped, too humid, too perfectly wrong for what’s happening.
But you’ve never wanted anything more.
Your head drops back against the seat, a soft moan catching in your throat as Jungkook keeps working you over through your pants, his fingers circling you like he has all the time in the world and none of the patience to waste it.
“I swear to god,” you pant, “if you don’t get these off me right now, I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”
He laughs, still panting himself. His mouth presses hot and open to your neck, teeth grazing skin that’s already buzzing. “Bossy tonight, huh?”
“You started this.”
“And I’m gonna finish it,” he mutters, breath warm against your collarbone.
He shifts down your body and you feel him fumble with the button of your pants, tongue poking at the corner of his mouth in concentration.
“I can do it,” you say, breathless. “You’re slow.”
He blinks up at you, eyebrows raised. “Oh? I’m slow?”
You undo the button in one motion, zipper halfway down, and shoot him a sarcastic smile. “There. Congrats.”
He smiles, wide and wicked, and in the next second, he’s got your pants halfway down your thighs, your panties bunched right after. “Cool. I’ll just use my mouth then.”
That wipes the smugness off your face in an instant.
You freeze.
“Kook— wait, no—”
He pauses, glancing up at you from where he’s knelt between your legs, hair falling into his eyes, hands gripping your thighs with intent. “Did you just try and say no to that?”
“I mean…” You squirm, thighs twitching under his touch. “Last time was already— like, I came. A lot. You don’t have to do the whole… y’know…”
“The whole what?” he asks, voice dangerously innocent. “The part where I make you forget your own name with my tongue?”
You glare at him. “Don’t say it like that.”
He smirks, leaning in until his nose brushes your inner thigh. “Say what? That I’m gonna eat you out until you’re dripping into the seat?”
Your whole body jerks. “Jesus— Kook.”
“That’s not a no.”
He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, slow and warm. Then another. And another. Higher. Closer.
“Didn't get to do it last time,” he murmurs. “And I’ve been thinking about it. All fucking week.”
“You think about this?” you ask, trying for teasing, but your voice wavers as his mouth brushes closer to your core.
“Every night.”
Your breath catches.
“Every time I jerked off, it was to the sound you made when I had my fingers in you. You remember that?” he asks, dragging his mouth up until he’s just hovering over you, warm breath ghosting across your heat.
You nod, because you can’t speak. Your fingers are curled tight into the edge of the seat. Your thighs twitch.
“You remember what you said? ‘Please, don’t stop,’” he mimics, voice low and mocking. “But now you wanna tell me to stop this?”
You open your mouth to fire back some bratty reply — but then he presses a single, firm kiss against your cunt.
Your brain blanks.
Your hips buck.
“Fuck— okay,” you gasp, voice breaking.
He grins like he’s won a bet. “Knew you’d cave.”
Then his mouth is on you.
Hot and slow at first — just one long lick from bottom to top that has your eyes rolling back. His hands pin your thighs apart, anchoring you in place as he buries his face between your legs.
His tongue is obscene. Soft and firm in perfect rhythm, flicking over your clit before sealing his mouth around it and sucking hard enough to make your vision blur.
You cry out, hips stuttering up into his face, but he just groans against you.
“Fuck, you’re so messy already,” he mumbles against you. “Is that for me?”
You’re beyond words.
Your fingers snake into his hair, anchoring yourself as he eats you out like a man with something to prove. He moves with precision and hunger, memorising your every twitch, every gasp, every breathless curse.
“God, Kook—” you pant, eyes squeezed shut. “You’re such a fucking overachiever.”
He pulls back just enough to look up at you, chin slick, pupils blown. “You gonna dock my grade if I make you come too fast?”
You glare down at him, chest heaving. “You’re insufferable.”
He presses a kiss to your clit, slow and sharp. “As if it doesn't turn you on."
You can’t argue. Not when he dives back in, tongue sliding over you with maddening confidence, his nose bumping against your clit as he hums.
The pressure builds fast.
Too fast.
And you know it’s coming — the kind of orgasm that starts at your toes and climbs like a fuse to the rest of you — but you don’t care.
You come hard, shaking through it, barely aware of the sounds leaving your mouth. Everything goes white-hot for a second — your grip in his hair, the tremble in your thighs, the pleasure that pulses through you.
You’re still gasping, thighs trembling, when he finally pulls back. His lips are slick, his chin wet with you, and he looks fucking wrecked.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You good?” he asks, cocky and a little breathless.
You shoot him a look. “Do I look good?”
He smirks. “You look like I just rocked your shit.”
You scoff, weak but grinning. “You’re so full of yourself.”
He kisses your inner thigh, then leans up, mouth dragging over your ribs as he moves back over you. “Just calling it like I see it.”
Your hands slide under his shirt as he settles above you again, dragging it up over his toned stomach until he gets the hint and peels it off. You press your palms to his chest, warm and solid and slick with sweat.
Then your hand starts moving lower.
Jungkook freezes above you, eyes flicking down to where your fingers are tugging at his waistband. You smirk up at him.
“My turn?”
“Your turn to what?” he asks, voice already hoarse.
You shift, nudging his hips up so you can start pulling his jeans open. “You think I’m gonna let you have all the fun?”
He groans — actual, full-bodied groan — as you work the zipper down and slide your hand beneath the waistband of his boxers.
But the second your fingers wrap around him, he grabs your wrist.
You look up, surprised. “What?”
He’s panting now, jaw tight, brow furrowed like he’s holding on by a thread.
“I can’t.”
You blink. “Can’t what?”
“I— fuck, if you put your mouth on me, I’m not gonna last.” He grips your wrist tighter, not pulling away but not letting you move either. “And I need to be in you first.”
You raise a brow, amused. “What happened to all that stamina you brag about during Mario Kart?”
He glares, cheeks flushed. “That’s different. You don’t suck me off during Mario Kart.”
“Maybe I should.”
“Don’t joke right now,” he grits out, pushing your hand out of his boxers with an almost painful kind of restraint. “I’m serious. I’m already dying.”
You pout, dragging your nails lightly down his stomach just to be a brat. “So needy.”
His eyes narrow, before moving back onto you.
You squeal as he pins your hands above your head, his body crashing into yours, mouth crashing against your neck.
“I’ll show you needy,” he growls, voice thick and dark.
Your heart kicks hard in your chest, and you’re smiling — giddy, wrecked, turned on beyond belief.
“You promise?” you whisper, voice almost mocking.
His hips roll down into yours.
“Oh, baby. I promise.”
The second his hips grind down again, dragging against your soaked heat, you feel your breath punch out of your lungs.
He lets go of your wrists and shoves his jeans and boxers down just far enough to free himself, cock flushed and heavy, already leaking at the tip. You reach for it instinctively, wanting to feel him, stroke him slow just to tease — but he swats your hand away like it’s nothing.
“No,” he growls, leaning in to press a kiss to your collarbone, rough and reverent all at once. “You had your chance.”
You open your mouth to argue, to push his buttons just a little more — but the head of his cock nudges your entrance, and whatever snark you had queued up melts into a gasp.
Jungkook groans under his breath, burying his face in the crook of your neck like the restraint is killing him. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”
“Yeah,” you rasp, gripping his shoulders, nails digging in. “Wonder why.”
He shifts his hips, just a little, dragging the thick head through your folds. Not pushing in yet, but slicking himself up with you. You moan despite yourself, arching into him, your body desperate to be filled.
“You ready?” he mutters, voice ragged.
You look at him — really look at him. His hair’s a mess, stuck to his forehead. His lips are kiss-bruised and red. His abs flex as he holds himself up over you, barely restraining the shake in his arms.
And you’ve never wanted anything so badly in your life.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Please.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
He pushes in slow, thick and stretching, and your breath catches at the burn. Your back arches. One hand flies to the window for leverage, the other fists in the back of his neck.
“Jesus,” Jungkook groans, barely halfway in. “You feel— fuck— you feel insane.”
You laugh, short and winded. “That’s what you said last time.”
“Yeah, and I meant it.”
He bottoms out with a curse, hips flush to yours. For a moment, you both just breathe — heavy and ragged, bodies locked together, the air thick with sweat and want.
His movements are slow at first — just a shallow roll of his hips that drags his cock along every nerve ending inside you. You moan, legs tightening around his waist, heels digging into the backs of his thighs.
“Faster,” you breathe, already twitching around him.
He leans back just enough to watch your face, eyes locked on yours like he’s chasing every reaction. Then he picks up the pace — slamming into you with long, deep strokes that have the car rocking.
You cry out, snapping your hand up to press against your mouth. “Kook— fuck, don’t stop.”
He laughs — laughs, breathless and wrecked. “You think I could?”
Every thrust punches a gasp from your lungs. You can’t think. You can’t do anything but hold on.
He shifts, bracing one knee on the seat and angling his hips just right — and when he hits that spot inside you, your whole body jerks.
“Oh my god,” you moan.
“Right there?” he grits out, sweat dripping down his jaw. “Fuck, I feel it— your pussy’s so fucking tight, you’re gonna— shit— you’re gonna make me come.”
“Thought you said I’d be the one begging.”
He groans, pulls out almost all the way, then slams back in so hard you scream.
“Still wanna be a brat?” he growls, panting.
You nod, grinning through the moans. “Always.”
“Fine.” He grabs both your wrists again and pins them above your head, his body pressing into you harder now, relentless, sweat slicking your skin. “Then you can take it.”
And fuck, you do.
Your second orgasm creeps up on you fast — your whole body tensing as his thrusts get rougher, deeper, desperate. You cry out his name, high and wrecked, and the sound makes him snap.
His rhythm falters. His mouth crashes against yours, sloppy and hot, all teeth and tongue as he chases his own edge.
“I’m gonna—” he gasps, pulling back to look at you, eyes wild. “Fuck— can I—?”
You nod fast, moaning. “Inside. Just do it.”
That’s all it takes.
He buries himself one last time and shatters — groaning low in your ear as he spills into you, body shaking, arms trembling with effort as he holds himself up.
For a moment, it’s just the sound of breathing. Wind through cracked windows. The slow drip of sweat down your temples. The burn in your thighs. The mess between your legs.
Jungkook lets out a choked laugh and slumps down, burying his face in your neck. “Okay,” he mumbles. “That might’ve been the best sex I’ve had in a fucking car.”
You laugh, dazed. “You say that like it’s a long list.”
“Give me some credit,” he says, voice muffled against your skin. “I’m not that trashy.”
You stroke your fingers through his hair, still catching your breath. “We just fogged up every window in your car.”
“Worth it.”
He doesn’t move.
You’re still tangled together, his weight heavy on you, his softening cock still inside.
After a moment, he shifts slightly and lets out a low, satisfied sigh. You can feel the smile against your neck before he presses another kiss there. Then another. And another.
You squirm, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You’re clingy as fuck after sex.”
“Mm-hmm,” Jungkook hums, completely unashamed. “Deal with it.”
You roll your eyes, still grinning. “You’re like a weighted blanket.”
He lifts his head just enough to look at you, sweaty curls falling into his eyes. “You love it.”
“Debatable.”
He snorts, then finally pulls out, slow and careful. You both groan at the feeling, and you feel it immediately: his cum, warm and slick, already starting to slide out of you.
You shift to reach for your underwear, cringing at the sticky feeling.
“I’ll clean you up,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “When we get home.”
You blink at him. “You don’t have to. Just drop me off—”
“No.” His tone is firmer now, jaw set. “I’m not just dropping you off.”
You stare at him for a beat, surprised by the sharp edge in his voice. Then you glance down pull up your bra and button up your shirt, suddenly very aware of your heartbeat again.
He watches you the whole time, his eyes dragging over your skin like he’s memorising every inch of it before covering it back up. And when you finish with the last button and reach for your jeans, he leans forward and kisses your jaw — soft, almost reverent.
“I mean it,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”
And for some reason, you don’t fight it.
You’re lying in his bed, hair still damp from the shower, the curve of his hoodie soft against your bare thighs. The sheets smell like fabric softener and his cologne, and the room is dim — just the small lamp by the closet casting a low amber glow. There’s a bowl of ramen on the nightstand, still steaming. You’re not hungry, but he made it for you, so you took a few bites anyway.
Outside, the city hums. A car passes on the street below. Somewhere down the hall, the radiator clicks.
It should feel normal. Comfortable. It did feel normal — until maybe twenty minutes ago.
Things were fine when you got here. He’d pulled you toward the bathroom and handed you a towel, that stupid grin still half on his face. He even said something about making noodles if you promised not to pass out in his bed again. You’d laughed. Called him a housewife. Everything felt fine.
But when you came out of the shower, something was different.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling his phone like he didn’t hear you walk in. And when he looked up, the smile was there, yeah — but it didn’t fully reach his eyes. You shrugged it off. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe he was just zoning out.
But then it kept going.
Quiet, too quiet. He’d made the ramen without talking. Brought it to you, set it down, and just... sat on the floor for a while, scrolling again, saying nothing. When you asked what he was doing, he just said, “Checking something,” and didn’t elaborate. Eventually he stood, turned on a random playlist, and flopped into the chair in the corner with a bottle of water.
Now he’s across the room, scrolling again, leg bouncing slightly like he’s keyed up and trying to burn it off. He hasn’t looked at you in a few minutes. You watch the light from his phone flicker across his face, the way his brow furrows every now and then, and something in your chest tugs.
It’s not dramatic. He’s not being rude or distant. He’s not treating you like a stranger. But he’s not treating you like you, either — not the way he usually does.
You know him too well not to notice. The way he’s moving isn’t right. Like he’s stuck in his own head. Like there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how to bring up.
Or maybe he’s trying not to say something. Either way, it sits in the air between you, subtle but heavy.
You pull your knees up under the hoodie and wrap your arms around them, resting your chin there. Watching him. Waiting, maybe, for him to snap out of it. Say something dumb. Make fun of your hair. Crawl into bed next to you like it’s nothing.
But he doesn’t.
You shift slightly, tugging the hoodie down over your thighs even though it’s already covering you. The ramen’s gone lukewarm on the nightstand.
“Kook?”
His head lifts just a little. “Hmm?”
You hesitate. “What’s going on?”
He blinks, finally looking at you. His eyes are soft. Tired, maybe. Or just dimmer than usual. “What do you mean?”
“You just feel…” You trail off, unsure how to word it without sounding dramatic. “I don’t know. A little off.”
He smiles, and it’s almost convincing. “I’m good. Just tired.”
You don’t push. Not really. You know him. If he doesn’t want to talk, he won’t. And whatever this is — it doesn’t feel sharp enough to cut yet. It just feels strange.
“Okay,” you say quietly.
He glances down, then back at you. “Eat your noodles before they go gross.”
You glance at the bowl, then back at him. “You eat yet?”
He nods. “Earlier.”
You don’t believe him, but you let it slide.
He shifts in the chair, stretching his legs out and resting his head back for a second before sitting up again, like he was about to let himself relax and then thought better of it.
“I’m gonna get some work done before bed,” he says, standing up slowly. “Couple things I need to catch up on.”
You watch him move toward the door, half expecting him to stop, change his mind, come back and say something dumb like he always does. But he just opens it, hand braced against the frame.
His voice is gentle when he adds, “Don’t stay up too late, alright?”
You nod. “Yeah. I won’t.”
He gives you a small smile — soft, careful — and then he’s gone.
The door clicks shut behind him.
You stare at it for a long moment. The hoodie sleeves are pulled over your hands now. The ramen sits untouched. The playlist keeps playing, quiet and aimless in the background.
You let out a soft sigh before reaching over to flick off the lamp.
The room goes dark, soft shadows stretching over the walls. The sheets rustle as you shift down into them, tugging the comforter over your legs, the warmth doing nothing to quiet the noise in your head.
Maybe this is why people don’t sleep with their best friends.
Maybe this is exactly why those lines exist — because crossing them means risking everything else. And maybe you knew that. Maybe you ignored it anyway.
Because it was him.
Because part of you has been circling this for longer than you want to admit.
You close your eyes, breathing slow and steady. The scent of him still clings to the sheets. Still wraps around you like he should be here. But he’s not.
Regret settles low in your chest, dull and heavy. You hate the way it sits there, thick in your ribs, twisting slow in your stomach. You’ve always hated how it creeps in after the fact, when it’s already too late to take anything back.
You shift onto your side and pull the blanket up to your chin. Try to sleep. Try to stop thinking.
summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.
after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?
pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader
genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff, slight angst
word count: 7.7k
warnings: swearing, they actually talk about their feelings :0, explicit sexual content (mdni), kissing, making out, hickeys, dry humping, oral (f. receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (be smarter than them pls), a bit of banter, petnames (baby), they're really fucking cute in the end it makes me sick, let me know if i missed anything!
notes: idk if this counts as my first completed series buttt... i'm gonna act like it does. thank you so so much to all the love and support you guys have given me for the past two parts, i'm genuinely so beyond grateful for it all :<< hopefully, you guys enjoy this part too!!
ps. READ PART ONE HERE & PART TWO HERE!!
⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback
You open his chat window again like it’s muscle memory. Like your thumb don't know how to not betray you.
It’s not even about sending something. You’ve got no intention of doing that. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. But the screen is always open, staring back at you with that last unread message you sent almost a week ago — a throwaway meme you found on your lunch break. No reply. Not even a reaction.
And it hadn’t felt like a big deal in the moment. You sent it like always, light and dumb and nothing. But then the nothing kept going. No little gray typing bubble. No 'lol.' No double text. No late night 'you up?' Just this wall of silence.
You would’ve rather gotten a dry reply. Hell, even a thumbs up. Anything to prove that he saw you.
But now it’s been long enough that sending something new would feel desperate. Like you’re chasing him. Like you’re asking for something you’re not even supposed to want.
You lock your phone and throw it face down on your bed.
Then pick it back up five seconds later.
Then toss it again, harder, as if that’ll prove something.
You wish you were mad. You think you are mad — at least a little. But it’s a tangled kind of anger. One that knots itself up with embarrassment and sharp, bitter shame. You want to scream at him, yeah. But also at yourself.
Why did you let this happen?
Why did you let him blur the lines and kiss you like that and touch you like he meant it?
You were supposed to be smarter than this.
You lie back across your bed with one arm flung over your eyes. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. It was just sex. Just two nights. Two insanely good, dangerously close, way-too-connected nights. But still — technically just sex.
Except it wasn’t.
Not when he remembered your favourite sauce order without asking. Not when he brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear while you ranted about work.
And especially not when he went cold the second things felt too good.
That’s what keeps twisting the knife. That shift in him. Like someone flipped a switch and rewrote the script. One minute, he was holding you like you mattered. The next, you were stepping out of his bathroom and into a stranger’s apartment.
You haven’t heard his voice since.
You bite the inside of your cheek and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push down that lump of feeling before it rises too high.
It’s fine. You’re fine. You’re overthinking it.
Maybe he’s just going through something. Maybe he didn’t mean to shut you out. Maybe he thought you didn’t want to hear from him. Or maybe he’s just a fucking coward who got scared when the stakes changed.
But then, why didn’t you reach out?
Why didn’t you ask if he was okay, or tell him he was being weird, or demand an explanation like you’re owed one?
Because you’re afraid.
Because you don’t want the truth if the truth is that he regrets all of it.
Because deep down, you know this isn’t just a friendship anymore, and pretending it is would break you worse than silence.
Your phone buzzes once on the comforter beside you.
You freeze. Then sit up fast, breath catching halfway in your throat.
Your eyes are already scanning the screen before your brain can fully catch up.
Kook 🍜: hi
One word. Just hi. Like the last seven days didn’t happen. Like your stomach hasn’t been in knots trying to make sense of his silence. Like he didn’t vanish without warning after folding you into his sheets and leaving you to figure out what the hell it meant.
Your breath leaves you in one uneven exhale.
You blink at the message, your body locked in this strange stillness. Your thumb hovers, frozen. Part of you is tempted to stare at it until it disappears. Ignore it. Let him feel what it’s like to be the one left hanging. But your hands betray you again — just like they always do with him.
You: Radio silence for a week and all I get is a fucking hi? Wtf Jungkook
It’s not even what you really want to say, but it’s the closest thing you can manage that doesn’t sound like I missed you so much it made me sick or please don’t do this again.
Three dots appear.
Your heart squeezes like it’s caught in someone’s fist. And then the dots vanish.
Then come back.
Then vanish again.
You mutter, “Fucking say something,” to no one. It comes out too small, too desperate. You shut your eyes tight for a second like you can wring the feeling out of yourself by force.
A minute or so passes before his reply finally sends.
Kook 🍜: sorry. can i talk to you today?
You reread it so many times the text starts to lose meaning. Can I talk to you today?
You feel sick.
There’s no way you don’t know what this is. The phrasing. The tone. He wants to talk? What the fuck else could that mean, if not that he’s about to cut things off? That he’s going to hand you some polite little speech about how you’re great, but this can’t happen again. That he wants to stay friends and he doesn’t want to confuse things any more than he already has.
Or worse — he thinks you guys are better off cutting contact all together.
You bite down hard on your thumb, suddenly on the verge of tears and furious at yourself for it. You should’ve never let it get here. You should’ve drawn the line before the second time. Before the car. Before the party.
You should’ve been more careful with your heart.
But you’re here now. So far past the line you can’t even see it anymore.
You open your keyboard, then close it again. You want to ask what he wants to talk about. You want to demand answers over text so you don’t have to see his face when he says the words. But you know you won’t get anything that way.
You: Where?
Kook 🍜: i can come to yours
You sit there for a second, just breathing. You feel like you’re bracing for a crash that’s already midair.
You: What time?
Kook 🍜: i can be there in an hour?
You don’t answer. Not right away. You’re too busy staring at your reflection in the dark screen, wondering why your face looks so calm when your body feels like it’s trying to collapse in on itself.
You: Okay
You put the phone down carefully, like it might go off again, or explode, and turn your gaze to the ceiling. Every minute after this is going to stretch like it’s mocking you.
You don’t know if you’re getting closure or clarity. You don’t even know which one would hurt more.
But you know you won't cancel.
Because if this is going to end — if he’s going to say it — it has to be to your face. You need to see it.
You need to know for sure.
Jungkook is fucked.
Like, actually, cosmically, irreversibly fucked.
He stares at the elevator doors like they’re the gates to hell, and his own reflection in the brushed metal does him no favours. He looks tense. Jaw tight, shoulders hunched up high like he’s trying to fold himself into a more manageable version. Someone chill. Someone who isn’t about to shit himself over the thought of seeing you.
He rolls his shoulders back, shakes out his hands. Useless. He’s already sweating through his hoodie.
Every nerve in his body feels like it’s tuned an octave too high. Like if someone so much as breathes in his direction right now, he’ll either snap or confess something humiliating.
He wipes his palms on his jeans again. That’s the fourth time since the lobby.
The worst part is, he knows how he got here. He knows exactly when it happened, too — the moment the line moved.
It was your laugh. The tired kind, all cracked at the edges after that hellish Friday you had. You were curled up in his passenger seat, half out of it, feet tucked under you, and you’d looked over at him with that soft, worn-down smile.
And it just… hit him.
The weight of it. Of you.
He wanted to reach over and touch your face. Not to tease. Not to start something. Just to feel your skin under his fingers like it was allowed now.
And the second that thought formed — clear and blinding and way too tender — it was over. Game fucking over.
Because it wasn’t supposed to feel like that.
You’re his best friend. Have been for years. He knows how you take your coffee, how you organise your playlists by mood, how you chew on the inside of your cheek when you're anxious. You’re not just some girl he hooked up with at a party. You’re you.
And now, he’s standing in an elevator on the way to your apartment, trying not to think about how badly he messed it all up.
He hadn’t meant to ghost you. Not really. It was just — after that night, after the way you looked at him, all warm and trusting — he panicked. Full-body, brain-scrambling, total system failure. He couldn’t even look at you without feeling like he was seconds from saying something stupid like "Don’t sleep with anyone else, please," or "I think I’m in love with you."
So instead, he shut down. Did the one thing he always swore he wouldn’t do with you — he pulled away. Got weird. Avoided it. Avoided you.
And now you’re pissed.
Rightfully so.
He deserved that text you sent. Probably worse. You could’ve ignored him completely and he wouldn’t have blamed you. But you didn’t. You texted back and he’s clinging onto that like a lifeline. Because it means there’s still time. Still a chance to fix it — if he doesn’t blow it again.
He presses the heel of his hand to his chest like that might steady the erratic rhythm of his heart.
What the fuck is he even going to say?
Sorry for being an emotionally constipated idiot?
Sorry I ghosted you because I realised I’m in love with you and it short-circuited my whole fucking personality?
Sorry I thought I could fuck you and still keep pretending like you don’t mean more to me than anyone else?
The elevator dings.
Jungkook flinches like it slapped him, then scrubs a hand through his hair, lets out a tight breath, and steps through the doors before he can change his mind.
He’s here.
Fuck. He’s actually here.
Jungkook looks like he didn’t sleep last night. Hair messy, clothes a little wrinkled, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a second before they dart away again. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his jacket like he’s afraid of what they’ll do if left unsupervised.
You tell yourself not to feel relieved. Not to let it show. He didn’t cancel. He showed up. That shouldn’t mean as much as it does. It really, really shouldn’t.
But still — there’s something in your chest that unclenches when you see him standing there, real and present. Even if he does look like he’s about to apologise for burning down your house or something.
“Hey,” he says, voice quiet.
You step back from the door to let him in. Dry. Wordless. The move is automatic, but your body feels stiff with it, like your own muscles are annoyed on your behalf.
He hesitates before stepping inside, like he thinks the floor might swallow him up. You don't offer a smile. Don't even look at him once the door’s closed behind him.
You cross your arms and lean back against the edge of the kitchen counter, watching him with a blank expression that’s only half-real. The other half is tightly coiled under your skin — anger, sure, but under that, all the feelings you’ve been pretending not to have.
He does a slow, uncertain glance around your apartment like something might’ve changed since the last time he was here. But it hasn’t. It’s still your place. Same plants, same overhead light humming softly, same faint scent of laundry detergent that clings to the air.
He stands there awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It’s like he doesn’t know where to put his body.
You’ve never seen him like this before. Not around you. Jungkook’s always been comfortable here. The kind of comfortable that leaves shoes by the door without asking. The kind that opens your fridge like he owns a shelf. But right now, he looks like a stranger in someone else’s house.
You let the silence stretch out. You’re waiting for him to just speak, but he doesn’t
He doesn’t even try.
Eventually, your voice cuts through the air, a little too sharp. “Jungkook, you said you wanted to talk.”
His head snaps up like he forgot that was part of the deal. Like the fact that he came here at all already cost him everything he had in reserve.
“Yeah,” he says. His throat moves when he swallows. “I do.”
You raise your eyebrows, waiting.
He opens his mouth like he’s about to start, then closes it again. Shifts his stance. Rubs the back of his neck with one hand. You catch the way his eyes flick to the floor, then back to you, then away again.
You narrow your eyes. “Well?”
He breathes out a weak, almost bitter laugh and runs both hands down his thighs, like he’s physically trying to ground himself. “I don’t know how to do this,” he mutters.
You frown, arms still crossed tight across your chest. “What? Talk?”
You hate being like this towards him — you feel like a bitch. But it’s the only way that you can stop yourself from just spilling all of your thoughts and feelings to him.
“No, I—” He breaks off, jaw flexing. “No. I mean… say the right thing. Say any of it without sounding like an idiot.”
You blink, unimpressed. “So you came here without knowing what you were gonna say.”
He looks at you then. Fully. And for the first time since he walked in, you see the real wreckage behind his eyes. There’s nothing cool or casual about it. He’s unravelling in slow motion. Everything about him is quiet desperation wrapped in someone trying really hard not to fall apart.
“I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t know what I wanted,” he says finally. “And then I figured it out, and that somehow made it worse.”
You stay silent.
He shifts closer, not by much — just a few inches. “I fucked up,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “I know I did. I know I disappeared. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t care. I was just—” he stops, jaw tightening again. “I got scared.”
You scoff under your breath and look away.
“I’m serious,” he says, softer now. “It freaked me out. How fast it happened. How much it changed.”
You look back at him, jaw set. “What changed?”
He swallows again. Stiff. His voice cracks a little when he speaks next.
“You,” he says again. “How I feel about you. That changed.”
Your chest tightens.
You don’t react, not visibly. You keep your face still, unreadable, even though your brain is suddenly scrambling. You’ve been yanked in too many directions this past week. You’re not going to lean into hope just because he finally decided to speak.
So you say nothing. You just hold his gaze and wait.
Jungkook takes a breath, his shoulders rising with it, then falling in a slow, deliberate exhale. The nervousness is still there — but it’s settled into something quieter now.
“I kept trying to tell myself it didn’t mean anything,” he says. “That it was just— whatever. Two friends, getting carried away. We were drunk the first time, right? It was easy to lie to myself about that. Easy to say it didn’t have to go anywhere.”
His voice is calm, but there's tension underneath it.
“But the second time?” He pauses, tongue running along the inside of his cheek, eyes still locked on yours. “That wasn’t drunk. That wasn’t casual. That was me driving us across town just to make you feel better, because I can’t stand it when you’re not okay.”
You flinch — barely — but he sees it. You know he does.
“And then it was me kissing you like I’d lose my mind if I didn’t. You think I didn’t notice how different that felt? I’ve never kissed you like that before. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”
The weight of his words hangs in the air between you.
You’re still standing by the counter, arms crossed, but now your grip has loosened. You hate how much this is getting to you, how badly you want to give in, how your chest aches just hearing him say the things you’d only let yourself think when the lights were off and your phone screen was dark.
Jungkook takes another step toward you.
“When I brought you back to mine that night… when you came out of the shower, and I saw you just standing there in my space, looking at me like I was safe…” His voice catches, but not in a way that makes him crumble — just enough to show the truth of it. “I freaked the fuck out.”
You blink at him, finally speaking. “Yeah. I noticed.”
He huffs out a breath that's almost a laugh, but not quite. “I didn’t mean to shut down. I didn’t even know what I was doing in the moment. I just— everything in me wanted to pull you close, and that’s when I realised I couldn’t keep doing this the way we were doing it. Not without losing my shit every time you left.”
Your throat feels tight, but you still ask, “So you decided to ghost me instead?”
That lands. His jaw flexes, and he nods once. “Yeah. I did. I thought if I gave it space, I could go back to being normal. Go back to just being your friend. But I couldn’t. I can’t.
“I don’t want to be just your friend anymore. Not because of the sex, not because it was good— which it was, but that’s not the point. It’s you. It’s always been you. I didn’t realise how much until I almost lost it completely.”
You swallow hard. Your arms are uncrossed now. Not folded in, not defensive — just hanging at your sides like you’re too stunned to remember what to do with them.
Jungkook steps in closer. Not touching you yet. But near enough that you can smell him — faint cologne, his laundry detergent, the scent you associate with your car windows fogging up.
“I missed you,” he says, and his voice turns softer. “Every day. And it scared the shit out of me, how badly I wanted to talk to you. Touch you. Just be around you. I wasn’t ready to admit it last week, and I was a coward for that. But I’m not running anymore.”
Silence again.
Except it doesn’t feel like the ones you’ve been drowning in for a week.
“I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he says, lower now, like the words might break if he’s too loud. “And I’m not assuming anything. But if you still want me around— really want me— just say the word. I’ll figure out the rest.”
You inhale slowly, try to even out your breathing, but your chest still feels like it’s barely holding together. Your heart’s doing that thing where it thuds too hard without speeding up.
You hate that you believe him. That you always would’ve. That no matter how angry you were, no matter how cold you tried to be when he walked in — you still wanted him to explain, to prove it wasn’t what your worst thoughts told you it was.
And now he has.
He’s standing in front of you with open hands, with the words you oh so desperately wanted to hear. And for a moment, you’re not sure what to do with that.
“I hate you,” you say quietly.
It’s not true. Not even close. But it’s the first thing that leaves your mouth.
Jungkook huffs out a dry laugh, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah,” he murmurs, nodding. “I figured.”
You shake your head once. “No. I mean it. I fucking hate you for this. For—” You break off, because your voice is shaking now. “For making me feel like I was crazy. For not even saying goodnight after… after everything.”
His face tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“You could’ve just told me,” you go on. “You could’ve said it was too much. That it got weird. That you needed time. Anything. But you disappeared. And I had to sit here wondering if I made it all up."
You pause, pressing your lips together.
“And I— I missed you too, you know,” you add, quieter this time.
His mouth opens like he might speak, but no sound comes out at first. Instead, he closes the space between you by half, slow and steady, like he’s afraid of pushing too far.
“God, you’re such an asshole,” you whisper, but your tone isn't mean. Not even close.
He laughs, soft and low. “Yeah. I know.
“You promise me you’re sure? Cause Jungkook, I will fucking cut off your dick if you pull this shit again.”
He smiles but doesn’t hesitate. “I promise. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
You stare at him.
Long enough that the air between you stretches taut, thin as thread.
His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but still doesn’t know if he’s allowed. His jaw flexes, his chest rising and falling in uneven swells. You can tell he’s waiting — for a sign, for a go-ahead, for you.
And even though part of you still wants to be mad, still wants to make him sweat just a little longer, the rest of you aches. For his mouth. For his hands. For the solid, grounding weight of him.
So you move.
You step into the last inch of space between you and grab the front of his hoodie. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a year, but you don’t give him a chance to say anything.
You kiss him.
Not out of impulse. Not for show. You kiss him because you need to. Because your chest feels like it’s going to split open if you don’t.
At first, it’s quiet. Just lips pressed to lips — careful, slow. There’s a pause between each pass of your mouth over his, like you’re both trying to remember how this started. How you even got here.
But then he sighs against you — not loud, not dramatic, just a sound full of relief — and it unravels something.
His hands lift, hesitating for only half a second before they settle on your waist, fingers curling tight. You press closer, and his lips part beneath yours. The angle shifts. Your nose bumps his cheek. It’s not perfect, but it’s real, and when your tongue brushes his, everything tilts.
The sweetness melts fast.
He makes a sound low in his throat and drags you in like the distance is unbearable. Your hands slide up into his hair, fingers threading through the strands at the base of his neck, and the way he reacts — the little shiver he tries to swallow — sends heat straight down your spine.
You kiss him harder.
His body crowds yours until your back meets the wall. Not rough, not rushed. Just firm. His chest presses to yours, and you can feel the way his heart races. How your own pulse kicks up to match it.
The kiss deepens, turns messy at the edges. His teeth catch your bottom lip and your breath stutters, but you don’t pull back. You tilt your chin, chasing more, and the next time he kisses you, it’s hungrier. One of his hands slips to the small of your back, palm dragging slow and warm beneath your shirt. The skin-to-skin contact makes your whole body twitch.
You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, his hands tightening. His other arm slips around your waist completely, pulling you flush against him, and suddenly you’re not thinking anymore. You’re just feeling.
The tension that’s been bottling up between you two — the silence, the week of wondering, the ache of missing him so much it hurt — it all floods to the surface.
You fist your hands in his hoodie, yanking him impossibly closer. Your hips shift forward, just enough to brush him, and the sound he makes is sharp and involuntary, caught between a breath and a groan.
“Fuck,” he mutters, barely pulling back. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged. “You’re driving me insane.”
You huff, lips brushing his. “That’s fair.”
Then he kisses you again. Rougher this time. Desperate in a way that makes your knees go soft.
He doesn’t stay at your mouth for long. His lips trail down — your jaw, your cheek, the shell of your ear. His breath is hot and uneven, and when he finds your neck, your whole body reacts. Your hands clutch at him, your back arches off the wall, and the soft sound that escapes your throat isn’t one you mean to make.
He feels it. Hears it. Answers it with a low, reverent sound that seems to vibrate straight through you.
His tongue traces the spot beneath your ear, slow and deliberate, and your eyes flutter shut.
Your fingers tighten in his hair, your breath catching sharp in your throat. You pull back for a second before lowering your mouth to his neck, right where the collar of his hoodie dips. He lets out a small sound, hands flexing on your waist, when your lips press there.
You start slow. You can feel his pulse under your tongue, the way his chest rises against yours, unsteady and warm. Then you part your lips and suck gently at the spot just below his jaw. His whole body stutters, hips jerking against yours before he can stop it.
Your fingers trail down his chest, tugging his hoodie collar aside for better access. His head tips back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted.
You do it again, this time with enough pressure to leave a mark, and the sound of your mouth working against his skin is lewd.
He groans. It’s low and rough and barely held back, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You feel him hardening now, undeniable through the fabric where he’s pressed against you.
“All mine?” you whisper, your lips brushing over the new mark you’ve left.
He doesn’t even hesitate. “All yours.”
His voice is breathless. Wrecked. And so damn certain it knocks something loose in your chest.
You pull back just enough to look at him — really look. His pupils are blown, his lips swollen, a flush climbing high on his cheeks. He looks at you like he wants to devour you. Like he would if you let him.
“I missed that mouth,” he mutters, hands gliding under your shirt again, palms broad and warm. “Missed everything.”
You kiss his throat in reply and drag your teeth across it until he swears under his breath.
His hips grind against you again, harder this time. You both feel it — the friction, the heat building between your bodies.
His arms shift beneath you and he lifts you clean off the ground in one smooth motion, hands strong under your thighs. A startled sound escapes your throat as your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, gripping him tight.
“Fuck,” he mutters again, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “I want you so bad it’s actually stupid.”
You smile, drunk on the feel of him.
“Bedroom?” you murmur, tracing your lips over the new mark blooming against his skin.
He hums lowly, and shifts his grip on your thighs.
He carries you through the hallway and your lips never leave his skin for more than a second.
When he reaches your bedroom, he doesn’t hesitate. He steps inside and drops you onto the mattress in one fluid movement.
You barely get your bearings before he’s crawling over you, slotting his body between your legs, His mouth finds yours again, and you moan into it before you can stop yourself when his knee presses between your legs.
Your hips twitch, grinding down against the pressure, and he groans in response, the sound vibrating through your chest as his mouth moves with yours. His hand slips under your shirt again, this time bolder, fingers spanning across your ribs and inching higher until his knuckles brush the curve of your breast.
You gasp softly, and he pulls back just enough to murmur, “Off.”
You sit up just enough to grab the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head in one smooth pull, your hair mussed from the friction. He watches the fabric fall to the floor, then looks at you.
“You’re so fucking pretty," he breathes.
You roll your eyes automatically, even though your face is already burning. “Shut up.”
“I’m serious,” he says, and his voice drops low. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
His lips part and he kisses along your sternum — slow, wet presses of his mouth that trail up and then out, over the swell of one breast, then the other.
You inhale sharply when his mouth grazes the sensitive skin beside your nipple, and his eyes flick up at the sound, pupils blown. He kisses lower, then higher again, murmuring against your skin, “Can’t believe I went a week without this.”
The vibration of his voice right against your skin makes you arch, and he meets you halfway, grinding down slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what you’re chasing and wants to stretch it out just to watch you squirm.
Your hands curl into his shoulders, nails biting down just enough to make him grunt softly into your skin. He rolls his hips again, slow and heavy, and the pressure against your core has your breath catching in your throat.
“Koo,” you whine out.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, lips pink and wet, hair falling into his eyes. He grins, crooked and hot and deeply pleased with himself.
“Yeah, baby?” he asks, and his voice is pure sin.
You glare, but your thighs shift open under him anyway.
“Please.”
He hums, satisfied, and starts working his way lower. Every kiss is wet and unhurried. Down your chest, across your stomach. His hands follow, smoothing over your ribs, down to your hips, dragging the waistband of your pants just slightly with them. His thumbs hook in the fabric, pausing right above your pelvis.
He looks up at you, smug and dark-eyed.
“Gonna let me take these off?”
He's so annoying you're gonna kill him. “Do I look like I’m stopping you?”
“No,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your navel, “but I like hearing you say it.”
You huff, fingers threading into his hair again. “Take them off, Kook.”
He eases them down slowly — too slowly — dragging the fabric down your legs while his mouth follows in a path of heat and pressure. He kisses your hipbone, your inner thigh, every patch of skin he uncovers like it’s something sacred. When your panties go next, he makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat — more reverent than smug this time.
You’re already wet, already aching, and from the way his eyes flicker as he takes you in, he fucking knows it.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re soaked. You missed me that much?”
You exhale hard, cheeks hot. “Shut up and do something about it.”
He grins again, slower this time. “Anything you want.”
His hands grip your thighs and spread them further apart, and before you can say another word, his mouth is on you.
The first swipe of his tongue is long, and delibirate. You jerk at the contact, a broken sound slipping from your lips, and he groans like he’s the one falling apart. His hands tighten on your hips, holding you in place, and does it again.
Every movement of his tongue is practiced and precise. He starts slow, almost gentle, licking through your folds with a kind of focus that makes your head spin. Your thighs threaten to close around his head, but he pushes them apart with ease, never breaking rhythm.
Your hands move to the back of his head, gripping tight. His tongue circles your clit once, then again, and the third time he sucks it between his lips. You try to stifle a moan, but it slips from your lips anyway.
He pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot on your skin.
“Keep making those sounds, baby,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Wanna hear every fucking thing I do to you.”
He movements turn faster, his mouth messy and hot and relentless. You’re already close, the build-up sharp and climbing, and he can feel it. One of his hands slips lower, spreading you open further with his thumb, and his tongue drags in tighter circles.
You’re writhing, panting, toes curling into the sheets. Your fingers tug at his hair, your spine arching off the bed.
“Fuck— Kook—” you gasp, head thrown back.
He groans again, the sound vibrating straight through your pussy. He doubles down, mouth moving faster, and when your hips start to stutter, erratic and desperate, he presses his hand over your stomach, grounding you.
“You’re gonna come for me?” he murmurs against you, mouth slick with you. “Gonna let me taste it?”
You nod frantically, unable to speak, your whole body wound tight and ready to snap.
He presses his mouth against you again, lips sucking against your clit, and the feeling has you squirming with pleasure.
“Kook—” your voice breaks open as you come hard against his mouth.
He moans, but his movements don't stop.
Your body arches helplessly, heels digging into the bed, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other still tangled in his hair as you ride out the wave. You’re gasping, blinking hard, your heart trying to punch through your ribs.
Only when your legs start to tremble uncontrollably does he finally pull back.
His lips are slick and swollen, jaw damp, hair messy from where you’ve been gripping it. And he looks wrecked — eyes heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide, like just being between your thighs has undone something in him.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then drags his lips slowly up your inner thigh, leaving lazy kisses in his wake.
You’re still catching your breath, staring at the ceiling like your soul just left your body, when he plants a final kiss on the inside of your knee and murmurs, “Yeah. I’m never ghosting you again.”
You let out a breathless laugh, too blissed out to be mad. “You better not.”
“After that?” he says, crawling back up your body, slow and unhurried. “I’d be clinically insane.”
He settles over you again, pressing a warm, open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, then another between your breasts, then finally your mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue, and when he groans against your lips, it sends a fresh jolt of heat straight through you.
His body is flush against yours, his clothed cock thick and heavy where it presses against your thigh. You let your hands trail down his chest slowly to tug at the denim loops of his jeans.
"Want these off," you mumble against his lips.
He smiles and presses one last kiss to your mouth before he leans back onto his knees. His hands go to his belt, and you watch the way his fingers fumble for just a second.
He gets the buckle undone, then the zipper, the sound louder than it should be in your quiet bedroom. You watch as he shucks them down, boxers and all, and your breath catches slightly at the sight of him — flushed and hard and achingly ready.
“Better?” he asks, voice low.
You nod, breath shallow, and he’s already crawling back over you. The heat of him sinks into your skin as his body settles between your thighs, bare now.
Your legs part without hesitation.
His weight, the press of his chest to yours, the familiar scent of him wrapped in something raw and new — it all hits at once, and your whole body shivers.
He’s warm everywhere. The kind of warmth that soaks into your bones and makes you ache for more.
His hands slide along your arms until they find yours where they’re resting above your head. He threads his fingers through yours and presses them gently into the pillow, pinning you there. His eyes search yours, and you feel the first brush of him between your legs, just the tip, teasing the edge of you.
He doesn’t move yet. Just rests there, eyes locked on yours.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and thick, like he’s hanging on by a thread.
You don’t answer — not with words. You just tilt your hips up, welcoming him in with nothing but a look.
He pushes in slow — painfully slow — each inch dragging fire across your nerves as your body stretches to take him. Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp, your fingers clenching around his. When he’s fully buried inside you, he stills completely.
“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel… unreal.”
You can’t speak — your body’s too full, too wrecked already — so you kiss him instead. Slow and sweet and a little desperate. Your hips rock up, seeking more.
He groans into your mouth, finally starting to move, and every thrust is so fucking deep. It’s not rushed or frantic. It’s him savouring you, like he wants to remember how this feels with every part of himself.
His hands stay tight around yours, anchoring you both to the bed, to each other.
The rhythm builds, a slow burn that spreads everywhere, and between kisses you catch the way he looks at you — like he’s seeing something he’s afraid to lose. Like there’s something he wants to say but can’t yet.
“You were supposed to beg,” you manage to murmur against his mouth, breathless. “Grovel a little.”
That crooked smile curls against your lips. “My bad, baby,” he murmurs. “You can make me beg next time.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You’re gonna regret that.”
He shifts his hips, thrusting deeper, and your breath leaves you in a ragged gasp.
“You promise?”
The challenge in his voice is smug, but his eyes are dark and glassy, his control hanging by a thread. You whimper in response, thighs tightening around his waist, and he dips his head to your throat, dragging his lips along your pulse like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.
He starts to move with more purpose now, making you feel every second of it. His cock grinds into that spot that makes your vision blur, and your whole body tenses, fingers squeezing his like a lifeline.
The moan you let out is shameless, high and wrecked, when he tilts his hips just right — again and again, like he’s carving his name into your body from the inside.
“Right there?” he murmurs, already knowing. His hand slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing you — every reaction, every sound. “God, you’re so fucking wet. You always get like this for me?”
“Koo—” His name slips out broken, a warning and a plea wrapped in one.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice ragged, forehead pressed to yours. His thrusts get rougher now, faster, the rhythm losing polish but gaining intensity. “Let me have you, baby. Come again for me.”
The words send a bolt of heat straight to your core, your whole body winding tight. His mouth crashes against yours before you can respond, tongue tangling with yours, greedy and open and honest in all the ways his words still aren’t.
When he pulls back, he’s panting, “You feel like heaven, fuck.”
You can’t even process it — not now, not when his rhythm stutters and his hips slam harder, each thrust jolting a cry from your throat. Your legs are trembling, your grip bruising where it clings to him, and you can feel the knot in your stomach tighening.
“That’s it,” he groans, watching your face like it’s the only thing that matters. “Let go for me. Let me feel you.”
You bury your face in his shoulder, teeth catching on his skin as your orgasm crashes over you. Your body locks up, thighs clenching, and you cry out his name. His hand squeezes yours back, holding you through it.
Your walls grip him tight, and he groans loud against your skin, hips faltering. “Fuck— shit—”
He thrusts once more before spilling into you with a broken sound, voice rasping your name like a prayer.
His whole body shudders as he comes, arms locked tight around you like he needs you to stay exactly where you are — here, under him, around him, real. His forehead drops to your shoulder, damp curls brushing your skin as he exhales, long and shaky.
Neither of you move right away. The air between you is thick with heat and breath and a comforting silence.
Eventually though, he shifts just enough to press a kiss to your collarbone. Then another, softer.
His hand slides along your waist, fingertips brushing lazy patterns into your skin. You hum under your breath — not a word, just a sound — and he responds by kissing your shoulder again.
Your legs are still tangled together. His body still half-draped over yours. There’s a mess between your thighs and sweat clinging to your skin, and you should probably say something, anything — but there’s something sweet about the silence now. It’s soft. Unspoken. Peaceful, in a weirdly intimate way.
He shifts again, easing out of you with a quiet groan, and you wince a little at the loss.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, running a hand gently over your thigh like an apology.
“It’s fine,” you breathe, eyes closed, chest still rising and falling too fast.
He doesn’t go far. Just rolls to the side, still close enough that his leg stays pressed against yours, and reaches for the blanket to pull it up over you both. He tugs you into his chest like second nature, burying his nose in your hair, his hand stroking absently up and down your arm.
“You good?” he asks softly, lips brushing your temple.
“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “You?”
He pauses. Then he nods against your skin. “Yeah. More than.”
You lay there like that for a while, heartbeats evening out. He’s still drawing shapes on your skin — fingertips slow, mindless — and you smile to yourself, warmth blooming low in your stomach.
“So,” you murmur eventually, voice still hoarse. “What now? We high-five and call it a night?”
He huffs a laugh into your hair. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no to a high-five.”
You laugh, nudging him with your shoulder. “Cocky.”
“Confident,” he corrects, grinning. “But really—” He shifts a little so he can see your face, one hand reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “If we’re doing this, I wanna do it right.”
You blink, caught off-guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice. “Do what right?”
He raises an eyebrow, like it should be obvious. “Us.”
There’s a pause. You look at him, and he looks at you, and it’s terrifying and sweet all at once.
“I really like you,” he says, quieter this time. “And I’m not just saying that because I just got laid.” He cracks a small smile. “Though, to be fair, that was mind-blowing.”
You snort. “So humble.”
“I’m serious,” he says, nudging your nose with his. “I’ll take you out. I’ll plan dumb dates. I’ll be obnoxiously charming and show up with flowers. I’ll be— like— a gentleman, or whatever.”
You give him a look. “You should’ve done all that before you fucked me.”
His grin spreads. “Yeah, well. Guess I got the order wrong. You gonna hold that against me?”
“Maybe,” you say, lips twitching.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, fingers brushing your cheek. “You’ll see. I’ll be so romantic it’ll make you want to punch me.”
“I already want to punch you.”
“And yet,” he says smugly, pulling you closer, “you’re still in my bed.”
“This is my bed, dumbass.”
He pauses. “Okay, fair. But I am naked in it. With you.”
You roll your eyes, but the smile on your face won’t go away. His arm tightens around your waist, and you let yourself relax into it — into him. For once, it doesn’t feel like something to second-guess.
He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.
You tuck your face into his neck and sigh. “You better bring the good flowers. Like the ones that don’t die in two days.”
“Oh, so now you’re picky?”
“You said dates and flowers. I’m holding you to it.”
“Noted,” he says, fingers threading into your hair. “I’m gonna be so disgustingly good to you.”
✎ summary: smooth, soft, luxurious. that´s what it´s like to date Jungkook- and he makes sure to show you that.
note from cherry: sexy steamy bathtub love but also hes so cute!! SOFTDOM JUNGKOOK!! hes obsessed asf. duh. Bodyworship. Like actually he gets on his knees NOT PROOFREAD SORRY ‼️‼️
︶♱︶︶♱︶ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺︶♱︶︶♱︶︶
Friday night's have loads of connotations.
Some people find themselves reaching for a drink with peers, others go out to chase the neon light and dance away this weeks sorrows. Former you would have done eitheir, or, spend it indulging in your newest hyperfixation series. Binging episode after episode, spooning a tub of icecream.
Nothing wrong with that.
Since the addition of your boyfriend however, Friday's have become date nights. Jungkook insisted passionately, that a woman like you should be taken out at least once a week, or if you weren't feeling like going out, he'd cook for you, maybe bring you a nice bottle of wine and spend all hours past sundown worshipping your every curve, making you sing sonnets of his name in the highest notes you could reach.
"Are you ready my lov- holy fuck" he breathes the curse out like no one shall hear it, stiffling in his movements of cuffing the black button down he just threw on. Red eyes beam with lust and adoration immediately as you look for them.
"Good?"
"Good? You're so goddman gorgeous. Shit angel how.. how am i gonna keep my hands off you hm?" He chuckles darkly, already surrounding your hips with his large hands, pulling you flush against his hard chest.
"We have a reservation baby" you remind him, glancing at the watch on his wrist.
"We do..", he repeats, "We do. But once we're back home i'm not holding back- mhmm fuck baby look at you" his voice almost sounds like a whine, teeth nibbling on his plump bottom lip as he spins you around, making you face the full length mirror on your dressers front. His hands slide up and down your sides, wrapping around your waist briefly before squeezing the flesh of your rear. His chin swiftly drops to rest on your shoulder, getting a whiff of the sweet perfume you sprayed yourself with.
"So pretty" he mumbles, meeting your eyes through the mirror. His lips are on your neck before you get the chance to blink back at him. Featherlight and yet passionate with every contact, he continues to kiss you.
Time runs along and although it is painful to deprive yourself of him, you're turning back, your arms extend and wrap around his neck, finding his lips soon as he leans down to you.
"Cm'on handsome, we gotta go"
He nods, sighing a little.
Hands in clasped, you pass through the door, shooting the bunch of 50 red roses on your nightstand a small goodbye as the lights turn off.
The world outside is dark too, yellow streetlamps cast a nice golden glow on jungkooks poreclain skin. He opens his car door foe you- as per usual, before circling to get seated himself.
A turn of the key later and a few off key sung songs, the car comes to a stop at a sushi spot you knew all too well.
Dinner comes and goes, laughs get share and crinkle your face lovingly, a posessive hand rests on your thigh in a subtle squeeze.
His treat, he says as he reaches to pay.
Somehow, it always ended up being his treat.
"Wanna take a bath at home ? I bought you that bubble lotion you love"
He suggested, reversing out of his parking spot, which led to this very situation.
A steady, slender hand glides down the length of your shivering arm, noting the moles he´s counted time and time again. Its fingertips burn your skin with the sheer cold- a flicker of desire flashes through your veins, crashing upon your chest. The cold adds on, hardens your nipples to bump the surface of your thin shirt.
Both of his icy, large hands come to slide down your waist, tracing the curve patiently until they sneak beneath the hem of your shirt, gently caressing little circles onto the skin that lay under his fingers.
Jungkook breathes out a shaky curse, his cock twitches painfully in the constricted space of his belted jeans. A brief contact with your eyes. A bat of your lashes. A feel of your skin. A taste of your lips. All he needed to fill his immortal heart with a clench of irrevocable possession- so raw, so shaken with years of life he lived that mean the speck of nothingness now that he has had you. Has felt the thrill of love combat him, has known what living is like. He found it in chasing your lips, tracing your every little move to learn you- have you, claim your skin with his unforgiving teeth and his greedy lust.
His continued, slow movements feel like a ritual of devotion. Stripping you of your shirt, drawing out your every curve, his palms rest on the underside of your breasts, find their path down to leave you standing in your black, sheer panties. His chest heaves up and down, the rise and fall matching his rapidly pounding heart. All the while no word is spoken- no word is good enough to explain what you can see in the deep red of his iris. In the abyss of black that is his widened pupil as it takes in the sight before him. His object of attraction, of utter adoration- obsession, Covered in red and pink flowering blemishes, paintings of dedication that his mouth have left on your tender skin.
"Oh angel.. my little dove. So.. beautiful" The mutter escapes his lips fleetingly as they find yours in the midst of it all, brushing over with such tenderness that you almost moan for more. His fingers hook beneath the edges of your black underwear, skimming the fabric teasingly. Jungkook catches the way you whimper beneath your shaky breaths, how your nails linger slightly digging in the hardness of his bicep.
"Gonna take care of you angel, help you forget about any worry in that pretty head. Make you feel so good all you feel, remember is me baby, just me." His loving whisper floods the patch of skin right above your belly button, his knees collide with the bathroom floor tiles- meeting your eyes with his once more.
"You look cute like this" you tell him shyly- knuckles caress his beautifully pale cheeks with the touch only a woman in love can execute. His spine straightens, lifting himself to worthy of the position he is in. Upright, kneeling before you with a gaze so devoted across his dangerously charming features. His plump, pierced lip shines a bloody red, glistening with hunger.
Your fingers extend to his jaw, sliding the tip of your oval nail alongside his sharp contours. Years have scultped him into what kneels before you know. Your thumb rests below his chin, tipping it up the slightest bit to examine the tension between you.
Between your wordless exchange, his fingers have found their hook below the remaining fabric once more. Pulling it down with practiced ease, slowly, never averting his eyes. Once you step out of them, his palms cup your knees, colliding with your sweet skin all the way up your thighs, roaming on their inner side, their back, rounding up the flesh of your ass to squeeze what's his- before coming to rest back up your hips.
"Youre beautiful. Every inch of you is absolutely breathtaking. Seeing you covered in my marks- my little angel, still so pure. So ruined and yet so beautiful pure"
Your whimpered reply comes to you naturally. His omnipresent dominance swallow you in a hole thats safe enough to rest in. Abiding by his every word. Though he is on his knees, youre stood bared entirely before him. Naked and claimed by his bruising, posessive kisses and bites, while his fully clothed figure admires and skims along every patch of your skin. The power imbalance is a heavenly nest you lay in without any resistance - any question needed to be asked. The trust remains Unspoken. Visible. Felt. Internalized.
His lips find their way to your skin again, magnetically pulled in by the red string he spun so very pristinely. Decorating your hip while his fingers rub small circles into your thighs. With one final kiss to your pelvis, he returns to his feet, stripping himself of his clothes in fluid motions.
He reaches out to grab you by the waist and press your body into his, tightening his muscular, tattooed arms around your form to melt into his own. Reciprocating, you let yourself sink deeper.
"I love you so much angel. You have no idea. Looking at you is a blessing. But being able to hold you like this, knowing youre mine. Just mine. God i want to devour you. I want to suffocate on your lips and listen to your moans until your voice gives out. Until that little throat is sore from repeating my name"
"I love you too kook. So much. Even though I'm not so great at explaining it"
He chuckles, letting his face light up- it illuminates your entire world in the split of its occurrence.
"Step in, water's gonna get cold"
With that, he helps you step inside the spacious bathtub, makes you sit with your back to his toned chest, inbetween his spread legs. You can feel his hard pressing into your behind, he groans a little- that delcious sound from the back of his throat.
"So pretty.. so soft" he mumbles his praises continously, running his hands up and down your thighs below the scented foam. They come to a halt on the tops of your thighs, sliding inward to spread them carefully. His finger dance in teasing patterns, while his mouth molds to your neck, kissing sloppy and slow open mouth kisses along the exposed area. All the way down your shoulder- all the way back up to your ear. The wetness mirrors that of the water surrounding you, of the one pouring out from between your thighs.
"Be a good little angel for me will you..? Let me touch you like i want? Make you feel so.. so good?" The rough murmur, spoken into your ear, elicits a tiny whined "yes" from you.
"Good girl.. now say please, angel"
You nod, the damp strands of your hair sticking to the small curve of your breasts.
"Please touch me"
He hums, "Yeah..? You want me to touch you my little dove?"
You nod again, but thats not good enough for jungkook. He pinches your hard nipple between his fingers, tugging the sensitive skin, rolling it ever so gently,
"Words my little dove" he whispers,
"Yes- yes please touch me."
He groans in approval, pressing his palm flat against your right breast, groping the small swell with his wet hand, murmuring about how good you feel beneath his skin. His other hand deceneds between your thighs, running two fingers between your damp folds, he gets a feel of your slick beneath the load of water, inserts them into you while his teeth slightly dig into the lobe of your ear,
"Take them for me angel, take them just a little, i know what you really want"
They curl deliciously, hitting your sweet spot as plunges them in and out deep and deliberately slow. Moans and whines constrict in your throat and come out as breathless whimpers.
It builds up quickly the more he stops pulling out and just digs deeper into you, moving his fingers ever so slightly against that spot you love so much, but he stops entirely, pulling them out to rub tight circles on your throbbing clit.
Memorized in the very touches that drove you insane. He may be practiced and experienced but he finds himself oh so helpless to you nonetheless. Nothing before you mattered and no one will come after you. No skin he has seen or felt has made any impression on him, nothing has ever been right, nothing but you.
"That's it.. good girl, doing so well. Little angel is ready for what she wants hm? What do you think?" He rasps into your ear, sliding his tongue along the shell of your ear.
"I want you kook- yes please baby mhmm-"
The sentence gets cut off into a loud, squeamish moan, suddenly hit with the sensation of the cold bathroom wall pressed against your chest. In the brink of a second, his strength compelles him to scoop you up and flush himself against you, without a pocket of air your back collides with his chest. His hand explodes your stomach, lips press down your shoulder and the arch of your spine, backing away slowly.
Hot, ragged breaths flow out alongside his deep sounding moans, while the cold of the wall presses to your chest. With one hand pressing down on your lower back and the other guiding himself, jungkook nestles his thick, needy cock inside your weeping cunt.
Binding himself to you as he had time and time again, he rests deep into you, seizing to move for the first bit- he maps out the paths he had found long before, watching your pretty features twist in pleasure when he *finally* slides back, pushing all the way in while pushing you back into him by the softness of your tummy
"Prettiest angel.. feel so fucking good.. so good around my cock, god youre taking it so well"
You were- with your palms against the wet tile, withstanding the gravitas of his force, the melody of wet skin slapping fills up your bubble of lust as his pace picked up in ways only a vampire would conduct.
"So good, so so good for me angel" his hand flings to your throat, squeezing it with just enough pressure to make your thighs quiver,
Strangled, breathless, you plead with him, tell him you're going to cum- but you already are, and you know he can feel it, feel the clench of you sucking him in, his heart blooms and bursts as his hand tightens around your throat and he cries out with you
"Good little angel, just a little longer baby, just a little more for me" he begs, begs to take more from you, to overstimulate your hightend senses further. Mustering a weak nod and loud whines of pleasure, he grunts, ruts himself into your swollen cunt like the animal movies make his kind out to ne.
With you, he was.
Greedy, seductive, posessive, obsessed.
"Gonna ruin this pussy baby, gonna fill you with my cum- fuck angel, keep crying for me baby, keep whining angel"
"Just like that baby just- hm- like that"
The vision you're met with as you look back over your shoulder is hypnotizing- damp haired, furrowed eyebrows and his sharp teeth drawn out to all their might, glistening wet as he concentrates on his orgasm.
It crashes into you in a large wave, twitching halt - spilling his cum into you as he pants and pants, as his nails threathen to draw blood from your skin- and his teeth do. From your shoulder, as they claw into you, crimson iron drips into his tongue to grant him a taste of heaven. Exploding in extacsy, with his eyes rolling far back, his high rides on and with every little flavor of your precious liquid jungkook feels as though he is riplling in pleasure from every depth his old soul holds.
Sweet, he said. It tastes sweet. Sweet and poisonous with its sting of metal and the knowledge of it being your blood, your very own- it brought him the greatest satisfaction ever known to this realm.
"Jungkook- mhm- stop- please- can't-" you stumble from your strained throat. Jungkook drops his forehead into the crook of your neck, soothingly rubbing his hands on your hips, his flaccid length slides out slowly, leaving you dripping.
Knees buckle below you, your shoulder stings with pleasurble pain and you physically cannot take another thrust without breaking into tears. As much as his senses hightend, yours did too. Sensitive, human. Weak and fragile in comparison to his wrathful being, his pure passion unleashing on your smaller frame so helplessly safe in his hands.
"I got you, I got you angel its okay" he whispers, praising you in between gentle movements to sit you back down in the tub, sideways on his thigh. He cups your face once youre sat, planting fluttering kisses on every corner of your features.
"Pretty little dove, youre okay..youre such a good girl" he says, nudging the tip of his nose to yours in a doting habit.
"Want me to wash your hair baby?" nodding in response to his question, he slides his fingers through your wet strands, untangling them carefully.
Warm water crescents down your head, wraps you in a nice coat of comfort for the next few minutes of your boyfriends fingers massaging your scalp, cleaning off your skin, kissing everything he can reach.
Quickly dried and dressed in his hoodie, he has you sit on his lap while blow drying your hair.
"Prettiest" one kiss,
"Little" another kiss,
"Angel" a longer kiss, pressed on your lips instead of your cheeks like the previous ones.
in which jungkook's sleepless night leads to an intimate shower with his girlfriend, where tender washing and lovemaking takes place.
pairing — dom!jungkook x sub!femreader
genre — established relationship, slice of life, domestic vibes, slight angst, smut, fluff
warnings/tags — 18+, explicit smut, mentions of insomnia, mental health struggles, emotional conflict and vulnerability, smoking as a coping mechanism, hurt and comfort, love confessions, tattoo descriptions, intimate washing, late night sex, shower sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (f. receiving), eating out, face riding, tongue fucking, clit stimulation, cum eating, breast play, nipple play, making out, hickies/marking, mentions of bruising, rough sex, hair fisting and pulling, oral sex (m. receiving), cock palming, fist fucking, dirty talk, praise kink, sex from behind against the shower wall, creampie, loving aftercare, they love each other so muchh
wc — 5.1k
a/n — this one is requested by darling @cuntygguk !! <3
m. list
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The night felt heavy with the moonlight slipping through the curtains of your shared apartment.
The clock on the nightstand read 2:50 am.
Jungkook felt restless, proof of the grip of insomnia that won't leave him.
The room was quiet except for the occasional noises of the city outside.
Jungkook laid beside you, his body taut with too much energy, eyes were fixed on the ceiling above.
His hair messily clung to his forehead, damp with slight sweat and he breathed shakily.
Each exhale felt exhausting from the sleeplessness he was facing.
Night after night.
He was facing this.
You were curled up beside him, body comfy inside the warm blanket. The small light highlighted your features, the pink flush on your cheeks.
The way your lips parted slightly as you breathed.
Deep in sleep.
Jungkook's eyes softened, landing on you, heart swelling with all the adoration he had for you.
You were his light in the darkness.
The only person who made the world feel bearable for him.
His deep love for you scared him sometimes—he loved the way your laughter comforted him in his worst days, your touch and your entire presence made it worth it for him.
You saw him for who he was truly, flaws and all and you still chose to stay.
You were his only girl.
Forever.
And he didn’t have the heart to wake you up now that you slept so peacefully beside him, looking so cozy.
He would do anything to protect your sleep.
Never wanting to wake you.
You always had a way of trying to help him, soothing him in your own ways—making chamomile tea with honey exactly how he liked and trying to make the bed softer for him to sleep in.
Anything for him to get sleep.
You would also wrap your arms around him at night, your warmth helping him, whispering words of comfort to him.
Late night talks about nothing and everything.
You’d tried everything.
But his insomnia was stubbornly there, always clawing at him no matter how much you tried.
It rarely let go.
Jungkook hated the idea of pulling you into this sleeplessness of his, of stealing the rest you deserved.
So he struggled alone.
He always did, trying to shield you from his problems.
With a quiet sigh, he slid out of bed.
He moved carefully, not wanting to disturb the stillness of your sleep.
He slowly walked to the nightstand table, broad shoulders hunched slightly with tiredness.
He reached for the pack of cigarettes on the dresser, fingers trembling faintly as he pulled one out.
Smoking was very rare for him.
He only went for it at night when the insomnia was too deep, his chest feeling heavy.
He stepped onto the small balcony.
The city beneath him felt distant, almost unreal.
He lit the cigarette using a lighter before he inhaled deeply, smoke burning his throat as he exhaled.
The nicotine did little to quiet his mind.
But it gave his hands something to do, a momentary distraction from all his thoughts.
Back inside, he paced the room.
He stopped by the bed soon, eyes drawn to you.
Like a magnet.
He could watch you sleep for hours, memorize every detail of yours.
Your chest rising and falling, a rhythm that grounded him.
Even now.
A piece of hair fell on your face and he resisted the urge to reach out, tuck it behind your ear.
You were so damn beautiful.
So perfect in your vulnerability.
And his chest felt tight, aching with a love that bordered on pain.
He wanted to crawl back into the bed, wrap himself around you and to let your warmth chase away all the demons he was facing.
But he knew it wouldn’t help.
Not tonight.
Instead he decided to shower, hoping the water might help his racing mind.
He moved to the bathroom, the door clicking behind him.
He stripped off his sweatpants, since he was shirtless already.
His eyes falling on his reflection in the mirror, his body sculpted by several tattoos, eyes falling on his most favorite one—a tattoo with your initials hidden in it.
A secret only he knew.
All his tattoos told stories of his struggles, his passion and his love for you.
The shower turned on and the water fell like rainfall from the showerhead.
Jungkook stepped under the spray, water streaming down his body and all his hard muscles.
He tilted his head back, a sigh escaping his mouth, pushing his wet hair back from his forehead.
Sharpening his features.
The warm water helped in loosening the tension in his shoulders but his chest still felt tight.
Something that wouldn’t go away.
Back in the bedroom, the muffled sound of the shower stirred you from sleep.
Your eyes fluttered open, half lidded.
Immediately noticing Jungkook’s absence even before you saw that he was gone.
Whenever his warm large frame wasn’t around you.
You just knew.
Like your body had a mind of its own.
The bed felt emptier without Jungkook's presence, the sheets cool beside you.
Where his body should have been.
A pang of worry hit you, heart aching at the thought of him facing insomnia once again.
You sat up.
The sound of the shower confirmed where he was and the realization that he hadn’t woken you.
Hadn’t reached for you.
Made your throat tighten with sadness
You slid out of bed, bare feet hitting the floor.
You approached the bathroom, the door was ajar and you pushed it open, immediately being greeted by the steamy air.
The mirror was fogged with the condensation.
Jungkook stood under the shower, back to you, water cascading over his shoulders.
The sight of him infront of you.
His naked beauty stole your breath.
The bare body you have seen and touched countless times in your relationship, yet he always makes your heart flutter.
Tall, strong.
Yet so exposed—your heart hurting, a furrow in your eyebrows from pain.
“kookie…”
You breathe.
Barely audible over the water.
He turned, dark eyes widening slightly.
A mix of surprise and guilt flickering across his face.
“Baby, what are you doing up?”
His voice rough with exhaustion but also with tenderness.
Reserved for you only.
“You should be sleeping.” he said.
“I heard the shower.”
You step inside the bathroom.
“Why didn’t you wake me? you’re struggling again aren’t you?”
He looked away, jaw clenching tightly as he ran a hand through his wet hair.
“I didn’t wanna bother you,” he admitted.
“You were sleeping so peacefully and I... I... hate dragging you into this.”
His eyes meeting yours, filled with emotions and vulnerability.
“I can handle it baby, you know I always do.”
Your heart broke at his words.
At the way he tried to hide his pain just to protect you.
You stepped closer.
“You’re not a burden, jungkook.”
You said, voice steady, eyes searching his.
“You never are. I wanna be there for you just like you're always there for me.”
“It hurts me when you shut me out.” you croaked.
He reached for you, wet hand brushing your cheek, leaving a trail of wetness on your skin and your eyes closed at his touch.
“I’m sorry, sweet girl.”
His voice breaking slightly.
“I just… I don’t want you to see me like this… so fucking troubled. You deserve better than that, hm?”
“You’re not a trouble.”
You said fiercely, stepping closer but still away from the water.
“You’re human and it’s okay to not be okay all the time, koo… and please don’t say that. I love every part of you no matter what.”
His gaze softened.
“You’re too good to me.” he murmured.
His thumb brushing over your lower lip, jaw clenched tight.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve you but I thank god every day that you’re mine.”
Your heart swelled, tears welling in your eyes as you reached for him, fingers brushing his wet chest.
“Let me take care of you tonight… please.”
He nodded, eyes intense on you and you didn’t hesitate.
You pulled off the t-shirt you were wearing, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud.
Your body bare beneath it.
Jungkook's breath hitched, nostrils flaring, dark eyes roaming all over you, taking in the curve of your hips.
Your soft full breasts and the way your nipples hardened under his stare.
You blushed softly under his gaze, not used to being so confident and direct, so you looked away, biting your lower lip.
The steam surrounded you as well as you stepped in the shower.
Water soaking you now and your hair clings to you.
“Can I wash you?” you ask, softly.
Reaching for the shampoo bottle. The vanilla scent filled the air as you poured it into your hands.
He didn’t protest.
His eyes locking on yours, never losing eye contact, like they can read all of your secrets.
A mix of gratitude and desire in them.
You reached up, standing on your tiptoes, fingers running through his wet hair, massaging the shampoo there with slow gentle movements.
He was so tall, his frame towering over you, making it harder for you to reach him.
He sank to his knees for you, a gasp leaving you.
The sight of him kneeling before you, his head tilted, eyes half closed in relaxation, sent a rush of warmth through you.
Your heart raced but your fingers continued working, massaging his scalp and the soap ran over his shoulders, down his muscled back.
His face was in level with your hips, eyes falling to the space between your thighs.
Your pussy was wet—not just from the water but from his intense stare.
And the intimacy of the moment.
His hands rested on your thighs, thumb brushing the sensitive skin and a shiver ran down your spine.
“Fuck,” he hums.
“You’re so fucking beautiful. Look at this pussy right here, so wet and pretty for me.”
He says, huskily.
Your cheeks flush, lips parting at his lewd words, your thighs squeezed together instinctively wanting to take his gaze away, but it stayed locked there.
“koo…” you whimper.
Your hands shook as you tried to focus on rinsing the shampoo from his hair.
“You’re supposed to be relaxing.”
“I am.” he said.
His lips curling into a smirk, hands slid higher, thumbs brushing closer to your swollen folds.
“But how am I supposed to relax when you are standing here looking like this, pretty girl?”
“This pussy—it’s all mine, isn’t it, hmmm?” he asks
“yes”
A whine leaves your mouth, struggling to focus on washing away the soap suds from his hair.
“all yours.”
He groans, his hands gripping your thighs tighter, fingers almost bruising your skin.
“I wanna bury my face in you, taste you until you’re screaming my name... god, you’re killing me.”
You giggled softly, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, heart pounding as you reached for the conditioner next, pouring it into your hands.
You worked it through his hair, detangling it with care as you applied gentle scratches to his scalp with your nails because you knew he always liked it.
He sighed, gulping, shoulders relaxing under your ministrations.
“Feels so good, baby,” he mutters.
“You always know how to take care of me.”
“You deserve it.” you huff.
Voice thickening with emotion.
He looked up at you, hands cupping your ass, making you let out a small squeak.
A warm, deep chuckle vibrated from his chest.
“I don't know how I got so lucky... I'd be lost without you.” his voice breaks.
Your heart swells, a tear slipping down your cheeks, unknowingly and you lean down to kiss his forehead.
“I’m not going anywhere.” you whisper.
Finalizing it.
He remains quiet after that, letting you focus on him.
You finished rinsing the conditioner, leaving his hair shiny and soft.
“My turn.” he rasps.
His voice authoritative and commanding and the sudden shift in his demeanor sends a thrill through you.
He gets back to his feet.
Reached for the body wash, pouring it into his hands, a scent he loves on you so much.
A floral smell that clings to your body.
He starts at your shoulders, calloused hands gliding over your skin and you lean onto him.
He washed your arms with concentration, fingers tracing each and every curve.
He moved to your back, hands cupping your waist as his thumb pressed gently into the knots of tension he found there.
“Oh, mhmm.”
Your head falls back, breasts heaving with your pants.
“You’re so tense, princess,” he murmurs.
Lust and care in his voice
“Gonna make you feel good.”
You sighed, arching into him, resting your head against his chest.
His hands and the water soothing you in too many ways.
His hands trailed upward, slowing as they reached your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples.
You gasped, body arching into his touch as you clutched his shoulder.
He didn’t stop.
He circles them, teasing them, the soap making his fingers glide easily.
And the sensation of his calloused, slick fingers from the body wash felt too much.
And your nipples felt overly sensitive, his touch sending sparks of pleasure through you.
“Hahh… koo.” you called out.
“Mm fuck, look at these tits,” he growls.
“You’re squirming already and I’ve barely started.”
A rumble vibrates from his chest against you, making your clit pulse at the same time with your heartbeat.
“jungkook…” you whimpered.
Your nails digging into his skin, trying to ground yourself against the overwhelming sensation.
“It’s too much.”
A pout on your lips.
“Too much?” he teased.
His lips brushed your earlobe, fingers continuing their slow, torturous circles.
“You’re such a good girl… letting me play with your tits.”
“Look at how hard they are, always begging for more huh?” he grumbles
You moaned, water falling over both of you as he continued to wash your body.
His hands were slow, taking his time worshipping your body.
As if memorizing every inch of you.
He washes your hips, hold strong and possessive as he also applied subtle massages whenever he wanted.
He then moved to your hips, fingers kneading the muscles, the soap making his movements easier.
Almost obscene in a way that even the innocent touches cause wetness to pool in your cunt.
He knelt, face inches away from your core once again.
You felt your breath catch as he looks up at you, eyes wild with hunger.
“Spread your legs for me, baby.”
His deep, gravelly voice make your thighs tremble.
“Let me see that little pussy.” he hums.
You obeyed, breaths shaky, parting your thighs.
His hands slid up your inner thighs and you felt your pussy clench in anticipation.
“Goddamn, you're so wet.” he grunts.
Fingers brushing closer to your folds.
Teasing but not touching
Not yet.
“Not just from the water, are you? You're dripping for me... aren't you pretty girl?”
“Yes.” you gasp.
Hands bracing against the shower wall for support, your voice needy and choked.
He groans, eyes fixed on your quivering heat, his hands gripping your thighs as he leaned forward, breath hot against you.
Your clit pulsing as his breath hits it, making your hips buck.
He parted your folds using his thumbs, tongue darting out, licking a slow stripe through your folds, collecting your arousal and you let out a startled cry.
Hips rocking into his mouth.
“so good I could eat this pussy all night baby”
His voice muffled against you as he went on with his torturing motions, tongue flicking at your clit.
His hands kept your thighs spread to give him better access.
Not letting you any space to move anywhere.
Completely submitting to him.
No escape from his delicious torture.
The heat of his mouth, the warmth of the water and the slickness of the soap—it was too much.
Sensory overload.
You tremble, letting out uncontrollable noises.
He grabbed one of your legs, throwing it over his shoulder, supporting your weight since your legs were getting weak.
And it gave him the upper hand to control you better.
“jungkook, oh my god.” you moaned.
Your hands tangling in his wet hair, pulling him closer.
“Don’t stop. Pease. Please.”
You begged, mindless.
“Never.” he exclaims.
The vibration has you letting out a shaky cry, his lips closing around your clit, sucking it hard and you pulled his hair.
Your hips thrusting on his mouth, almost riding his tongue.
“Come for me, baby… let me feel you fall apart on my tongue.”
The pressure built quickly and the coil tightened in your belly so fast, tears glistened in your eyes.
“Ahh gosh, koo!”
Your moans echoed in the small shower.
“jungkook I'm gonna—oh fuck, I’m coming.”
Your body shuddering as orgasm crashed through you so suddenly you almost fell over.
Jungkook held you upright as he licked you through it, drawing out the pleasure until you were panting and mumbling.
You pushed his head away, gasping, covering your mouth trying to control yourself.
He stood, lips glistening with your arousal and some dripping on his chin.
The sight of you so wrecked turned him on like crazy.
He snarls, pulling you into him in a rough hungry kiss, tongue tangling with yours as you taste yourself, making you mewl on his mouth.
“I love you so much, my baby… you have no idea.” he whispers.
Against your lips.
Hands cupping your ass and you clutched onto his chest, heart thudding.
“Love you too, kookie.”
Lips swollen from his kiss.
As you still struggle to get back from your orgasm.
“Continue taking care of me…” He rasps.
A lazy grin on his lips as he so obviously takes enjoyment from teasing you.
Making you wait.
You flush and a scoff leaves you.
Him knowing that you won't ever resist or deny taking care of him even if you're aching.
You reached for the body wash he used on you a few moments ago, pouring some on his body.
Beginning to wash him in return.
Your hands slide over his chest, tracing all of his tattoos, lingering on the ink as your fingers traced the patterns.
A habit of yours from countless nights before.
He exhales, satisfied, loving your hands on his body.
There was a small design on his chest your initials hidden there.
A secret he’d shown you one night.
His voice soft and loving as he confessed it was for you.
“You’re inked in my body forever.”
He’d said then.
The memory still makes your heart swell.
Your hands move lower, washing his abs, taking advantage of the moment and groping him and touching his skin.
You can tell his enjoyment by the way his muscles flex underneath your touch, the deep rumbles from his chest.
A grunt leaving his lips as you get near his hips.
When you reached for his cock, he was already hard and heavy.
Your soap coated hand wrapping around his thick bulge, fingers barely meeting from his sheer size
“Baby.” he hisses.
Hips bucking into your hand.
The soap and water makes your touch smooth and you begin to stroke him slowly, thumb circling the tip.
Your eyes stay focused on his and his intense dark bedroom eyes make your pussy clench, despite the hard orgasm you faced moments ago.
His nostrils flared, jaw clenching and you knew he was holding back for your sake.
Letting you take things at your own pace.
A rare moment.
You lean in, pressing loving kisses on his chest, lips brushing over his tattoos.
“Mmm, you’re so hard, kookie…”
“Shit, princess.”
His hands grip your hips tight, thrusting into your hand.
“You keep talking like that and I’m gonna lose it.”
“Good.” you breathe.
Smiling shyly against his skin as you continue to stroke him, the other hand helping wash away the soap suds from his body.
Taking care of every inch of him.
His hands slide up your body, cupping your breasts again, weighing them in his hands as he kisses you again.
Desperate and hurried.
“I need to be inside you,”
He rushes out.
“now.”
“Then take me.” you whispered.
All your restraint faded, bottom lip quivering in want as you looked at him with teary eyes.
He didn’t hesitate.
He spun you around in a fast motion, pinning you against the shower wall.
His rough manhandling knocking the breath out of you.
Your breasts press on the wet tiles, nipples brushing against them, making you ache with a mix of pain and pleasure.
But he keeps you pressed there, not letting you move.
The water still falls over you both like rain, making the moment more sensual and comforting for both of you.
He grips your hips, tilting them to position himself behind you.
“You want this cock, hm?”
Voice rough with need as he rubbed the tip of his cock against your folds.
Teasing but not entering.
Making you pant and clutch the wall tightly.
“Want me to fuck this cunt until you’re coming?”
“Yes, pleaseee.”
Your body trembling with anticipation.
His eyes fixed on how your earlier release still leaks out of your slit.
The sight so naughty and obscene and he was running out of patience.
“I need you so bad.”
You begged, voice pitched.
He doesn’t make you wait longer.
He enters into you in one smooth thrust, cock stretching you and filling you so completely.
It felt like he reached your stomach in one go, the position allowing him to go deeper.
Leaving you in a very vulnerable and exposed position.
“Oh gosh… gahhh.” you cry out.
He doesn’t give you a moment to adjust as he begins to move, hips rolling.
Almost like he was taking his frustrations out on you.
You loved it when he was like this, rough and taking what he needs.
Like an unrestrained animal.
Ready to devour you.
“koo! nghh, you’re so big—ohh gosh.”
“You’re so tight and warm around me… you love this fat cock, don’t you?”
He asked, voice gruff, hips moving faster.
“mhmm?” he grits out.
When you don’t answer and you know he doesn’t like it when you remain quiet, not voicing your answers.
But the pleasure was too much, you couldn’t keep track of everything.
“Yes. Yes.” you whined.
Head falling forward as he thrusts harder and faster.
The sound of skin slapping against skin mixes with the sound of the water falling.
Creating a lewd music.
Your own cries and his grunts mixing with it.
Each of his thrusts hitting that spot inside you again and again.
“Right there! there—”
A sob leaves you.
“Right there? You like it there baby?”
He hums out a deep chuckle.
His voice almost predatory and dark, hips going in the same rhythm, hitting that exact spot like the expert he was.
And you were a squirming mess on the wall, clawing at the tiles.
Your mouth remain parted.
Drool trickling down your mouth.
You were seeing stars at this point.
“You’re mine.”
He says huskily, a moan leaving him when you clench on his cock.
“My only girl… my everything, gonna make you come so hard… mmm.”
He was trying to prove a point, almost like he wanted to reward you for always being there for him.
Taking such good care of him.
“jungkook. jungkook. jungkook”
You were only capable of chanting his name.
Each of his thrusts sends your body sliding on the wall due to the wetness.
His hands holding your hips, the constant brush of the tiles on your nipple.
Was causing a dual stimulation
And it was too much all at once.
“ohs” and “ahs” left your mouth at each of his thrusts.
“I’m gonna come ahh—”
A broken sob leaves you, struggling to hold onto the wall, nails scratching it.
Needing something to hold onto.
He reached around, never giving you a break.
His fingers find your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts.
“Come on,” he hisses.
“Let me feel this pussy squeeze my cock… come for me.”
His hands fisting your hair, pulling you back to meet his brutal thrusts.
Your orgasm came crashing over you and you let out a loud scream that ended in a sob.
“Ohh, kookie!” you cried.
Your walls clenching around him as painful pleasure ripped through you.
Your moans fill the shower, raw and desperate as he fucked you through it.
Your throat aching from all the noises.
He breathes shakily, thrusts faltering, chasing his own release and you can feel each of his throbs inside you.
Your pussy clenching on him repetitively, overstimulating both of you in the process until you both were letting out broken moans.
“Gonna fill you, sweetheart.” he grits out.
“Hnnn, do it, please. jungkook, come inside me.”
You gasp, trembling, whimpers spilling out of your mouth.
He thrusts one last time, deep and hard and then he comes, his release hot and intense.
He spurts inside you and groans your name.
You feel the warmth of his release, he reaches such deep parts of you and you groan.
Body still pressed against the wall as he holds you close.
You both pant, tangled together.
After a few moments he pulls out slowly, making you gasp at the emptiness.
Both your arousal mixed together leaks out of your pussy.
Your legs no longer supporting your weight, completely defeated.
He turns you around to face him, picking you up and you wrap your legs around his waist.
Supporting your weight.
He kisses you this time gently with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.
His tongue exploring your mouth, coaxing small whimpers from you.
He pulls back, forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing heavily.
He holds you close to him, your arms encircling him as he buries his head on your neck, leaving small open mouthed kisses.
His lips sucking gently at first then harder, leaving marks.
Claiming you as his.
In every way.
Your voice tremble, running your fingers through his wet hair as he faces you, your lips brushing his.
Both of you breathing the same air.
“You know I’m always here for you… right koo?”
He leans down, pressing a delicate kiss on your shoulder, lips lingering, sucking another hickey there.
You can feel his shoulders shake from the weight of his emotions, from hearing your words and you clutch him to you tighter.
You place soft kisses beneath his ear.
Each kiss a mark of his love.
His need for you.
“I don’t deserve you,” he says.
Voice strained.
“But I'll spend every day trying to be worthy of you.”
You sign, nuzzling onto him, bodies were still warm from the water, the steam around you both.
“You’re more than enough, Koo,” you coo.
“Always, you’re my home.”
He was your safe place.
You both eventually step out of the shower, movements slow and intimate.
He helps you dry off, wrapping a towel around you.
He helps himself by wrapping one around his waist.
You tell him to wait in bed.
He protests as he wants you in his arms, but your request makes him let you go.
Reluctantly.
You go to the kitchen and make his favorite chamomile tea, a drink that's his favorite.
You know it comforts him.
And you don’t forget to add honey to it.
Back in the bedroom, you hand him the mug, fingers brushing against his.
His heart full with how much you cherish him, he pulls you in his arms.
Wanting you close to him as he sips on it slowly.
His eyes never leaving you.
The love and gratefulness in them were so intense, your chest pained.
He guides you closer to him until his head rests on your bare breasts.
An act that always comforted him.
He loved to do it.
He would tell you to get naked and he would rest on your chest like that.
It wasn’t always sexual, just a loving act you both shared.
You ran your fingers through his damp hair, a contented hum leaving him.
The faint brushes of his hair on your taut nipples still send tremors through you, but you focus on him.
Hoping and praying he can finally get some sleep.
He deserves it.
The room was quiet now and you soon felt his body relax against yours.
The tension of the night finally easing.
The sex, love, your presence—it was enough to quiet the restlessness in him.
His breathing slowed, arms wrapped around you, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin.
You buried your face in his hair, breathing the fresh smell of the shampoo.
He soon drifted off from your tender touches.
His face peaceful at last.
His lips slightly parting, a sign that he was in deep sleep and was actually resting.
The usual frown on his face when he cannot sleep was gone.
Now replaced with restfulness.
His breath warm against your skin and your eyes traced all the details of his handsome features—his lips, the curve of his jaw, the small scar on his cheekbone.
Your thumb brushing over the tiny mole beneath his lips.
You adored it so much.
He looks so much younger in sleep.
The weight of the world finally lifted off his shoulders.
Tears filling your eyes, finding happiness from the sight of your man finally resting.
You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.
“Sleep well, baby…”
You ran your fingers through his hair, warmth and joy in your chest from seeing him like this.
summary: in an attempt to prove that you aren’t a total goody-two-shoes, you commit to a dare that your friends take too far; they leave you in the middle of the woods, wet naked and alone with no light source. in a turn of events, you come face to face with what lurks beneath the depths of the lake at night.
rating: R18+ MATURE, minors please do not interact
genre: fantasy au, smut
wc: 3k+
warnings/tags: siren!jk, readers got fake ass bitch ass friends, brief nipple play, dumbification of reader, allusions to jk having powers?, manipulation, unforgiving jk, isolated jk, straight up just sex, allusions to death?
notes: it’s not really significant to the story 'plot' using that lightly because this is just one big smut scene lol, but it is based in the 60s because i listened to a song from last night in soho (which is a 60s au film) on repeat the entirety of writing this lol
soundtrack: downtown (downtempo) – anya taylor joy
⋆ ࣪. masterlist ˖ ࣪⭑
“Y/N wouldn’t do it— she’s a total square.”
Your bright smile sinks into a sullen pout. Your friends gathered around the fire are snickering, looking at you with judgement and pity as they whisper behind their hands. You shift on your spot on the log, your nice capris sure to have dirt marks because they were white and the only pair you owned. You look down at your feet clad in your favourite pair of pink flats, feet turned inward as they swirled in the dirt. “I–I’m not! Really, I’m not.”
“It’s okay, Y/N. You’re a peach and that’s all that matters!” Judy pouts dramatically, her tone is whiny as she mocks you, but it doesn't slip by you. “In your pretty little bows, and light colours,” She tugs harshly on your ponytail, which was indeed held up by a ribbon that matched with your shoes. You gasp, snatching your hair over your shoulder with lowered brows.
“Hey, come on Jude, play nice. She’s fragile.” Taehyung snickers, throwing arm over her shoulder to tug her toward him and away from you. You’d deem it as him trying to save you, but he’s the one that called you a square in the first place. Just because you lived in a pink bedroom and wore light colours a lot, and liked ribbons, and still slept with your stuffed animals at night– that was aside the point.
There was more to you than a stereotypical depiction of innocence. Not that you needed their approval, but deep down you wished they were kinder to you. They were the first people to insist on you being their friend when you had started college, and somehow you wound up in situations like this with them; with Taehyung and Judy upright bullying you while Jimin and Jiyoon kiss their asses. All because you were unapologetically – to put it simply – yourself.
You let your hands fall to your lap, head following with it as you stare down at your fiddling fingers as if it were the most interesting thing you had seen to date. Your thoughts waver for a moment as you wonder what time you’ll be snuggled up in bed; something tells you not any time soon.
“M’not…” You grumble under your breath, avoiding the eyes all glued to you; limp posture and a frown to boot. You suck in a deep breath, “I’ll do it.” You puff out, shrugging with fake nonchalance “I don’t care.” You stand up, dusting off your dirtied pants and turning on your heel toward the lake nearby.
From behind you, your friends holler at you, following after you as you peel off your clothes the closer you come to the water, leaving a trail of your clothing behind you. Suddenly, your rush of adrenalin blinds you from the fact you’re in nothing but your underwear, and you drown out the cat calling and whistling coming from the men behind you. You take a step back before jumping in without another thought to stop you.
As you suspect, the water is freezing. You the moment your skin collides with the cold temperature. Your friends are howling from above the water as you plummet through the calm waters. You're quick to swim up toward the surface as soon as you regain control over your body. When you come up, you're gasping for air, coughing up water and shivering at the cool air nipping at your wet skin. “Are you all happy now?!” You shout into the darkness, your voice echoing around you. You're wiping at your face frantically, a slight panic coming over you when you struggle to regain focus with the stinging in your eyes. There's no answer.
You’re met with silence.
And your friends are nowhere to be seen.
You swim toward the edge of the lake, your heart thrumming in your chest when you realise, they’ve left you here. “This isn’t funny!” You call out, but the moment you go to push yourself out of the water, something catches your ankle, and you slip back into the water. Your fingertips dig into the dirt as you brace yourself for submersion, but it doesn’t come. There’s a grip on your ankle from below you and you’re too scared to look at what it is. It’s dark and cold and your friends are jerks. They’ll be sorry when you’re dead. You quiver, frozen in place, your grip in the moist dirt beneath your fingers the only thing keeping you above the water. Whatever has you doesn’t tug you hard enough, but it’s wrapped around your ankle snug.
Then you feel it.
It bumps against the back of your thigh. You gasp loudly, your fingernails drag through the dirt when it pulls you back, slow, antagonising— like it’s playing with its’ food.
“Guys, please!” You cry, tears welling up in your eyes, “H-help–” You screech when your body is pulled back into the water, gasping for a breath and squeezing your eyes shut as you prepare for the water to consume you once again. It doesn’t come. It feels a lot like two hands that grab at your waist, stationing you up so just your head is above water.
There's a scale-y texture grazes your skin below, wrapping around your legs to stop your legs from kicking. You forget how to breathe when bubbles bloom in the water in front of you. Your eyes are wide, given no choice but to watch when the culprit emerges from the water to reveal itself. Serpent eyes, dark and serene bore into yours the moment they’re visible. Higher, he comes; a boy – a man – there’s scales scattered over his skin, his temples and cheek bones adorned in blue and purple hues, iridescent and glistening in the moon’s light. His wet waves drape flat over his forehead that is, for the most part, match the dark of his eyes.
When his face is level with yours, he keeps his distance at first. He tilts his head forward, inspecting yours the same way you did his before drawing back. He has an entire grip on you still, hands falling slowly to your hips, a slimy and scaley appendage tightening around your bound legs. It pulls you closer to him, strong and sure. “I thought humans were intelligent,” His voice slips past his lips like silk, like he’s whispering a gentle song to lull you into slumber. “Disrupting my waters when the moon is bright, big ang full is a foolish thing, you know?”
He spoke to you in your language as if it were his first, and only. His words were clear; he dragged them out so tenderly in a way that makes you blink heavily into his eyes. You can’t think, you’re heaving, and your panic slows down steadily, and a sense of safety washes over you. He removes one hand from your body, raising it from the water to reveal more of his scales, dancing up his arm in harmony with the rest of them, stopping just about his shoulder. His fingers push your heavy locks behind your shoulder, and he hums lightly. Approval? Curiosity? You can’t find it in you to overthink the details of his actions. “It’s been so long,” He sighs longingly, “It’s been so lonely.” The part of him those locks against your legs pulls away, his warmth removed from you. You don’t mean to whine at the loss. He takes your frozen arms, moves you gentle through the water, further away from recognisable terrains, and the place that whence you came. Against your instincts you let him take you, the instinct that is swallowed whole by a sense of obedience. Don’t fight him, this voice tells you, he was powerful.
He places your hands to rest against the new rocky terrain, and you watch him closely as he pushes himself out of the water. The vision of him only confirmed your stuttering thoughts. A thick, large tail, a wide thin at the end that twitches beside you. It brushes lightly against your shoulder when it dips in and out of the water, like it longs to be consumed by it.
The same beautiful patterns and colours that litter his skin is the entirety of his tale, the place when his torso ends and tail begins melded perfectly, fading naturally into one another. This couldn’t be a prank, nor a dream, because when your hand moves on its own accord to touch it, it feels far too real to be fake.
The creature leans back with nonchalance; the side of his lips upturned with a knowingness as you admire him in all his unique beauty. He rests his palms behind to keep himself upright so he can watch as your fingertips explore him. “Come, pet.” It’s demanding, but it’s nurturing in a way that makes you obey. You come out of the water, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips that were growing drier from being out of his natural habitat. He drags himself further up the terrain, removing himself from the water fully. You crawl towards him wantonly, pupils blown out as you chase his touch again. He laughs with a mockery to the tone, and his eyes flickering over your exposed body in a hunger that had long been dormant. Like he had told you, he had been alone for the majority of his life. Protecting— guarding the home in which he had grown accustomed.
One of your breasts has spilt on of your bra, the material sopping and soaked and heavy, growing slightly see through as your underwear had. White cotton, leaving not much to the imagination. A shame, really. He liked a good chase, but the effect he had on a human hadn’t allowed that of them— his spellbound eyes and regal prose that sang to them in dangerous hymns.
He reaches for your upper arm, his grip sure but not threatening. He uses your weight to pull him closer to you, “What do they call you, little human?” He whispers, his lips ghosting over your cheek just by your ear. Your chest moves rapidly, heavy breaths harmonising with his. He riles you up and the closer contact, and your reaction riles up his growing desire. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity to have you— not when you were needier than most.
“Y/N” You mumble in your trance-like state, your eyes rolling back when he noses at your jaw, and he inhales when he feels your blood thump against your neck. His hands dance over your skin, hooking his fingers in the middle of your bra, pulling it forward. He furrows his brows when it snaps back against your skin, you yelp at the slight impact. He looks down at the contraption that gets in his way, using his other hand to snap the wire in half with ease. He roughly tugs it off your body, tossing it away with frustration that you would have found cute if you hadn’t been so entranced with him.
His hands find your skin again, a hand sliding to your lower back to pull you closer, dipping his head to kiss on your collarbones with feather light lips. “Pretty name for a pretty girl.” He muffles against your skin, you look down at him, your fingers taking purchase in his waves, still damp but softer to touch now that the air has dried it more. Your fingernails massage gentle into his scalp, looking up at you when he flickers his tongue out against your already hardened nipple. You struggle to keep your eyes open, “Do you want me, Y/N?” He asks with a cheek to his features, wrapping his lip around the sensitive bud to suck gently, swirling his tongue against it.
You throw your head back, arching your back as you push your chest further into his face. He releases your nipple, another gentle kiss to your chest when he shuffles his heavy weight toward you slightly. “What are you?” You keen, eyes watery with need, your hand sliding from his hair, down his shoulder, over his scales. He was strangely warm for a creature submerged by cold depths. He doesn’t answer you, doesn’t react— he just pulls you into a kiss that takes your breath away.
Deep down you knew what he could be. You’ve heard the fairytale many a time, in fact, it was one of your mother’s favourites; it was the story she read you on sleepless nights, because it was also the one that ensured you could rest your eyes with a smile on your face. A fair maiden who wished to grow legs, to experience life above water, torn between two worlds. In some ways you felt as if you could relate to her; she longed to be part of something, unsure of where she truly belonged. Right now, you were exactly where you wanted to be, but there’s an emotional clawing in the pits of your stomach that you can’t put your finger on.
You knew of two things: mermaids were benevolent, while sirens were vindictive and malicious. You can’t decipher the truth when you’re being dragged deeper into the pits of his stare.
He kisses you like he’s eating away at your sanity, the thoughts that fight to come to the surface and snap you back into reality. You don’t notice the way his tail splits in two, how he groans heavily against your slips, hardening the kiss as his tail disappears, in its place now a pair of legs. He endures the seething pain that shoots through him, only for a moment, all in turn for a night of pleasure.
A night of being wanted— a night in which he was no longer alone.
How selfish of him.
When he pulls away, you look down at his new form, bare but just as strong. He examines himself too, he hadn’t seen himself like this in years, not since the last time he had selfishly consumed the presence of someone human. That was far too long ago now, and he was much younger— naïve, even. You don’t dwell on it for too long, not when his cock is long, hard and twitching against his abdomen like that. His thighs twitch under your stare, a droplet of your saliva slips past your parted lips and dripples down your chin. His fingers dip beneath your chin forcing your gaze back to his face. “You can have me, little human.” He leans forward, his tongue darting out to collect what secretes from your mouth. Up your neck, licking over your lips, kissing you briefly. “You will have me.”
He was smug and sure, evident in his slowly growing grin. It’s sinister, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but in your state of mind you take it as a formal invitation for you to climb on top of him. Your palms shake against his chest, knees digging into the hard ground. Your damp, covered heat rocks against his cock, and he hisses at the feeling, intense and so forgotten it was nearly foreign to him. His hands soothe up your back, and you whimper. He coos; your pouty lips endearing to him. “What is it, my pet?”
“Aches–” you shudder, his attention turned to your breasts, each hand closing around the perky mounds, fingers brushing against your sensitive nipples.
“What aches, dear girl?” He asks, rubbing his thumbs over them. You stare down at him with lowered brows, making him click his tongue. “So dumb.” He chuckles, “You long for me this much?”
He guides your back against the ground, switching your positions. He tugs your underwear down your legs, patiently this time, inhaling your scent like a drug, consuming your desperation like it was his lifeline.
Because the more emotions you fed him, the longer he was able to roam this earth.
He ruts his hardness against your slick, and he growls because your pussy is so soaked, reminiscent of a place where he belonged, which has him longing for more of it—submersion. He laughs against your neck, prodding it at your entrance messily, his eagerness evident in his hurried movements. He pushes into you, wincing at tightness of your walls, his teeth baring to drag lightly against your throat. Your jaw falls slack, fingers digging into his hard biceps that tense when you clench around his thickness. “M-my God…” You keen, baring more of your throat for him to lick and suck upon, his slow thrusts are agonising but the indulging your fluttering hole that takes him like you were made for him. “Oh my God!”
He feeds off your praise, an expression of pleasure or not. Perhaps he was a God; God of the waters, with power to control the minds of unsuspecting victims. The thrill of the hunt, to kill— to fuck. Jungkook was a God in his own rite: a seeker of feelings, who stole the light from the eyes of those full of life in turn for power and strength.
He had not a benevolent bone in his body.
The wet sounds of him pulling in and out of you leaves him ravenous, picking up his pace, hardening the force of his hips. You arch up to meet his thrusts, frantic to feel more of him. Your stickiness drips all over your thighs, it transfers onto his thighs, relishing at the liquids you cover him in. He pushes your legs back, hands beneath your knees, head falling with eyes screwed shut in concentration. His resolve falters when you squeeze yourself around him, cry out for him to fuck you harder, faster, beg him to give you more when he was giving you all he had.
“Humans are so fucking selfish, fuck.” He seethes, “Be quiet.” He huffs, slowing his hips, kissing you harshly, his tongue wrestling yours, pushing down on it in hopes to silence your noise. A hand slides up your body, squeezing at your breast, until he reaches your throat, and tightens his fingers so much you so that you have to fight for a breath. He pistons into you quickly, growling and grunting as he uses your cunt how he pleases. He can’t think, he moans loudly against your mouth when he can feel it rising within him. Then it snaps.
He cums harshly into your cunt, and you cry out, sobbing when he pulls his mouth off yours. Your cries are caught in his grasp, coming out in small squeaks as you stare up at him with damp eyes, glistening with a worship that sates him nicely. Your legs ache, but he pushes down on your thighs as he empties himself inside you, twitching and throbbing against your walls so harshly it makes you cum soon after. His weight falls against you, and you wheeze. Not from the sheer mass of him, but because you feel sucked dry. “My god…” You whine tiredly.
He hums in approval, resting against you, listening to slow of your heartbeat. It’s beautiful, he thinks, a welcomed rhythm to his greedy ears. Your eyes are closed, pacified in the sleep that weighs on you after being used. He looks at your face just for a moment longer, fingers tracing your soft features, humming a haunting melody as you rest beneath him. When he’s satisfied, sated in his endeavours. He lifts himself off your limp body, your chest rising and falling so peacefully. It’s a pretty sight; he admits it to be.
Quietly, he sits himself down at the water’s edge, looking over his shoulder at you as he falls back into his, patiently awaiting his return.
The night is quiet, no chirping of the crickets, no hooting of the howls, no breeze that howls. The water is the only thing that remains alive, its’ soft babbling and your quiet breaths melding into one amidst the silence of the night. The harmony of the moment is disturbed, a hand grasping at your ankle, dragging you under.
warnings/tags — 18+, explicit smut, oral sex (f. receiving), making out, hickies/marking,penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, rough and slow paced sex,
The room was suffused with the soft glow of the setting sun, casting a warm, golden light over the rumpled sheets of the bed. Y/n, lying on her stomach, felt the heat of Jungkook's body pressed against her back as he wrapped his arms around her waist. His breath was hot against her neck, sending shivers down her spine as she giggled, squirming in his embrace. He kissed her earlobe, his hand tracing a lazy path down her side, his thumb brushing the side of her breast, causing it to peak beneath the thin fabric of her t-shirt.
Y/n rolled over to face him, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Jungkook's eyes, dark with desire, searched hers before he leaned in to claim her mouth in a hungry kiss. His tongue slid against hers, the taste of him sending sparks through her body. Her hands found their way under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin and the taut muscles of his stomach. His own hands began to explore, slipping beneath the hem of her shirt to caress the smooth skin of her back.
The kiss grew deeper, more urgent, and Y/n could feel Jungkook's hard length pressing against her thigh. She moaned into his mouth, the sound vibrating against his lips, and reached down to grip him firmly through his jeans. He groaned in response, his hips jerking into her touch. The heat between them grew, an undeniable force that demanded release.
With a swift movement, Jungkook sat up, pulling her with him so she straddled his lap. His hands found her breasts, squeezing them gently before his thumbs rolled over her sensitive nipples. She gasped, arching her back, and he took the opportunity to kiss along her neck and collarbone, leaving a trail of hot kisses that made her squirm. His mouth moved to her chest, and he tugged at the material of her shirt, desperate to taste her.
Her breasts spilled out, and Jungkook's eyes widened in appreciation. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking and flicking it with his tongue while pinching the other between his fingers. Y/n's head fell back, her eyes closing as she moaned in pleasure. She felt him smiling against her skin, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh before moving to the other peak to give it equal attention. His hand traveled down to the button of her pants, deftly unbuttoning them and sliding the zipper down. She helped him, lifting her hips so he could pull them off completely.
The cool air of the room hit her exposed pussy, making her shiver. Jungkook took in the sight of her, his eyes dark with lust. He leaned in, his warm breath ghosting over her wetness, before his tongue darted out to taste her. Y/n's legs tightened around his waist, and she cried out as he began to lick and suck, his mouth worshipping her clit as if it were the sweetest nectar. She rocked against his face, his tongue delving deeper, the pressure building inside her like a storm about to break.
He slid two fingers into her, curling them to hit that perfect spot, making her body tremble. The sound of his mouth against her, the wetness of his tongue, filled the air around them. Her moans grew louder, more desperate, and she felt herself getting closer and closer to the edge. Jungkook's hands moved to her hips, holding her in place as he picked up the pace, his tongue flicking against her clit with an intensity that had her panting for more. And then, with a final, hard suck, she shattered, her orgasm ripping through her like a bolt of lightning. She collapsed against him, her body shaking with the aftershocks of pleasure, as he kissed his way back up to her mouth, sharing her taste with her.
Panting, she whispered his name, and Jungkook took that as his cue. He stood, effortlessly lifting her with him, and carried her to the full-length mirror against the wall. He set her down, her back to the reflective surface, and stepped behind her. His erection pressed against her ass, and she could feel his warm breath on the back of her neck as he whispered dirty words into her ear, his hands roaming over her body, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He reached down to grasp her hips, his fingertips digging in just enough to leave marks.
With a swift movement, Jungkook turned her to face the mirror, her eyes meeting his in the reflection. He kissed her deeply, their tongues tangling together as he unbuttoned his pants and freed himself. He was thick and hard, the tip glistening with precum. He stepped closer, positioning himself at her entrance, and she could see the anticipation in his eyes as he pushed into her slowly, inch by inch. The sight of him filling her was almost too much to bear, and she whimpered into his mouth as he reached around to play with her still-sensitive nipples.
Their bodies moved together in the mirror, a dance of passion and need. He picked up the pace, his thrusts deep and punishing, and she watched as she took him over and over again. Her hands gripped the edge of the mirror for support, her knuckles white with the effort of holding on. She felt herself building to another climax, her walls tightening around him, her moans growing louder. He whispered sweet, filthy nothings into her ear, praising her, telling her how much he loved watching her come apart for him. And as she did, she saw the pleasure etched on his face, the way his eyes rolled back in his head, the way his grip on her hips tightened until she knew she'd wear his fingerprints tomorrow.
Finally, with a roar, Jungkook reached his own release, filling her up with his warmth. They stood there for a moment, panting and trembling, their eyes locked in the mirror, before he pulled out and turned her around to face him. He kissed her softly, sweetly, the tenderness of his touch a stark contrast to the ferocity of their lovemaking. Then, with a wicked grin, he bent her over the bed, his hands guiding her face into the pillows, and whispered, "I'm not done with you yet."
The sting of his palm on her ass sent a jolt of arousal through her body, and she yelped, biting into the pillow to muffle the sound. He smacked her again, harder this time, and she felt the heat bloom across her skin. He entered her from behind, his grip on her hips bruising as he took her with a fierce pace. She pushed back into him, meeting every thrust, the sensation of his cock inside her making her moan into the pillow.
He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, and began to rub it in time with his hips. The pressure grew, and she felt the beginnings of another orgasm building. Jungkook leaned over her, his breath hot against her neck, whispering dirty commands, urging her to take him deeper, faster. His hand slid down to her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her gasp. The mix of pain and pleasure was intoxicating, and she felt her body respond, her pussy tightening around him.
As she climaxed, her muscles spasming around him, Jungkook groaned and pulled out, his cum spilling onto her back. He collapsed beside her, both of them breathless and sated. For a moment, they just lay there, their bodies entwined, the room filled with the sounds of their heavy breathing. Then, he rolled her over, his eyes filled with a gentle concern, and began to kiss and lick the marks he'd left on her neck and breasts, soothing the slight pain with the softness of his lips.
He cleaned her up with a tender touch, his thumbs tracing the paths his teeth had made earlier. She could feel his heart racing against her, his chest heaving with exertion. He pulled her into his arms, cradling her against his chest as they both drifted into a doze, the warmth of their bodies a comforting cocoon. When she stirred again, she found him watching her, a soft smile on his face. He leaned down to kiss her forehead, whispering sweet nothings in her ear as he stroked her hair. The love in his voice washed over her, and she knew she never wanted this moment to end.
But the urgency between them was not yet sated. Jungkook's hands began to wander again, his fingertips teasing her skin, sending waves of pleasure through her body. He rolled her onto her back, his eyes never leaving hers as he positioned himself at her entrance again. This time, he entered her with a gentle ease that made her sigh with contentment. He moved with a slow, steady rhythm, his eyes never straying from her face, watching her intently for every reaction.
Their bodies moved in harmony, the sound of their skin slapping together a testament to their passion. He whispered praises in her ear, calling her his goddess, telling her how much she turned him on. She could feel herself getting wetter with every word, her body responding to his dominance. He leaned down to kiss her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, leaving a trail of love bites that would surely be visible tomorrow. She didn't care; she wanted everyone to see the evidence of his claim on her.
As he moved inside her, his hand found her clit, applying the perfect amount of pressure as he continued to fuck her slowly. The feeling was overwhelming, and she knew she was going to come again. Her eyes locked onto his in the mirror above the bed, and she watched as his own pleasure grew, his face contorting with the effort to hold back. She felt her orgasm building, her body tensing, her breath hitching in her throat. And just when she thought she couldn't take it anymore, he groaned and came deep inside her, filling her with his warmth.
Her own climax followed swiftly, her walls clenching around him as she screamed out his name. He held her through it, his grip tight but reassuring, his kisses gentle on her neck and collarbone. And when it was over, when their breathing had returned to something resembling normal, he pulled out and turned her to face him, cradling her in his arms as they lay in the aftermath of their passion. He kissed her softly, sweetly, a promise of more to come.
Y/n's eyes searched Jungkook's, finding them filled with a tenderness that melted her heart. He pulled her closer, his hand tracing lazy patterns on her stomach, and she could feel his cock, still semi-hard, nestled between her thighs. She reached down, her hand wrapping around him, and began to stroke him gently, feeling him grow hard again under her touch. He groaned, his eyes fluttering shut, and she knew he wasn't done with her yet.
With a wicked grin, Jungkook stood, pulling her to her feet. He led her to the en suite bathroom, his hand never leaving hers. The shower was already running, the steam billowing out to envelop them as they stepped inside. The water cascaded down their bodies, the heat a stark contrast to the cool air of the room. They stood under the spray, kissing deeply, their hands roaming over each other's soaked skin. The droplets clung to their eyelashes, and their hair plastered to their faces as they moved together in a dance of desire.
Jungkook's hands slid over her curves, tracing the lines of her body as if committing them to memory. He picked her up, her legs wrapping around his waist, and pressed her against the cool tiles. The water ran in rivulets down their skin, highlighting the contours of their bodies as they moved together. He kissed her neck, her breasts, his mouth finding her nipples and sucking them hard, making her gasp. His hands found her ass, squeezing and kneading the flesh as he supported her weight.
Her nails dug into his back, leaving faint red marks that stood out against his golden skin. He groaned with pleasure, his cock growing even harder against her stomach. He positioned himself at her entrance once more, and she felt the tip of him pushing against her, seeking entrance. With a moan, she pulled him closer, urging him to take her again. He didn't need any further encouragement, sliding into her with a smooth, powerful thrust that had her crying out.
The water cascaded down their bodies, mingling with their sweat, making their skin slick with need. Jungkook's hands gripped her hips, holding her in place as he pounded into her. She could feel every inch of him, his length and girth stretching her, filling her completely. The steam in the shower clung to them, obscuring the mirror, making it feel like they were the only two people in the world. Y/n's eyes never left his, the intensity of their connection mirrored in the reflection of the water droplets on the glass.
Their movements grew more erratic as their passion consumed them, the water splashing around them as they moved in a frenzied rhythm. Jungkook's fingers dug into her flesh, leaving half-moon marks that she knew would turn into bruises tomorrow. She didn't care; they were badges of honor from a night of unbridled passion. His hips slammed against hers, his cock hitting that spot deep inside her that made her see stars. She felt the tension building once again, her toes curling as she clutched at his shoulders, her nails scoring his back.
He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear, and whispered, "I want to see you come all over me." And with that, he lowered her to the floor of the shower, the cool tiles a shock against her overheated skin. He knelt before her, his eyes never leaving hers, and buried his face in her pussy. The feeling of the water on her sensitive flesh combined with his skilled tongue was almost too much. She felt the orgasm build, a pressure that grew with every flick of his tongue, every suck of her clit. She screamed as it crashed over her, her body spasming as he continued to lick and suck, not giving her a moment's reprieve.
When she could stand it no longer, she pushed him away, her legs shaking with the aftershocks of pleasure. He stood, a wicked grin on his face, and pulled her into a standing position, his cock still hard and demanding. He bent her over again, this time under the spray of the showerhead, the water beating down on their bodies as he entered her from behind. The sensation was almost too much, the water making her skin slick and sensitive, his movements powerful and unrelenting. She braced her hands against the wall, her head thrown back as he fucked her mercilessly, the sound of their bodies slapping together echoing off the tiles.
Jungkook's hand found her clit again, his fingers working their magic as he thrust deep inside her. She could feel herself getting closer, her body tightening around him. And when she came, it was with a scream that was lost in the sound of the water, her walls clamping down on his cock as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her. He followed soon after, his hot seed spilling into her once again. They stood there, panting and shaking, the water streaming down their faces, mingling with their sweat and kisses.
Gently, he turned her around, pressing her back against the tiles. He kissed her deeply, the taste of her on his tongue, and she could feel his cock, still semi-hard, nestled against her stomach. He broke the kiss, his eyes searching hers, and she knew he wasn't done. He lifted her up again, her legs wrapping around his waist, and she felt his length slide back inside her with ease. They moved together in the shower, the water beating down on them, their bodies slipping and sliding with each other's wetness.
The heat of the water and the slickness of their skin made every touch electric. Jungkook's hands roamed her body, caressing every inch, while hers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, urging him on. His mouth found hers again, kissing her with a fervor that made her toes curl. She could feel the water running in rivulets down her body, mixing with the sweat from their passionate embrace. It was a symphony of sensation, each drop of water feeling like a tender kiss on her over-sensitive flesh.
He kissed a path down her neck, his teeth grazing her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. His hands cupped her breasts, the pads of his thumbs flicking her nipples in a tantalizing rhythm. She moaned, the sound echoing off the tiles, as the cool water hit her flushed skin. He chuckled against her, the vibration sending shockwaves straight to her core. The shower was their sanctuary, a place where they could lose themselves in each other without any inhibitions.
With a gentle nudge, Jungkook bent her over, her palms flat against the cool tiles. The water rushed down her back, creating a delicious contrast to the heat of his body. He slid into her from behind, the angle hitting her just right. She gasped, her eyes closing, as he began to thrust with a measured pace. Each movement sent ripples of pleasure through her, and she could feel the tension building again. Her legs trembled, but he held her firmly, his strong hands gripping her hips as if she were the most precious treasure.
Their bodies moved in perfect sync, the sound of their skin slapping together echoing off the tiles. The warmth of the water was a caress, enveloping them in a steamy embrace that seemed to amplify every sensation. She could feel him, thick and hard, filling her completely, his cock pulsing with need. Her own need grew with each thrust, her walls tightening around him, eager for more. The water washed away the sweat of their lovemaking, leaving them slick and gleaming.
"Jungkook," she whimpered, her voice hoarse from screaming out his name so many times. "I'm too sensitive."
He paused, his cock buried deep inside her, his eyes searching her face for any signs of distress. She felt his concern, his gentle touch as his thumb traced the line of her jaw, his eyes filled with love and lust. "You're okay?"
Y/n nodded, her eyes glazed with pleasure. "It's just... it's too much, Jungkook. But I don't want you to stop."
Jungkook's eyes lit up with understanding, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. He knew she could handle more, and he was eager to push her limits. He began to move again, his strokes slow and deliberate, watching as her body reacted to his every touch. She moaned, her breath hitching as he slid in and out of her, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through her overstimulated body. He leaned down, pressing kisses along her spine, whispering sweet nothings that only served to make her more desperate for him.
Her pussy clenched around him, and she could feel the beginnings of another orgasm. "Please," she begged, her voice barely a whisper. "Don't stop."
Jungkook chuckled, the sound sending shivers down her spine. He knew just how much she could take, and he wasn't about to let up now. He picked up the pace, his hips slapping against her ass as he drove into her with a ferocity that left her gasping for air. She could see their reflection in the steamy mirror, the image of them fucking like animals, and it only turned her on more. Her breasts bounced with every thrust, her nipples hard and begging for attention.
Her nails scraped against the tiles as she fought to stay upright, her body a canvas of pleasure and pain. The sting from his earlier slaps was a delicious reminder of his dominance, making her even wetter for him. Jungkook's hand moved to her clit, his thumb pressing down hard, and she felt herself teetering on the edge of another climax. "Fuck," she moaned, her voice a desperate plea.
He took the hint, his grip on her hips tightening as he slammed into her with renewed vigor. Each thrust was punishing, a testament to his desire for her. "Is this what you want?" he growled, his voice a dark rumble that sent shivers down her spine. "You want me to fuck you harder?"
Y/n could only nod, her eyes screwed shut as she felt the beginnings of an even more intense climax building. Jungkook didn't disappoint, his movements growing more erratic, more desperate. She could feel his cock swelling inside her, his own orgasm approaching like a freight train. "Come for me, baby," he grunted, his hips slapping against her ass. "Come all over my cock."
Her body responded to his command, her pussy clenching tight around him as she screamed out his name, her orgasm crashing over her like a wave. Jungkook's thrusts grew more frantic, his own pleasure evident in the tension of his body. He groaned, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself into her once more. They stood there, trembling in the aftermath, the water continuing to cascade down their bodies, mixing with their sweat and juices.
With a final, shuddering breath, Jungkook pulled out, setting her gently on her feet. He turned her to face him, his eyes searching hers for any signs of distress. But all he found was pure, unadulterated pleasure. He kissed her softly, a stark contrast to the rough passion that had just consumed them. His hands were gentle as they wiped the water from her face, his touch a balm to her overstimulated body.
Trigger Warning: This story contains emotional and physical abuse. (Jungkook is not the abuser btw)
pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)
genre: exes to lovers
rating: 18+, fluff w smut.
synopsis: Y/N is untouchable, his dare: "Make her fall in love with you."
Two years ago, Y/N was just a dare—a game Jungkook never meant to take seriously. But somewhere between the laughter, late nights, and whispered promises, he fell. Hard. Then the truth came out, and everything shattered.
Now, Y/N is a single mother trying to rebuild her life when fate throws Jungkook back into her world. He’s changed. Older. Steadier. But the past still burns between them. As secrets unravel and emotions resurface, they’re forced to face everything they tried to leave behind.
Some wounds run deep. But some loves never die.
-
“Maybe,” you start, voice light and sweet, “the reservation can wait.”
You round the corner into the bedroom, heels in hand, lips slightly parted at the sight in front of you.
Black dress shirt. Sleeves rolled just enough to show off the tattoos. Silver watch, subtle chain. Hair pushed back perfectly like he didn’t even try.
He glances up from the mirror.
Smirks.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, walking over, eyeing your dress like he wants to ruin it.
You loop your arms around his neck lazily, standing on your toes. “You just look so good, baby. It feels wrong to let anyone else see you like this.”
Jungkook chuckles, low and rough, hands finding your hips like instinct.
“Pretty sure you’ve seen me look better.”
You pout. “Not recently.”
His brow lifts. “That right?”
Before you can answer, he hooks his arms under your thighs and lifts you like you weigh nothing, setting you down on the kitchen counter with a grunt of satisfaction.
Your breath catches.
He steps between your legs, crowding your space, lips ghosting over yours.
“We have all day, baby,” he murmurs, voice a little rough. “I’m all yours.”
You fake a whine. “You’re teasing.”
He grins, kisses your cheek, your jaw, then finally your lips. “Maybe.”
You wrap your arms around his neck and whisper into his mouth: “Ten minutes.”
He pulls back just enough to grin. “Dinner first. Then I’ll give you all the time you want.”
-
The sunset hits just right — golden and warm, spilling over the skyline like it’s bending just for you. String lights sway gently above your heads, casting soft glows on silverware and champagne flutes. The city buzzes somewhere below, muffled by height and distance, replaced by the quiet clink of plates and the lull of soft jazz floating through the speakers.
Sitting in Le Morte— the restaurant his parents gave to him on his 21st birthday. The same restaurant where he asked you to be his girlfriend, the same tiny restaurant you both promised his parents to build up to success. Now, it's a beautiful restaurant sitting at the top of the tallest towers in South Korea.
You sit across from Jungkook, candlelight flickering between you, and he looks—
God. He looks unreal.
Black dress shirt, sleeves rolled, collar loose. Gold chain sitting just at the base of his throat. One arm draped casually over the back of his chair, the other lazily stirring the ice in his drink like he has all the time in the world.
But his eyes are locked on you.
The whole time.
Not just glancing. Not just admiring. Watching you like he’s soaking in every second. Like he’s trying to memorize the way your lip gloss catches the light, or how you tuck your hair behind your ear when you laugh too hard.
“Stop,” you murmur, cheeks warm from the wine. “You’re staring.”
His smile is crooked. Intimate. Like it’s just for you.
“Let me,” he says softly. “Might not get to do it like this again.”
You blink. “What does that mean?”
He leans forward, resting his elbow on the table, fingers rubbing gently at the base of his glass. The sunset behind him catches the glint of something silver in his palm.
A small box.
Your breath stops.
You freeze.
He stands up.
“I was gonna wait until dessert,” he says, voice low but certain. “But I can’t. Not when you look like this. Not when I’ve been carrying this for months.”
The world quiets.
He drops to one knee.
Your heart stumbles.
“You’re it for me,” he says. “Even when I’m loud. Even when I’m wrong. Even when I piss you off and leave dishes in the sink. I want you. I want lazy mornings and midnight drives and grocery trips with a shared cart and matching house keys.”
Your eyes are already burning.
“So marry me. Let me wake up next to you for the rest of my life. Let me be yours, fully, finally, forever.”
He opens the box.
A silver ring. Simple. Elegant. Yours.
You cover your mouth, tears slipping before you can stop them. And your voice shakes as you whisper, “Yes.”
He lets out a breathy laugh like he was holding it in for hours.
You stand. He grabs your waist and pulls you into him — tight, full-body, arms around you like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go.
He kisses you.
Slow. Certain. Familiar.
And when you pull back, your forehead rests against his, both of you smiling through tears.
“Told you I’d give you forever,” he whispers.
-
You barely make it through the front door before he’s on you.
The ring is still snug on your finger, your heels are kicked off, and he’s kissing you like the air in his lungs depends on you.
Your back hits the wall. His hands are everywhere — one at your waist, one sliding up your thigh, slow and sure and possessive like he’s already memorized every inch.
But it’s not rushed. It’s not messy. It’s deliberate.
His lips brush your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.
“You look so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, thumb tracing the line of your lower lip.
You whisper, “You’re shaking.”
He swallows hard. Smiles, a little unsteady.
“I’m in love. Give me a break.”
You reach for him — fingertips curling into his shirt, pulling him closer.
And he lets you.
Lets you tug him down. Onto the couch. Into you.
He kisses you like a prayer, like a secret, like a man terrified and overwhelmed and deeply, undeniably yours.
His hands are slow.
His mouth is reverent.
Every inch he touches feels claimed, branded, held.
“Say it again,” he whispers as his nose grazes your collarbone.
“What?”
“That you’re mine.”
Your voice breaks against his shoulder. “I’m yours.”
And he breathes out the quietest, most broken “Good.”
His lips press into the crook of your neck, soft at first, barely there — like he's grounding himself. Like he needs to feel you just to believe you're real. His breath is warm, shaky against your skin. You can feel the smile in it. The ache, too.
You exhale slowly, hand threading through the hair at the back of his neck, fingertips brushing the undercut.
He kisses your collarbone. Then again. And again. Slower. Lower.
Your dress slips off one shoulder. His mouth follows the exposed skin like it’s his path home. His hands — warm, steady — trace your hips like he’s reminding himself you said yes.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, lips brushing over the top of your chest. “No idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
You laugh softly, breath catching. “You already have me.”
He leans back just enough to look at you — really look — and the way he stares makes you forget how to breathe.
Like you’re the only thing he’s ever believed in.
His thumb grazes your jaw, then your bottom lip, slow and reverent.
“I know. That’s what scares me.”
Before you can ask what he means, his mouth is on yours again — deeper this time, hungry but restrained, like he’s savoring it. His tongue sweeps over your bottom lip, and you open for him instinctively, your body already arching into him like it knows its place.
He lifts you without warning, hands gripping the backs of your thighs, walking you toward the bedroom like he’s done it a hundred times — but tonight it feels different.
Charged. Worshipful. Final, somehow.
He lays you down like you're made of glass.
Then he follows.
His weight settles between your legs, but it’s not heavy — it’s perfect. Warm. Familiar.
His kisses slow. Dragging. Like he wants to memorize how you taste.
You feel his hand slide down your side, slipping under your dress, skimming the inside of your thigh. Your breath hitches.
You shake your head, voice breathy. “Don’t stop.”
“Yeah?” His eyes darken. “You want me to take my time with you?”
You nod.
And he does.
The dress comes off inch by inch — not rushed, not desperate. Like unwrapping something sacred. His eyes never leave you, like if he blinks, he’ll lose you.
Your back arches when his mouth moves lower, slow kisses across your chest, your ribs, the dip of your stomach. His hands are warm and sure, holding your waist, smoothing over your skin like he’s trying to learn every inch by feel.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, voice almost shaky. “You always have been.”
Your chest clenches. Because the way he says it—so full of awe, of devotion—it sounds like he’s been waiting his whole life just to tell you.
And when he finally sinks into you, it’s not rushed. It’s slow. Deep. Everything.
You cling to him — arms around his shoulders, nails lightly digging into his back, legs wrapped tight around his waist — because it feels too good. Too full. Too much.
He moans into your neck, low and guttural, breath hot against your skin.
“This… you… this is it for me,” he murmurs, hips rolling deeper, like he can’t get close enough.
Your eyes blur. Your fingers tangle in his hair. You whisper his name like it’s a prayer.
Every stroke is steady. Intimate. The rhythm building slow, like he's not just trying to make you come—he’s trying to mark you. Remember you.
And when it finally crests—when you cry out and he groans your name like it’s carved into his lungs—he holds you through it.
Shaking. Pressing kisses to your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.
He doesn’t move for a long time. Just breathes.
His forehead stays pressed to yours, his hand softly stroking your side.
“I love you, my wife.” he whispers.
-
“We’re done.”
You don’t yell. You don’t have to.
The silence between you and Jungkook splits open the second the words leave your mouth.
“We’re fucking done.”
He’s frozen where he stands — barefoot, sweatpants low on his hips, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. He just got out of the shower. His hair’s still damp, clinging to his forehead. He looks… normal. Relaxed.
Like he’s not about to lose everything.
Like he has no fucking clue.
Your hand is trembling as you hold your phone out, the screen still glowing. His name is highlighted in the thread of messages, half-jokes and ego and the kind of careless boyish cruelty you never thought could come from him.
[Taehyung]: “Yo, you actually gonna do it?”
[Jungkook]: “Already started. She’s cute. This’ll be easy.”
[Namjoon]: “Bet you 200 she falls for you first.”
[Jungkook]: “Watch me make her say I love you.”
Your voice trembles. “How long?”
He doesn’t answer.
You swallow, hard. “How long were they laughing at me?”
He takes a step forward and you step back, heart racing, breath caught.
“Y/N,” he says, quietly. “I can explain—”
“No. Don’t.” Your throat tightens so suddenly it almost chokes you. “You don’t get to look at me like that right now.”
He blinks like he’s been slapped.
“I wore your ring for two months,” you whisper. “Two months I’ve been waking up beside you, loving you, planning forever with you—while your friends texted you behind my back, congratulating you for playing me.”
“It wasn’t like that—”
“Then what was it?” The crack in your voice finally splits open. “What the fuck was I to you, Jungkook? Some prize? A challenge?”
He flinches like it physically hurts.
“It started as a dare, we were young,” he says, voice low, ashamed. “I was drunk. It was stupid. But the second I actually got to know you—”
“Stop.”
“—I fell so fucking hard, Y/N.”
“Stop.” Your eyes sting, but you refuse to cry in front of him. “Don’t stand there and feed me that now. Not when the only reason you ever spoke to me was because someone dared you to.”
He looks like he’s falling apart.
You wonder if he feels it the way you do—like the air’s been punched out of your lungs. Like your body’s full of splinters, breaking from the inside out.
“You were never a bet to me,” he says softly. “Not once I knew you.”
You almost laugh. It comes out broken.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
You take a shaky step back, the ring suddenly burning on your finger.
“You had so many chances, Jungkook. We dated for two fucking years, you proposed two months ago. You could’ve told me after our first date. After the first time we slept together. After the night you held me when I cried about my mom. You could’ve told me before you proposed.”
“I was scared,” he admits, voice breaking. “I knew I’d lose you.”
“Good.”
His eyes lift to yours—glassy, wounded.
You don’t care.
“I trusted you,” you whisper. “With everything. My body, my heart, my life. And you… you humiliated me.”
His breathing hitches. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn’t. Can’t.
“You’re not who I thought you were.”
“I am,” he says quickly. “I am. You know me better than anyone—”
“No, Jungkook.” You shake your head, blinking back tears. “I knew the version of you you let me see. I never knew this.”
Silence stretches between you, unbearable and sharp.
You slide the ring off your finger. Slowly. Like peeling off a layer of skin.
His eyes drop to your hand.
“No,” he breathes. “Don’t—”
You step forward. Place the ring on the counter. Not thrown. Not dramatic. Just... final.
“I was going to marry you,” you whisper. “I wanted to build a life with you.”
Tears slip down your cheek. You don’t wipe them.
“I would’ve given you everything.”
Jungkook’s voice is raw when he speaks. “You still can.”
You shake your head once, then again. Firmer.
“I’ll never know what was real,” you say. “I’ll never know if you looked at me like that because you loved me—or because you knew you’d already won.”
He breaks then.
Takes a step forward like he can’t stay still anymore, his voice cracking open.
“You were never a game to me.”
“But I was a joke to you once,” you whisper. “And that’s enough.”
His face crumples. “Please don’t leave.”
“I already did.”
You grab your bag. Sling it over your shoulder.
His feet move before he can stop himself. “Y/N, please. Baby—”
“Don’t call me that.”
He freezes.
You reach for the doorknob with trembling hands.
And then—because you can’t help it—you turn back one last time.
He looks ruined.
Hands limp at his sides. Eyes red. Chest rising too fast like he’s barely breathing.
He whispers your name like it’s the last thing he has.
You whisper back, barely audible—
“Goodbye.”
Then you walk out.
And this time…
he doesn’t follow.
Because he knows
he lost you the second he lied.
-
[2 years later]
It’s warm inside the café.
Not the cloying kind—just soft. Familiar. The kind that seeps into your bones and tells your chest to stop bracing so hard. The kind of warm that smells like cinnamon and vanilla, where the hum of espresso machines mixes with quiet music and the occasional clink of mugs.
You’re sitting at a window table, one hand wrapped around a latte, the other steadying Jiho as he bounces lightly in your lap. He’s sticky with syrup and joy, a piece of pancake still clutched in one tiny fist. His laughter bubbles up when your boyfriend leans in and makes a quiet, ridiculous face just for him.
And you laugh too. Soft. Full. Real.
Your boyfriend has been good to you. Patient, steady, kind. He doesn’t push. He never tried to fill shoes that weren’t his to wear. He just showed up and stayed. And when you finally let him in, he didn’t treat your past like baggage. He treated it like part of the road that led you here.
So yeah, mornings like this? They feel okay. Safe.
Until the bell above the door rings.
You hear it, but you don’t look up right away. You’re busy wiping syrup off Jiho’s chin with a napkin, murmuring a quiet, “Hold still, baby,” while he wriggles.
And then you feel it.
Not just a presence. A rupture.
Your breath catches before you even know why.
You glance up.
And everything stops.
Jungkook walks into the café like a memory you weren’t ready for.
He’s with Taehyung. Laughing at something he says. But the moment he sees you, his body goes still. His expression falls apart in real time. And then his eyes drop—to Jiho.
To your son.
His son.
You feel the air punch out of your lungs.
He looks older. Bulkier. His hair is longer now, a little curl tucked behind his ear. He wears a dark hoodie, sleeves pushed up, exposing familiar tattoos that used to trace your skin. He looks…
Ruined. But whole in a new way. A version of him you don’t recognize. One that never held your hand in the middle of the night or whispered promises against your spine.
“You okay?” your boyfriend asks, his voice cutting softly through the tension.
You don’t answer at first.
Jungkook is still staring. At Jiho. Then at you. And there’s something in his expression that’s not shock anymore.
It’s betrayal.
“He’s getting fussy,” you murmur, eyes still fixed on Jungkook. “Can you take him to the car? I’ll just run to the bathroom and meet you there.”
Your boyfriend nods without hesitation, presses a kiss to your temple, and lifts Jiho easily into his arms. Jiho yawns and rests his head on his shoulder, thumb slipping into his mouth.
You can feel Jungkook’s stare as they leave.
You rise. Walk past him without looking.
The bathroom is down a narrow hall, dimly lit. You lock the door behind you and grip the sink until your knuckles ache.
You breathe.
In.
Out.
You rinse your hands slowly, as if that could wash off the past year.
And when you open the door—he’s there.
"Cheater." Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched.
“You were mad at me this whole time,” Jungkook says, low and cold, “but you were out here carrying some other guy’s fucking baby?”
Your heart twists.
He laughs, humorless. “That’s rich, Y/N. You didn’t want me, but you moved on just fine, didn’t you?”
You stare at him. Silent.
The hallway feels like it’s shrinking.
“I don’t owe you anything.”
“You don’t think I deserved to know?”
“Did I deserve to be a bet?”
That shuts him up.
You shake your head, eyes burning.
“I was pregnant when I left,” you whisper. “I didn’t even know it yet. I found out alone. I stayed alone. I gave birth alone. I raised him—your son—alone.”
Jungkook goes pale.
He looks stunned. Pale. A man watching the earth split under his feet.
His mouth opens once. Then closes.
“Y/N…”
You step back.
“And yeah, I moved on,” you breathe. “Because I had to. Because loving you almost destroyed me. Because trusting you did destroy me.”
His hands shake. His chest rises like it hurts to breathe.
“I would’ve been there.”
“Would you?” you whisper. “You lied every day for months, Jungkook. I don’t know what part of you was ever real.”
He swallows, eyes desperate now. “All of it. I loved you. I still—”
You cut him off with a cold laugh. Final. Solid. Unforgiving.
“Then you should’ve fought harder.”
There’s silence. Dense. Trembling.
“His name is Jiho,” you say flatly. “He’s brilliant. He has a real dad now. Someone who shows up, every day, no matter what. Someone who didn’t need to be biologically connected to love him better than you ever could.”
Jungkook flinches.
You feel nothing.
You take a step closer, voice low and sharp.
“You want a role in his life?”
He nods slowly. Hope flickers behind his eyes.
You smile.
It doesn’t reach your eyes.
“Too fucking bad.”
And then you walk.
You don’t look back.
Let him break.
Let him wonder.
Let him live with what he lost.
Because you have a son.
And a man who never made your love a game.
And a life you built from the ashes he left behind.
-
[jungkook pov]
Jungkook doesn’t remember how many shots it takes before the guilt finally numbs.
He doesn’t feel the booth beneath him or the sticky table under his forearms. Just the pressure in his throat—the kind that burns more than the liquor. The kind that doesn’t let go.
“She said his name is Jiho.”
His voice is rough. Slurred, but not from the alcohol. From everything else.
“He’s brilliant. Got a smart mouth. Big eyes. My fucking eyes.”
Taehyung doesn’t say anything. He just watches him from across the table, jaw tight.
“She didn’t need to say it,” Jungkook mutters. “I knew the second I looked at him. That’s my kid.”
Yoongi leans back in his seat, arms crossed. Hoseok twirls his empty glass, saying nothing.
“She told me he has a real dad now.” Jungkook laughs, but it’s hollow. “Said he shows up. Loves him better than I ever could. Said he doesn’t need to be blood to be his father.”
The table goes quiet. No one meets his eyes.
“She meant it,” Jungkook breathes. “Every word.”
Taehyung finally speaks. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Anger. Screaming. Anything but that fucking smile she gave him.”
Jungkook rubs his hands over his face, then through his hair, like he’s trying to scrub the memory off his skin.
“She looked happy. Safe. Not because of me. In spite of me.”
“You hurt her,” Hoseok says, careful but blunt. “You don’t get to be surprised she moved on.”
“I’m not,” Jungkook snaps. “I’m not surprised. I’m—” He stops, breath catching.
“I’m destroyed.”
The word hangs there. Honest. Raw.
Yoongi taps a finger on the table. “You said you didn’t know she was pregnant.”
“I didn’t,” Jungkook growls. “I didn’t fucking know. If I did—God—do you think I would've let her go? Let her raise him alone?”
Taehyung’s voice is low. “Doesn’t change what you did before.”
Jungkook looks up slowly. “I never meant to fall in love with her.”
“Yeah,” Yoongi mutters. “That’s kind of the problem.”
The silence turns heavier.
“She's a mom now,” Taehyung finally says. “And you? You’re the guy who made her a dare.”
Jungkook flinches.
“No mother worth a damn is gonna risk her child’s safety—or her own peace—on a man who turned her love into a joke.”
“I know,” Jungkook whispers.
“You say you want to be there for Jiho,” Hoseok says, “but you’re not the one who decides anymore. She does.”
“I’m not trying to take him,” Jungkook says hoarsely. “I just—I want to know him. I want him to know me.”
“He has a dad,” Taehyung says gently but firmly. “The one who stayed.”
Jungkook exhales sharply. His head drops into his hands.
“She said I couldn’t love him better. And maybe she’s right. Maybe I don’t deserve the chance.”
No one replies.
“I just want to try.”
The words leave him in a whisper. Barely there. But the silence that follows feels deafening.
No one answers.
Taehyung just stares at him like he’s already bracing for impact.
And maybe Jungkook was hoping for something—anything—a crack of sympathy, a nod, a sign that someone still believed in him. That he wasn’t completely fucking ruined.
But there’s nothing.
Only the echo of his own voice, pathetic and hollow.
And that’s what finally makes him snap.
He shoves the chair back so hard it topples. Kicks it across the floor without thinking. Glass clinks and shatters as a bottle rolls off the table and explodes near the wall. Hoseok jolts up, trying to steady him, but Jungkook shoves him off with a harsh, “Don’t fucking touch me!”
His breathing turns ragged, chest heaving as he grips the edge of the booth like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
“She didn’t even give me a chance,” he spits, venom coating every word. “She just looked at me like I was nothing. Like I was the fucking villain.”
“Jungkook—” Taehyung tries, but he’s not listening.
“She never even told me. She made that choice for me. Took him away from me before I even knew he existed.”
He pounds his fist into the table—once, twice—until his knuckles split open. Blood pools against the cracked wood. He doesn’t even flinch.
Yoongi stands up slowly. “You’re scaring people.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” Jungkook growls. “I’m already a ghost in my own life. What’s one more mess?”
Taehyung’s voice is quiet but firm. “You’re not helping anyone like this. Least of all yourself.”
“I wasn’t trying to help myself!” Jungkook shouts, eyes wild. “I just wanted to try. I wanted to be something—to someone. To him.”
He sways slightly, blood dripping down his hand, but he doesn’t notice. His eyes are glassy now, somewhere between fury and devastation.
“I didn’t ask to fall in love with her. I didn’t ask to lose her. But I did. And I lost him too.”
He finally sinks back into the booth, shoulders sagging like the fight’s drained out of him all at once.
“I’m not asking her to forgive me,” he whispers. “But she doesn’t get to erase me either. That’s my son.”
Nobody speaks.
The bar is quiet around them. Tense. Distant music playing beneath the weight of everything unspoken.
Taehyung finally breaks the silence.
“You’re bleeding.”
Jungkook looks down at his hand, broken skin and bruised knuckles.
He just laughs.
-
It’s almost midnight.
The apartment is still—blanketed in that soft kind of silence that only exists when the world’s asleep. Jiho is down for the night, his tiny breaths steady through the baby monitor on the table. The lights are low. My tea’s cold. Cassi’s face lights up the screen of my laptop, her voice a soothing constant in the quiet.
“So this girl—hand to God—she told her man, ‘If he wanted to, he would.’ And then this man shows up outside her job with a damn sign.”
I laugh into my cup. “A sign?”
“A literal cardboard sign. In public.”
“Okay, fine. That’s cute.”
"Hm, you have that look again."
"What look?"
“The one where you pretend you’re not thinking about him.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not.”
“Sure,” she drawls, then leans closer to the camera. “Bet he’s still hot. I wonder if he’s single.”
I laugh. “Wanna stalk him?”
“Don’t tempt me.” Her fingers are already moving. “What was his full @ again?”
I try to hide my grin. “You’re horrible.”
“Got him,” she says triumphantly. A second later, a notification pops up. Cassi’s just sent me his profile.
I don’t open it.
Not yet.
Instead, I lean back, feeling the air shift. That weird, aching weight that creeps in when you let a memory hang too long.
Cassi notices. “Hey,” she says gently. “You okay?”
Before I can answer, the door opens.
The lock clicks.
I freeze. Cassi’s expression sharpens. “Is that him?”
I nod and quickly end the call. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
The apartment door creaks open. Han steps inside—jacket askew, smelling like beer and sweat and the kind of cheap cologne that clings to your skin for hours. His smile is crooked, lazy. A little drunk.
“Baby,” he calls out, dropping his keys to the counter, “you’re still up?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
He stumbles over and drops onto the couch beside me, pulling me into his lap without waiting. He’s clingy—hands all over me, breath hot against my neck.
“I missed you tonight,” he says, lips grazing my cheek. “Was thinking about you the whole time.”
“You smell like beer.”
“I had a few.”
His fingers start trailing down my side. I pull away.
“Han, Jiho’s sleeping.”
“Let him sleep. I want you.”
“I’m tired.”
He stills. Then pulls back slightly to glance at the screen I didn’t have time to close. The Google tab is open again.
His eyes narrow.
“What’s this?”
I move to shut the laptop, but he snatches it first. Reads the screen.
His voice sharpens. “You’re looking up his shit?”
“It was nothing.”
“You miss him?”
“No.”
“Bullshit.”
He stands abruptly, sending the laptop sliding off the couch.
“I go out for a few drinks and come home to this? You—still thinking about that fucker who left you?”
I rise to my feet. “Han, you’re drunk.”
He steps closer. “You want him again? That it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you’re thinking it.”
“No, I’m not—”
He grabs my wrist hard.
“You were mine,” he growls. “I took care of you. Took care of your kid. And you’re still out here googling your ex like some pathetic little girl.”
“Han,” I whisper. “Let go.”
But he doesn’t. His grip tightens.
And then he slaps me.
Hard.
The sound cracks through the room.
My head jerks sideways. My cheek stings. My ears ring.
I freeze.
He doesn’t.
He lunges again, fists balled, grabbing my shoulders now, shaking me like I’m the problem. Like I’m the one who ruined him.
“You ungrateful bitch,” he snarls. “I fed him. I stayed. And you still look at me like I’m not good enough.”
I cry out as his knuckles graze my collarbone.
“Please—stop—”
But he won’t.
He doesn’t even hesitate this time.
I shove him back with everything in me and sprint for Jiho’s room.
My heart is slamming in my chest.
I grab Jiho—still half asleep, clinging to my shirt—and the baby monitor. I don’t even grab shoes.
Han’s shouting behind me, but I don’t listen. I don’t stop.
I bolt.
Out the door.
Down the stairs.
Into the night.
It’s almost 2 a.m.
I’m sitting on a metal bench outside a shuttered pharmacy, cold biting through the thin fabric of Jiho’s blanket, my coat, my skin—everything.
He won’t stop crying.
His little hands keep clawing at my chest, his body trembling as I hold him tighter and tighter, whispering, “I know, baby, I know,” even though nothing I do is helping.
He’s cold.
I’m cold.
And everything is closed.
I tried every door. The gas station. The diner. Even knocked on the back entrance of a convenience store until my hands went numb.
No one answered.
I pull him tighter into my chest. Try to rub warmth into his back, over and over, like friction and desperation will be enough to make him stop shaking.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, rocking him slightly, even though I know it’s not enough. “I didn’t mean to bring you out here. I didn’t mean for any of this—”
My voice cracks before I can finish.
Jiho’s sobs aren’t the loud kind. They’re tired, hoarse, hiccupping. The kind that gut you. The kind that sound like trust breaking down.
And I’m failing him.
I’m failing my baby.
I try not to cry. I really do. But my eyes are stinging so hard I can’t see, and my throat’s so tight I can’t breathe.
I press my lips to his forehead. He’s too cold. His skin is damp with sweat and tears.
“Please stop crying,” I whisper, like begging him will undo everything. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.”
I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know where to go.
Everyone I thought I could call—Cassi, gone. My old neighbor, asleep. Family? Not an option. I burned that bridge when I chose Han. I told myself I could fix him. I told myself Jiho would never see the worst of him.
I lied.
I bounce Jiho lightly in my arms, trying to calm him down even though I’m shaking just as badly.
He coughs once. Shudders again.
Something cracks inside me.
I pull out my phone. My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop it. I scroll. Scroll again. I open every app like something magic might be waiting there—someone, anyone—who could help.
But there’s no one.
And then… I don’t know why I think of it. I just do.
That stupid restaurant name. Le Morte.
The place he made me promise we’d build together.
My thumb hovers over the browser.
I shouldn’t.
I swore I’d never give him another chance to hurt me.
But Jiho’s still crying. His whole body trembling against mine.
And I have nothing left.
I type the name.
The website loads. I don’t read it. I just find the number.
I hit “Call.”
It rings.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
I almost hang up.
Then—
“Le Morte.”
His voice is deeper than I remember. Quieter. But still him. Still Jungkook.
I don’t say anything.
"Hello?"
A pause. A faint inhale. Then again, softer this time—
"...Hello?"
The sound of his voice breaks something open.
My throat caves in on itself. I try to speak, but all that comes out is a choke—sharp, ugly, aching.
I press the phone tighter to my ear, like that could steady my hands, like that could hold me up.
Another gasp escapes me. “I… I don’t…”
“Y/N?” His voice shifts. Urgent. Gentle. “Is that you?”
"Bab—" He stops himself. Breathes out slow. Then, careful and quiet:
“Y/N, I need you to breathe. Just breathe for me, okay? I can’t help if I can’t understand you. Please—just tell me where you are.”
I blink, but everything’s a blur—wet and trembling and spinning. Jiho’s still crying against me, his little sobs going straight through my chest like wire.
“I don’t know—” My voice breaks. “I didn’t know who else to call. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
“Hey. Hey, stop.”
His tone softens again, that low warmth I haven’t heard in two years, like balm against an open wound.
“I’m glad you called me. It’s okay, I promise it’s okay. Just tell me where you are. Anything you see around you. Anything, Y/N.”
I look around wildly, heart clawing at my ribs. “Pharmacy. Near… near the intersection by the overpass, across from—there’s a bus stop. Metal bench. I—he’s so cold, Jungkook. He won’t stop crying and I didn’t mean to bring him out I just—”
“Okay. Okay, I know where that is. That’s enough. I’m coming. Right now. Don’t hang up, alright?”
I nod, even though he can’t see me.
“Okay.”
“I want you to hold Jiho just like you are. Keep your cheek against his. I’m getting in my car now. I’ll talk to you the whole way.”
His voice is quieter now. Thicker.
“I’ll be there soon. Just hold on for me. Please.”
And for the first time in hours—maybe longer—I let myself cry. Really cry. The kind that comes from somewhere deep. Not panic. Not frustration.
Just grief.
Because despite everything—despite the hurt, the betrayal, the years apart—I still remember what it felt like to be safe in his voice.
-
The headlights cut through the dark like a promise.
I hear the tires before I see them—skidding slightly on wet pavement as the car pulls up to the curb. The engine dies, and the world goes quiet again except for Jiho’s whimpers, quieter now, fading into hiccups against my chest.
The door swings open.
Footsteps.
He’s still in his suit.
The one from Le Morte. Midnight black, sleek lapels catching what little light bleeds from the streetlamp above. His tie’s undone. Hair slightly windblown like he ran the second he got my call.
He doesn’t say anything.
Not at first.
Just stands there for a beat, eyes scanning me—Jiho pressed into my chest, my tear-streaked face, the way I’m shaking like my whole body’s trying to hold back a scream.
Then he moves.
His steps are fast but careful, like he’s afraid if he startles me, I’ll vanish.
He shrugs off the suit jacket and drops to his knees in front of us.
He drapes the coat around Jiho’s small frame, then pulls it over my shoulders too, like he’s trying to shield both of us at once. His hands linger there for a moment. Warm. Steady. Familiar.
My body caves forward.
I don’t mean to. I don’t even think. I just fold into him, and he catches us like he never stopped being mine.
I sob into his shoulder. Gasping, messy, completely undone.
Jiho clings tighter to me, still crying, but quieter now—like he knows something’s shifted.
Jungkook wraps his arms around both of us.
He doesn’t ask anything.
He just holds on.
Tight.
One hand cups the back of my head, the other bracing Jiho’s trembling spine.
I want to tell him he’s wrong. That nothing’s okay. That I’m still broken, still afraid, still so angry.
But all I do is cry harder.
And he lets me.
His own breath stutters against my cheek, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t ask for answers.
He just holds me like he never wants to let go again.
-
I don’t know how long we stay like that.
On the cold pavement.
Wrapped in the scent of him—cologne and city air and something achingly familiar.
Jiho’s hiccups start to slow. His small hand curls into the front of Jungkook’s shirt, and for a second, Jungkook stops breathing altogether. His fingers twitch slightly against Jiho’s back, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to react.
But Jiho doesn’t let go.
So Jungkook exhales. Slowly. And wraps both arms around us again.
“I didn’t know who else to call,” I whisper eventually. My voice is raw. Shaky. “I didn’t want to call you.”
“I know.”
He gives a small nod, like he’s scared saying anything will push me away. “But you remembered Le Morte.”
I pull back just enough to look at him. His face is shadowed, lit only by the flickering streetlamp, but I see it—every crack. Every line.
His jaw is clenched. His eyes are red. Not from the cold.
He’s hurting too.
“Why did you come?” I whisper. “You could’ve ignored it. You could’ve sent someone else. You could’ve—”
“I would’ve crawled through fire to get to you.”
I suck in a breath. My lip trembles.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit, barely getting the words out. “I don’t know where to go. I don’t even know how I got here. I just—he hit me, Jungkook. He—he hit me and Jiho saw.”
His whole body tenses. His jaw ticks so hard I flinch, and he notices—immediately softening.
“I’m not him,” he says low. “I swear to God, I’m not him. But if you need me to leave after this, I will. I’ll go. Just tell me where you want to be, and I’ll get you there safe. That’s all I care about right now.”
I look down at Jiho. His head is resting on my shoulder again. One hand fisting the fabric of Jungkook’s coat. His cheeks are pink from the cold, but his eyes are fluttering shut. He’s exhausted.
“Can we go somewhere warm?” I ask. “Just…for tonight.”
Jungkook doesn’t hesitate.
“Yeah, baby.”
I freeze.
He sees it—hears it—and his voice softens again.
“I mean—Y/N. Yeah. Let’s get you warm.”
He rises carefully, lifting Jiho from my arms without waking him. He holds him so securely, like he’s done it a hundred times, and my chest twists.
I stand too, legs weak. Jungkook watches me closely, like he’s waiting for me to collapse again. He keeps an arm around me as we walk toward the car waiting by the curb.
He opens the back door, gently places Jiho in the seat, then looks back at me.
“You sit with him. I’ll drive.”
And just like that, I nod.
Because for the first time in a long time—
I believe him.
We’re safe.
-
He places Jiho in the backseat, his hands steady but his jaw locked so tight it looks like it might shatter.
When he closes the door and turns to me, I expect him to say something—anything.
But he doesn’t.
Not at first.
He just stares.
At me.
His eyes flick over my face, pausing on the bruises beneath my makeup, the swelling just below my eye. My cracked lip. My trembling fingers still clutching the edge of his coat.
His whole body shakes as he exhales through his nose.
And then he’s in front of me—closer than I can brace for.
His hands reach out, hesitating for a breath before they find my cheeks, the pads of his thumbs ghosting over my skin like I might disappear. His brows are drawn so tight, his mouth pressed in fury, but his touch… God.
His touch is gentle.
Too gentle.
He wipes under my eyes with trembling fingers.
He swallows hard, like the words taste like poison. His thumb keeps brushing under my eye, trying to clean away the tears that won’t stop falling. His forehead leans close, almost touching mine, his breath shaky.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low, “what it did to me to hear your voice like that.”
I blink up at him. My knees feel hollow.
“You were crying. And Jiho was crying. And I wasn’t there—again."
“Tell me where he is,” he whispers. “Just tell me where.”
“Jungkook—”
“No,” he says, voice still soft, but steel beneath. “You don’t get to show up shaking and scared, with bruises on your face and tears in your eyes, and expect me not to burn the fucking world down.”
His voice falters at the end. His hands drop, then fist at his sides.
“I didn’t come to fall into you again,” I say quietly. “I came because I had no one left. That doesn’t mean I—”
“I know,” he cuts in, eyes closing for a second like he’s steadying himself. “But I’m not strong enough to pretend it doesn’t mean anything.”
Silence lingers.
The wind cuts past us, but he steps in again, cupping the back of my head, his palm warm against my scalp. His other arm wraps around me slowly—cautiously—like he’s waiting for me to pull away.
I don’t.
I can’t.
He holds me against his chest like I’m glass.
“I should’ve been there,” he whispers into my hair. “All along. Through everything.”
I cry harder.
Because despite everything I told myself—
Despite the time, the pain, the silence—
A part of me never stopped wishing he had been.
-
The morning light slips through the blinds in pale streaks, soft and almost kind, like it doesn’t know how much pain this room has held overnight. I haven’t moved much. I’ve been sitting on the edge of the bed for almost an hour, staring at the carpet, trying to pretend my stomach isn’t hollow, that my lungs aren’t tight, that the world hasn’t shifted underneath me again.
Jiho is asleep in the hotel crib across the room—warm, safe, breathing steady. Jungkook insisted we take the king bed, and he spent the night on the armchair, half-awake, shirt wrinkled, jaw locked. He left early this morning, and for a moment, I thought he wasn’t coming back.
But the door opens.
My shoulders jump before I can stop them.
“It’s just me,” he says, voice low, careful. I don’t turn around. I just listen to the soft thud of his shoes as he steps inside.
“I brought breakfast.”
I hear the tray set down on the small table. Hear the lids lifting, the faint hiss of steam rising into the quiet. I don’t move. I can’t.
“You didn’t have to,” I murmur.
“I wanted to.”
His voice is closer now. I feel him looking at me, the silence stretching. I finally glance up.
He looks… tired. The same white button-down from last night, sleeves pushed up. No jacket. Dark slacks, black watch. His hair is messy, like he’s run his hands through it a thousand times since the sun came up.
I can’t hold his gaze.
He sits down slowly, arms resting on his knees. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t push. But his voice cuts through everything anyway.
“Why him?”
I freeze.
“Why Han?” he says again, quieter now. “What made you pick him? Stay with him? Let him around Jiho?”
I feel the sting in my eyes before I even try to speak.
“I thought I didn’t owe you that.”
“You don’t.” His voice catches. “But I need to know. Because last night you looked like you were breaking. And then you called me.”
I don’t answer.
“I thought you hated me,” he whispers.
I close my eyes. “I did.”
His breath catches.
“But I didn’t have anyone else.”
That admission burns worse than anything.
He doesn’t speak right away. And when he does, it’s so quiet I almost miss it.
“I’m glad you called me.”
I blink hard.
“And don’t look at me like that,” he says gently, like he can read every line of guilt on my face. “I know you feel guilty. I know you think you shouldn’t have. But Jiho’s my son. And you’re his mother.”
He stands, steps closer.
“I wanted to do this. I want to be here. Don’t be guilty.”
His voice cracks. Just barely.
“I wanted to protect you.”
The room feels too small. My throat feels too tight. I can’t breathe with all this silence pressing on me.
When he reaches for me, I let him. His hand touches my cheek, his thumb brushing beneath my eye—and I realize I’m crying again.
His palm is warm. Steady.
“You don’t have to be alone anymore,” he says.
And I break.
I lean into him, and he catches me, arms wrapping around me like a shelter I never thought I’d need again. He holds me tight—tight like he doesn’t want to let go, tight like he’s afraid if he does, I’ll disappear again.
My hands clutch his shirt, and his lips brush my hair.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“No,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to mine. “You don’t have to say that. Not right now.”
And before I can think—before guilt or pride can pull me back—I lift my face and kiss him.
It’s slow. Raw. Desperate. Like everything we’ve buried is clawing its way back to the surface.
His hand cradles the back of my neck, his breath shuddering.
He kisses me like he’s been waiting years for this.
And for once… I let him.
authors note: im ngl im tryna stay active by using my old stories, sooo they're lowkey unedited but again pls comment i love hearing ur opinions!!!
You run the books in the backroom—dirty bets, dirty money, dirtier deals. On paper, everything looks clean. But anyone who matters knows better. They think you’re in it for the cash. Only Jungkook knows the truth: you’re not betting on the fight—you’re betting on him. You wear his old jacket like it means something, posted up ringside with that blank stare that makes men nervous. But when he wins, you slip through the back and let him have you however he wants. Because the real score? It ain’t the payout. It’s his name being attached to you.
WARNINGS: read more, for mature audiences.
WC: 18k
The night air claws at your skin as you pull up, low and smooth, the rumble of your motorcycle cutting through the silence like a blade. The alley behind the old taekwondo studio is narrow, grimy, barely lit. Fluorescent light bleeds from a busted fixture overhead, flickering like it’s afraid of what happens down here after dark.
You kill the engine and swing your leg over, boots crunching on broken glass and damp gravel. The building looms quiet and old, walls stained with decades of sweat and mildew, white paint peeling in strips like shedding skin. The studio’s sign is barely hanging on—“Kyung’s Martial Arts”—one side missing, the other burned out. No one comes here for taekwondo anymore. They come for blood. And maybe, if they’re desperate enough, for luck.
You check your watch. Twenty-five minutes to fight time. Good. Early enough that the crowd hasn’t started slinking in yet—bookies, junkies, runners, women in tight dresses with colder eyes than knives. That lull before the noise. Your favorite part.
You slip in through the back door. It groans open on rusted hinges, a sound that always makes your spine itch. The hallway smells like stale sweat and Tiger Balm, with water stains striping the ceiling. You step past the dusty dojang upstairs—mats cracked and curling, trophies in broken cases, the mirrors fogged and warped. No one’s trained up here in years. Not since the basement became more profitable.
The real ring is below.
The staircase is narrow and steep, concrete steps worn slick in the center. There’s no handrail—never was. If you fall, you fall. At the bottom, you flick on the heavy switch by the fuse box. Half the basement lights buzz to life in stuttering white. The air here is thick—hot, humid, tinged with blood and bleach. The room is wide and low-ceilinged, lined with crates, cinderblock benches, and rusty lockers. In the center sits the ring: hand-built, the ropes fraying, the canvas dark with stains no one bothers to scrub anymore.
This place doesn’t clean up. It absorbs.
Your lockbox is tucked behind the small fridge in the corner—metal, old, fireproof, and dented like it’s seen its fair share of pissed-off losers. You crouch and drag it out, spin the dial, and crack it open.
Inside, everything’s where it should be:
A thick wad of old betting slips
A black leather notepad
A black plastic pen, you only use black.
A roll of colored circle stickers—black and white only
You take them out and start prepping. First sheet: you draw two columns.
Black: Jeon Jungkook
White: Opponent. Never matter who—he won’t last the round.
You tuck the pen behind your ear, slap the first two stickers at the top corners of the notepad, and close the box with a clean metallic click. You never let anyone else handle it. People don’t trust easily down here, but they trust you. Because your odds are always clean. Your numbers never lie.
Because you belong to the house.
But you belong to Jeon, too.
He’s not here yet. You know he will be soon. He always comes down through the alley entrance fifteen minutes before the match—hood up, head low, gloves on. He won’t talk to anyone. Won’t look at anyone. But he’ll find you. Always does.
And when he does, you’ll be waiting, legs crossed, his old bomber jacket zipped halfway up, your betting sheets balanced on your knee. Calm. Unbothered. Like you’re not the reason his blood runs hot.
You hear movement upstairs. A door creaks open. Boots hit the stairwell in slow, deliberate steps. Could be the kid running drinks. Could be the next poor bastard walking toward his beating.
Or it could be him.
You don’t turn when the door opens. You listen.
Boots hit the concrete in slow, spaced strides. No rush. No nerves. Just presence. Heavy and deliberate—Jeon’s rhythm. You feel it before you see him, like a shift in the air pressure, like the basement itself tightens.
But you don’t look. Not yet.
You sit on one of the low benches near the ring, legs crossed, the lockbox at your side, notepad on your thigh. His jacket—the one you stole off him months ago and never gave back—hangs loose on your shoulders, half-zipped over the thin black tank top beneath. One strap of your bra shows. You didn’t fix it. On purpose.
You pull a red pen from behind your ear. Pop the cap with your teeth.
“Taking wagers,” you announce, voice flat and clear. “Get your bets in before you lose your teeth.”
That’s all it takes. The basement starts to fill. First the usual rats—three older men who think they’re slick because they once pulled muscle for a loan shark, now trying to relive their glory days through proxy fights. Then some younger boys, twitchy, wide-eyed, all bravado and no backup. You don’t waste words on them. You just point to the notebook, peel the black and white stickers, and scribble names.
Black – 150, Choi.
Black – 500, Taesik.
White – 50, Min (coward).
Black – 200, no name. Cash only.
White - 100, Seok. E payment.
They shove the money into the lockbox. You don’t flinch when fingers brush yours. You don’t smile. You don’t need to. You’re not part of their night. You’re the one keeping score.
The odds speak for themselves. Everyone bets black. Everyone wants Jeon to win. But it’s not because they think he’s unbeatable. It’s because they want to see what he’ll do to the guy who thought he had a shot. And because they want to see if you will move.
Every man in here watches you when he fights. Watches to see if you flinch when he gets hit. Watches to see if you bite your lip when he lands a blow. Watches to see what Jeon’s fighting for.
And they all know it’s not the money.
“Ten minutes,” you mutter, checking your watch.
You finally look up.
He’s there—hood down now, black hand wraps tightening around his fists. Sleeveless again tonight. Skin glistening faintly under the hot basement lights, veins rising down his forearms. He’s stretching his shoulders, quiet, calm. Focused.
He hasn’t looked at you once. But you feel him watching. Through the mirror, maybe. Through instinct. Through right.
You set the pen down. Snap the notebook closed. Then lean back slightly, just enough to let the jacket fall open and your legs uncross.
And that’s when he looks.
Just once.
And that’s when you know—
The fight hasn’t started yet,
but he’s already won.
The energy shifts fast.
One minute it’s just you and the stink of old concrete. The next, the basement starts pulling people in, like a storm drain sucking in debris before the flood. You stay rooted—still, focused—at your bench as bodies start to fill the space. Low murmurs, heavy bootsteps, the clack of folding chairs dragged across the floor. That electric buzz of barely-contained violence rises up around you like smoke.
Jeon’s warming up behind you, breathing even, knuckles brushing air.
You hear the sharp bark of the owner’s voice—Mr. Nam. Fat, sweaty, wrapped in cheap gold and a piss-yellow hanbok top that always smells faintly of garlic and cigar ash.
“Entrance fee’s gone up,” he shouts, waving a ragged roll of red tickets in one hand. “₩25,000 at the door. No money, no match.”
No one argues. They just hand it over. Bills folded tight in fists. A few toss their wallets out like they’re buying absolution.
Some bring their own chairs. A few squat on crates, others lean on the walls like they want to look uninterested—but they’re all watching the ring. The ring and Jeon.
And you.
You watch it all. Every face. Every handoff of cash. You log wagers with mechanical ease, your red pen flicking names down like strikes on a body. By now, the lockbox is swelling—packed thick with loose cash, a dozen black stickers, and barely three white.
Then Jeon’s shadow falls over your page.
You don’t look up. You don’t need to. You feel the heat of him at your side, standing just close enough to tell you he wants something.
You tap the pen twice on the corner of the notebook.
“Can’t distract me now. People still betting.”
He doesn’t speak.
Instead, two wrapped hands come down slowly on either side of the notebook—bracing on the bench. He leans down until his breath hits your neck, warm and low.
“You’re not gonna say anything to me before I fight?” he murmurs.
You smile without looking.
“I’m saying plenty. Just not out loud.”
His hand shifts—just one finger dragging down your exposed thigh, slow. Not enough to leave a mark. Just enough to claim space.
“Last guy I fought left on a stretcher. Didn’t even know his name.”
“And?”
“Tonight I want to make sure everyone knows why I hit harder.”
You finally look up at him. He’s not smiling. He never smiles before a fight. But his eyes are burning. Full of you.
You lean back slightly, lips brushing the curve of his jaw.
“Then win fast,” you whisper, “so I can get paid and watch you come back bloody.”
His jaw clenches. Not from anger—from hunger.
“You’ll be waiting?”
You tap the closed notebook.
“I’m always waiting. Just make sure you still look at me when it’s over.”
He steps back, sharp and clean, like a weapon being holstered. Doesn’t say another word.
Just stalks to the ring.
The basement’s boiling now.
Heat rising off too many bodies in too little space, the air thick with sweat, wet breath, and a sharp undertone of old metal—like blood dried on iron. The hum of voices builds into a low roar, every beat of it feeding off the next. Laughter snaps sharp from the corner where two boys are talking shit about Jeon’s opponent. Across the ring, someone slams down a chair too hard and gets shushed by the guy behind him. Nobody cares.
You keep your eyes low but your awareness high.
The place is filling out—probably fifty, maybe sixty people now. Almost all men. Young, old, ugly, desperate. Half of them wearing knock-off designer shit, the other half still dressed from work. Only a few women linger, mostly close to someone they came with. One readhead with bad lashes keeps sneaking glances at Jeon’s arms as he stretches.
You smell the crowd before you see all of it.
Cheap body spray, dried piss on jeans, too much cologne slapped over not enough shower. But more than that—adrenaline. The kind that sticks to the walls, thick and humming. You breathe it in and feel the fight about to crack the floor open beneath you.
Then someone near the east wall clicks a lighter.
Click. Flick. Light.
A cigarette flares.
Instant tension.
“Yo, no smoking down here, asshole,” someone growls from across the ring.
The smoker hesitates—just a second—but grumbles and puts it out under his boot. Rule’s not posted anywhere. Doesn’t need to be. Concrete room. Low ceiling. No vents. One fire and half the crowd chokes before the first punch lands.
No one enforces the rule, but everyone enforces the reason.
You wait for the room to quiet again. Then you stand.
Boots plant firm. Your voice cuts through the noise like a slap:
“WAGERS ARE CLOSED!” you bark. “Notebook’s down. Money’s locked. If you didn’t bet, cry later.”
A few people groan. One guy near the back tries to argue, but you already turned your back. Doesn’t matter. You gave them their chance. And now, it’s time.
You snap the notebook closed with one hand and shove it into the lockbox. Kick the latch shut with your heel. Then sit back down and stretch your legs out like a queen watching her court gather below.
Across from you, Jeon’s opponent climbs through the ropes. Taller than Jeon, but looser. Cocky in a way that says he’s never been scared right. Never been broken hard enough to know what a real loss tastes like.
You don’t watch him.
You watch Jeon.
His mouthguard slides in. The last thing he does before he changes from man to monster.
And as the crowd starts chanting—low and pulsing—
you press your knees together, lean forward slightly,
and whisper like a vow:
“Finish it fast, baby.”
DING.
The bell rang what feels like hours ago. Might’ve been five minutes. Might’ve been two. But time warps down here, under concrete and blood-thick air. Down here, nothing’s real but impact.
And Jeon?
Jeon is a reality in fists.
It’s the middle of the fight now, and the room’s fucking shaking. Not from music—there’s none. Not from the lights—they’re barely working. From them. From him. From every blow Jeon lands like it owes him something.
He’s not fighting to win. He’s fighting like he’s breaking something that talked back.
His opponent—some hotshot kickboxer from Busan—thought size and reach would matter. Thought height gave him leverage.But all that height’s doing now is giving Jeon more body to brutalize.
Crack.
A right hook sinks into ribs. The bigger man folds halfway, lets out a wet breath—but Jeon doesn’t wait.
He follows.
Thud.
A knee to the gut. Close-range. Lifted off the ground and driven in, like he’s trying to cave the man’s core. The crowd roars, nearly spills over the front benches.
Smack—smack—CRACK.
Jeon pins him to the ropes with three fast strikes, the last one a backhand that splits the guy’s lip wide open. Blood sprays. A woman near the ring lets out a sound between a gasp and a moan. The man staggers sideways, arms swinging wild, off balance.
The ref steps close. Jeon doesn’t see him.
He sees you.
Across the crowd, eyes locked on you like you’re the reason he’s doing this. Like you are what makes his fists land truer, faster, crueler. You’re not just watching—you’re igniting him. Every blow is a promise:
“Don’t look away.”
You don’t. Not even when blood hits the mat. Not when the crowd starts chanting Jeon! Jeon! Jeon! like he’s a god of violence reborn.
Because Jeon’s not just winning. He’s erasing the man in front of him.
Every motion, sharp and clean. No wasted movement. No hesitation. He’s not showboating. He’s working. And all of it for you.
You shift your legs, fingers brushing the edge of the bench. God, you feel it. In your chest. In your teeth. In the place just under your skin that answers to him.
Jeon circles his prey again.
The crowd pushes closer, yelling, sweating, shaking the basement with every chant. And you sit there, utterly still— watching him wreck a man with your name carved in his bones.
You don’t move.
Not when the man stumbles again, blood pouring from his nose like a cracked faucet. Not when Jeon steps forward, slow and stalking, sweat slicking down his chest, jaw clenched tight like he’s already heard the count. Not even when the crowd surges so close to the ring you feel breath on your neck.
You just sit there.
Elbows on knees. Pen between your lips.
Watching.
And biting it. Not by accident.
You nibble that pen like it’s a cigarette, slow and steady, your lips parting slightly—subconsciously, hungrily. Nobody notices. Or maybe they do, but no one’s gonna say shit. Not when every man in here is on the verge of moaning for blood themselves. They’re pretending this is just about money, just about violence. But you know better.
This isn’t betting.
It’s worship.
And Jeon’s the altar.
Then it happens.
The final blow.
Crack.
A short right hook that doesn’t even look like much—until the opponent drops. Limbs limp. Chin slack. Hits the mat like a body bag in the back of a van. The crowd explodes. You hear a beer bottle shatter against the concrete near the stairs.
“Down!”
“FUCK—he’s OUT!”
“Jeon wins it again! Fuckin’ hell!”
The ref jumps in late, waving his arms, but it’s pointless. Jeon’s already walking back to his corner, mouthguard halfway out, his chest heaving. He doesn’t raise his hands. Doesn’t celebrate.
He knows.
You’re watching.
He barely looks up, but you know he knows you’re still there—legs crossed, breathing a little uneven, the taste of cheap plastic from the pen still tingling your tongue. Everyone else is screaming, standing, trying to record the KO on their phones.
You just rise.
No drama. No reaction. You walk up the steps, past bodies crammed shoulder to shoulder, past heat and noise and spilled drinks. Back through the narrow concrete corridor behind the ring.
Back to the lockers.
It’s quieter here. The walls sweat like the people do, but it’s calm. Heavy. Sacred.
You drop to your knees in front of the money safe, flip it open. Inside—
Colored envelopes.
Every one labeled. Every one precise.
You count them like ritual.
Jeon — black stickers.
Opponent — white.
Black wins. White loses. You separate them into piles, recount them twice. No emotion now. This is business. Organized chaos. Pure control.
You hear his footsteps before you see him. Bare feet slapping concrete, wet from the rinse-off in the locker room. And you don’t turn.
You keep counting.
Because he knows you saw.
Because you let him feel you watching.
And now, he’s going to come take what that did to him.
The door swings open without a knock.
Just the sound of old hinges groaning, heavy steps echoing like they own the floor—and they do. You don’t turn. Don’t flinch. You keep counting bills into stacks of five, slow and methodical, like you can’t feel the heat of him behind you.
He waits. Lets the silence stretch.
You can hear the wet drip of water down his chest, the lazy way he towels his neck off, the heavy exhale from his nose like a wolf catching scent. You don’t give him the satisfaction of looking back.
Not yet.
Then—
“You were biting that pen like it was me.”
His voice is low. Rough from the fight, not quite out of breath anymore, but still carrying that charge. That edge that doesn’t wear off just because the bell rang. That tone that doesn’t ask—it states.
You finish the stack in your hand, thumb the edge flat. Still don’t look at him.
“Crowd was loud,” you say coolly. “Needed something to focus on.”
He clicks his tongue.
“Yeah?” Footsteps closer.. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
The towel hits the floor behind you, damp and discarded.
“Was it the blood?” he asks. “The way he dropped?”
“Or just me?”
You finally glance up. Just once. Over your shoulder.
And fuck.
He’s still glistening. Hair damp, jaw tight, a bruise already blooming under his ribs where the other guy landed a lucky knee. But it’s his eyes that catch you—hot, unreadable, dark with a knowing that cuts through whatever calm you’ve tried to fake.
He’s smiling now.
Not wide. Just the corner of his mouth. Enough to taunt. Enough to say he’s already won.
“You watched me beat the soul outta that guy like you were gonna cum,” he murmurs. “And now you’re sitting here countin’ cash like your thighs ain’t twitchin’.”
You go still.
Pen between your fingers. Envelope halfway sealed. No defense.
“So.” “Tell me.”
He crouches behind you, close enough that the steam off his skin touches your back. Close enough that his voice drops to something only you can hear.
“You gonna make me ask for it?”
You finally turn, envelope in hand, gaze level as your fingers brush his—just enough to pass the stack of black-stickered winnings. His cut. Thick with blood-money, still warm from palms that crushed bills in anticipation.
He takes it, but he doesn’t move back.
Just stands there, breathing hard. Still wound tight from the fight. Still carrying that violent charge across his chest, across the air between you.
You eye him—slow.
His abs twitch once, tight from overexertion. A fresh scratch drags across his shoulder, red but shallow. Sweat’s still clinging to his neck in rivulets, glinting under the bare fluorescent bulbs. There’s that dark, soft bruise spreading along his side, rib-deep and tender-looking, but he doesn’t wince. He doesn’t do pain like a normal man. He uses it.
Your gaze drags back up.
“After all that,” you murmur, head cocking, “you want sex?”
It’s not judgement. Just amusement. You can’t help the curve of your lips as you chuckle, low and rich. “You almost broke a guy’s jaw. You’re still dripping.” You gesture lazily at his torso, the rise and fall of his ribs. “And this is what’s next?”
He grins—sharp, feral.
“Yeah,” he breathes out. Then shrugs. “You ever heard of adrenaline? Testosterone?”
He leans one hand against the wall just above your head, dragging the other through his damp hair. “You ever beat the shit out of someone in front of a room full of men and the one person you want to fuck more than air?”
You smirk, but don’t answer.
“I watched you,” he says, voice dipping darker. “Pen in your mouth. Legs tight. Not blinking once.”
He’s closer now. Words right at your ear.
“Baby,” he whispers, all teeth and heat, “you say all that like it’s an issue for you.”
And fuck, you hate how your thighs clench when he says it like that—like this is inevitable. Like your breath doesn’t stutter the same way his did when he saw you watching him win.
Because you know what comes next.
He’s not asking.
He never asks.
You don’t back off.
You raise your hand—calm, unhurried—and trace your thumb across his bottom lip.
Slow.
Not teasing. Testing.
You feel the rough edge of where he bit it during the second round, the faint swelling from where it split open and bled. His eyes hood slightly. He doesn’t move. Just lets you do it, like the air between you isn’t crackling with something wild.
Your other hand drifts lower, over his chest. Bare. Hot. Still damp with sweat. The towel slides down his hips and drops, soundless against the floor.
“You want a fuck that bad?” you murmur. “Right here? Like you didn’t just go twelve minutes using someone’s face as a drum?”
His hand slams into the locker behind you—metal-on-metal, a dull ring of impact that shuts you up fast. Your back hits cold steel, hard. He steps into you fully, pinning you there with the weight of his body, muscles still twitching, veins still raised under flushed skin.
“Showering again,” he snarls, “isn’t an issue for me.”
His breath is hot against your neck, voice cracking with leftover rage from the fight, a low growl of dominance wound too tight to hide.
“And neither is those lousy suckers out that door—”
He spits, sharp, beside your head.
“—hearing how much fuckin’ energy I still got.”
Your heart kicks.
He’s seething with it.
Not just lust—need. That post-fight, post-victory madness. No technique, no patience. Just drive. Heat. Possession.
You can feel him twitching hard against your thigh, and there’s nothing romantic about the way he looks at you now. This isn’t sweet. It’s territorial.
He didn’t just win.
He hunted
And now he’s coming for the last piece he didn’t get to finish in the ring.
“So what’s it gonna be, baby?” he growls, pressing in harder. “You gonna give it up like you watched me fight for it, or you want me to take that too?”
You grin. Not sweet—sharp.
That kind of grin that says you want this, but you’re not giving it away for free.
Your nails drag across his chest, slow enough to make him twitch, digging just enough to sting where the sweat’s still wet and the skin’s raw from impact. You feel the tremble in his core. He holds steady, but his jaw ticks.
“You want it?” you whisper, tilting your head. “Then earn it. Don’t just press me like I’m gonna roll over because you bled on the floor for a crowd.”
His eyes go dark.
You slide your thigh up between his legs, drag it slow against him, and feel how hard he already is. That cocky little smirk twitches at your lip again.
“You’re already halfway there, Jeon. You that desperate for me to finish it for you?”
That’s when he growls—a real, deep snarl that comes straight from the pit of his stomach. He grabs your wrists, spins you, and presses you into the lockers again, harder this time, letting metal rattle.
“Desperate?” he rasps in your ear. “I just dropped a man like a sack of meat in front of a hundred screaming assholes and you—you think you got control right now?”
You don’t flinch.
You grind back.
Press your hips into him with a sharp tilt and a breathless laugh.
“I think,” you murmur, “you didn’t step in here to prove you’re strong. You stepped in here because I’m the only thing in this building that won’t just lay down and take it.”
He freezes.
Chest to your back. Hands locked over your wrists. Caught in that space between control and crack.
Then—
He laughs.
Dark. Dangerous. Like he’s finally getting fed.
“Mutual, then,” he breathes. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”
The moment shifts—snaps.
His grip moves fast—rough and sure—yanking the button of your shorts open with one hand, the sound of denim scraping down your thighs loud in the concrete echo of the locker room. Cold air hits the back of your legs, your skin prickling, adrenaline pumping high and sharp.
You barely have time to gasp before.
smack
smack
His palm lands hard on your ass, a sharp, claiming smack that stings deep. You jolt, hands splayed on the lockers in front of you, and he doesn’t give you a second to catch your breath.
He presses in.
No teasing. No adjusting.
Just the burn of his bare cock, thick and hot, grinding slow and heavy right against the soaked fabric of your panties. He lets out a breath through his nose like it’s the only thing keeping him from fucking you right there.
“Feel that?” he hisses, dragging his hips in deep, long rolls. “That’s what you do to me.”
You grit your teeth as your body arches involuntarily, friction sparking exactly where you need it.
“You think I fight to win?” he growls in your ear, grinding again, pressing the full weight of his cock along the heat of you, smearing himself over the fabric like it’s driving him mad.
“I fight so I can come in here and lose it with you.”
He thrusts again—slower, meaner. The friction of the fabric between you only heightens the raw edge, like he wants it to burn. He’s not rushing. He’s dragging this out.
Your knees nearly buckle, shorts tangled around them.
“Go ahead,” he mutters, voice low and drunk with it. “Grind back. Make it mutual, right?”
Your hips move before your brain can even catch up, rubbing back into him with a slow, grinding roll that makes him curse under his breath.
“Fuck. That’s it.”
His hands land on your hips, gripping hard, holding you there while you both grind together like the air in the room’s been cut in half—hot, dirty, gasping. The smell of sweat, metal, and sex starts to cling to your skin, to your tongue, and the sting from his slap still lingers, sweet and mean.
He drags his cock along you again, rougher.
“This mutual enough for you, baby?”
Then, darker—
“Or you want me to make it one-sided?”
Your breath hitches—but not from shame. From fuel.
You brace one hand against the locker, and the other reaches back—fingers digging into his thigh, hard enough to leave marks.
“They fantasized,” you snap, looking over your shoulder, eyes lit with heat. “You’re the one living it.”
And you roll your hips back hard against him, dragging slow, controlled circles over the thick length grinding between your bodies. The friction’s raw, soaked now, your panties clinging, catching every movement—and he feels it. His hips stutter, just for a second.
You don’t stop.
“Don’t act like you’re doing me a favor,” you growl, lips brushing the metal, eyes sharp. “You needed this more than I did the moment you stepped in that ring.”
He snarls behind you—a sound of restraint fraying at the edges. Then his mouth finds your neck, hot breath dragging down your spine as he grinds again, harder now, like he wants to prove something.
“You saying I’m weak for it?” he rasps. “Men in that crowd got off to your tits while they watched me fight, and all I could think about was this.”
He thrusts again, slower, deeper. You feel the full drag of him against your soaked heat—he’s smirking against your skin now, cock heavy, grinding deep, arrogant with how wet you are.
“They jerk off to the thought of you,” he hisses, lips brushing your ear. “I get to push you like this. Feel you melt. You gonna tell me that’s not mutual?”
You laugh—low, breathy, teasing—as you grind right back into him again.
“Baby,” you whisper, “keep talking. You’re making me wetter than the fight did.”
His breath catches.
Then his hands grip your hips like he might snap—and the tension winds even tighter, coiled like a fuse about to blow.
Your smirk doesn’t even have time to settle before he snaps.
One hand jerks your panties down—rough, impatient—baring your soaked heat to the thick, hot length already rutting against you. The fabric clings for a second, then drops, and the cold hits, just for a breath, before he does.
Skin to skin.
His cock drags up through your slick folds, thick and pulsing, the whole line of him slicked with your arousal as he grinds between your legs.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice cracking at the edges. Then, lower, darker—
“Love when a woman’s right.”
You moan through your teeth, legs trembling as he rolls his hips into you, slow and brutal, just grinding—not pushing in yet, but teasing like his life depends on dragging out your pleasure. His tip catches against your entrance, and you twitch.
“You feel that?” he growls, voice curling into your ear. “Soaked for me. All that attitude, all that pushback—and this pussy’s begging for me.”
He thrusts forward again—not inside, just dragging—coating himself in your heat while your body clenches from the tension of almost.
“Tell me,” he pants, hand wrapping tight around your waist. “You gonna keep that mouth going—”
His cock slides again, hot and slow, soaking wet.
“—or you ready to take what you’ve been grinding on like a fuckin’ problem?”
The threat’s real. So is the need
You throw your hips back, hard enough that the slap of skin against skin echoes off the locker room walls. His breath punches out of him—sharp, guttural—but you don’t let up.
You grind once, then again, dragging yourself over the full length of his cock, wet and ready, until he shudders.
Then you look over your shoulder, eyes burning, voice steady through the ragged edge of arousal.
“You’ve been talking like you earned it,” you whisper, low and taunting. “Prove it.”
That’s it.
That’s the last thread.
His fingers bite into your hips—hard enough to bruise—slamming you back into him as he thrusts forward, burying himself to the hilt in one rough, brutal stroke.
You cry out, forehead hitting the locker.
He groans into your neck, his whole body pressed to your back, breathing like a man possessed.
“You asked for it,” he growls, already dragging out and slamming in again, deep and unforgiving. “Don’t run now.”
The lockers rattle. Your hands grip metal. He fucks you like the fight didn’t even scratch the surface of what he had left to give.
“This,” he pants, thrusting hard, voice turning raw, “this is why I win. This is why they all lose.”
His cock drives deep, relentless, like he’s claiming the win all over again inside you—and your body takes it, craving every punishing thrust.
“Not for the cash,” he snarls, slamming into you again. “Not for the crowd.
For this.”
The door creaks.
Fast—sharp—out of place.
You both freeze.
He’s still buried inside you, chest heaving against your back, your fingers white-knuckled on the locker door. His breath fans hot across your neck, and yours is caught somewhere between a moan and a gasp.
Footsteps echo—slow. Heavy. One pair.
Then a voice.
“Yo, Jeon—you in here?”
It’s Tae. Low, casual, close. Too fucking close.
Jungkook’s jaw flexes against your shoulder. You feel the way his entire body goes still—not in guilt, not in fear, but in that coiled, possessive tension of a man interrupted at the wrong time.
You start to shift, breath caught, about to pull away—but his hand clamps over your mouth and the other pins your hip right where you are.
Still inside. Still throbbing.
“Don’t move,” he breathes in your ear. Not a warning. A promise.
He pulls out just a hair—enough to make your body clench, greedy and twitching—and you nearly whimper behind his hand.
“You stay just like that,” he growls low. “Let him walk. Let him hear.”
You hear tae’s footsteps pause, just outside the locker row. He knocks lightly on a metal door, maybe six feet down. A beat of silence. Then:
“Alright, whatever—suit yourself.”
And the steps fade.
Silence again.
Until Jeon slams into you from behind, rougher than before, like punishment and relief all in one savage thrust.
“Thought I was done?” he hisses against your skin. “You wanted the adrenaline, baby. Now you get the fallout.”
He fucks you like he wants to be heard now.
Your hands slam into the lockers again as he drives into you, each thrust harder than the last—like the interruption didn’t kill his momentum, it fed it.
You don’t cry out.
You can’t.
His hand is still clamped over your mouth, holding you quiet while he takes you—deep, rough, relentless. Your eyes squeeze shut, jaw locked around a moan that would give everything away if he weren’t already doing it for you.
“You like this,” he grits, breath hot against your ear. “You like the risk. Like being bent over in a room full of men and knowing I’m the only one who gets you like this.”
He slams into you again—wet, brutal, perfect—and the sound of your bodies meeting fills the air louder than the words. You throb around him, your arousal dripping down your thighs, the cold air of the locker room mixing with the burn of friction and heat.
“You’re fuckin’ soaked,” he growls. “So wet I can feel you pulling me in—like this pussy’s mine, like it knows.”
You whimper behind his hand—eyes rolling as his cock hits that spot, again and again, angling with cruel precision.
“You wanna cum?” he hisses. “Go ahead. Be messy. Let it show. You like rough? Take it.”
He thrusts—hard, brutal, final—and your body breaks.
Your orgasm rips through you, wild and full-body, legs trembling, vision white-hot as you clench around him—your moan muffled by his palm but your body giving everything away. You pulse around his cock, and he groans deep, almost broken, still moving, not stopping—
“That’s it,” he growls, fucking you through it. “So good when you’re wrecked.”
You’re still twitching when he finally pulls you back against his chest, one arm banded around your stomach, lips to your ear.
“Next time,” he breathes, voice thick, “I want you to scream.”
You slide off him slowly, the heat still humming deep in your core as your legs wobble just a little. He catches you, steadying your hips, then spins you around—his hands firm on your waist. His lips find yours in a rough, lingering kiss that leaves you breathless.
You catch him by surprise, jerking him down just enough so the tip of his cock brushes against your clit. His breath hitches; you feel the slickness already pooling, and without warning, he cums right there—warm and heavy—rubbing every drop over your sensitive skin. His tongue follows, licking your lips with a slow, possessive hunger.
He steps back, eyes dark and heavy with lust as he looks you up and down, chest rising and falling fast.
Panting, he growls, “Shower? Then burgers. Your treat.”
You smirk, still flushed, fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest.
“You won over a thousand,” you tease, voice low and satisfied. “It’s yours—the easy way. Spill it over me next time.”
He chuckles, a deep, satisfied sound that rumbles through his body.
“Yeah,” he agrees, “next time, I’m not holding back.”
He peels your jacket off your shoulders with deliberate, possessive hands, then your shirt, each piece sliding away like shedding armor. His fingers hook under the strap of your bra, easing it down and off, leaving your skin bare to the cool air—and to him.
His eyes darken as he takes in the sight, then he takes your hand firmly, guiding you toward the showers. You feel the wet warmth of his cum slowly dripping down your inner thighs, a slick reminder of what just happened, mixing with the growing heat between your legs.
The corridor is quiet, the damp smell of the locker room thick around you both. He presses close, the heat of his body a contrast to the cold tiles underfoot.
Without breaking eye contact, he pulls you into the shower stall, the spray of water starting to wash away the sweat and grime—but not the tension, the undeniable heat that still hums between you.
He steps behind you, hands roaming over your soaked skin, tracing the lines of your body as the water streams down. The world narrows to just the two of you—heat, wet, and something deeper, something that pulls you closer even now.
After a month of crushing wins, over 5k stacked up in the envelopes, tonight the atmosphere’s different. The crowd’s roaring, but it’s with a different kind of hunger—anticipation mixed with tension. You watch from the sidelines as Jeon gets torn apart in the ring by a ruthless rival, every hit pushing him closer to the edge. Blood seeps from a split brow, his breathing ragged, but his eyes still burn with fire.
The final bell rings, and the crowd’s roar fades into a low hum as Jeon stumbles out, bruised and broken.
Later, in the locker room, you’re bent over the pile of cash, methodically slipping the winnings into the white envelope this time. The door creaks open and Jeon appears, shaking, bleeding, desperation thick in his voice.
“I still need you,” he says, voice rough but raw with need. “Even like this.”
You don’t flinch. Instead, you push him back against the lockers, your eyes cold and sharp.
“Losers don’t touch,” you say flatly. “Get your shit together first.”
He limps closer, towel barely hanging on his hips, eyes locked on you with that stubborn fire. “Fucking loser?” he spits, voice low but fierce. “I’ve been winning non-stop. So what if I slip once? Doesn’t mean I’m done.”
His breath’s ragged, chest rising heavy, but he’s still standing—still fighting. The bruise-darkened skin gleams under the harsh locker room lights.
You meet his glare, unshaken. “A slip’s a slip,” you say, voice steady. “You want to come back? Demonstrate it. Then maybe I’ll let you touch.”
keeps protesting, voice rough, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of a response—just the cold shoulder.
Then, suddenly, he yanks you closer, his grip tightening as he glances around, voice low and urgent:
“At least bandage me. Don’t want another touching me right now.”
You sigh, finally pulling the first aid kit from your locker. He drags a folding chair over and drops down, eyes locked on you, a mix of pain and something darker flickering in his gaze.
“Take off the towel,” you say, voice steady.
He obeys without hesitation, exposing bruises and cuts, not bothering to hide how much he’s enjoying the focused attention—the way your hands linger as you clean him up, the subtle shiver that runs through him under your touch.
He leans back in the chair, legs spread wide, the towel slipping just enough to reveal his limp cock beneath. His skin is slick with sweat and bruises, the aftermath of the brutal fight.
You kneel in front of him, pulling out the disinfectant and carefully cleaning the worst cuts. His hand drifts up, sliding slowly over your thigh through the fabric of your jeans. You don’t react, staying focused, but you catch the way his eyes flicker—first to your hands, then up your arms, and finally resting on your face, sharp and calculating.
His gaze travels lower, tracing the line of your jaw, then dipping to your lips before flicking back to your eyes with a sly smirk. He lets out a low chuckle, voice thick with amusement and something darker.
“You playing nurse wasn’t on my to-see list,” he says, watching your every move, “but it’s definitely going there now.”
You reach for the bandages and bruise cream next, pressing the cool ointment into his swollen skin. His eyes roam freely now—down your arms, across your chest, then back to your face—as if memorizing every detail, every curve, every flicker of expression.
His fingers twitch again against your thigh, light but deliberate, a silent challenge wrapped in the tension between you.
He exhales through his nose, a slow drag of breath as he rubs his own thighs—broad palms gliding over sweat-slick skin, brushing across darkening bruises. His other hand ghosts over his chest, fingers tracing the rising swell of muscle where the fight left its mark. He winces just slightly, eyes narrowing, then drops his head back against the locker wall with a dull thud.
You turn back and catch him mid-motion, watching himself, feeling the ache. The towel’s now just a crumpled mess beneath him. His legs still splayed open, cock twitching faintly, half-hard again. There’s a flicker of defiance in his expression—like he’s daring you to say something, to flinch, to pretend this whole thing isn’t coiled so tight it could snap.
You don’t. You just watch him, eyes steady.
He lifts his head, jaw clenched, eyes locking with yours. “You like what you see, or you just checking the damage?” he mutters, voice hoarse, like it hurts to breathe but pride won’t let him show it.
And still—he doesn’t cover himself. Doesn’t look away. Not from you.
You don’t blink. Don’t break stride. Just twist the cap off the bruise cream, squeeze a cold line onto your fingers, and press it into his thigh. Firm. Methodical.
“You’re getting hard again,” you say flatly, eyes still focused on the muscle under your palm. “What, pain turns you on now?”
His breath catches—barely—but it’s there. You keep going, smoothing the cream up the inside of his thigh, then across his abdomen, feeling every twitch of tension and heat under his skin.
“I’m trying to help, and you’re over here getting off on it.”
You move to his chest next—bruised, scraped, flexing slightly under your touch. He watches you, jaw tight, but his smirk betrays him. His eyes drag down your neck, across the curve of your shoulder, the motion of your fingers on his skin like fuel.
“You think I don’t notice when your cock starts twitching the second I touch you?” you add, pushing harder into a bruise on his ribs—not enough to hurt, but enough to make a point. “Get a grip.”
His lips curl. He doesn’t answer. Just breathes—shallow, restrained—as if the only thing holding him back from dragging you into his lap is the pride he’s still got left.
You see it—the unmistakable twitch of his cock again, right after your words land. No shame. No attempt to hide it. He’s sitting there bruised, towel long forgotten, and still thickening under your eyes like your voice alone drags the blood down.
A slow grin creeps across your face.
“Yeah,” you murmur, rubbing a bit more cream into the bruised edge of his ribs, purposefully avoiding his gaze now, letting the tension simmer. “You like when I talk down to you, don’t you?”
His cock twitches again. Harder this time.
“Figures,” you add under your breath, moving to the other side of his chest, pretending like you’re still focused on the ointment. “All that muscle, all that noise in the ring… and it’s just this that gets you going?”
You glance up finally—his eyes are dark, pinned on you like a target he can’t chase yet. His chest rises slower now, but heavier, like every breath is held back by something straining to break loose.
“You get hard just from me telling you what a mess you are,” you murmur, letting your hand trail back down his stomach. Not quite touching him where he wants, but close. “That’s a problem.”
His legs tense. But he doesn’t move.
He just lets you keep talking.
And keeps getting harder.
“Keep talking,” he mutters, voice low, hoarse, almost smug, “and you’ll have another aching issue to deal with.”
Your fingers pause for a beat at the edge of a fresh abrasion near his side—a leather burn from where his opponent’s glove must’ve dragged across his skin. Rough, raw. His breathing hitches when you press in, but the glint in his eyes doesn’t fade. If anything, it sharpens.
“Cheap gloves,” you mutter, brushing your thumb gently over the torn skin. “You let a guy wearing sandpaper hit you for three rounds?”
His lips twitch, biting back a wince and a grin. “Didn’t say I let him.”
“You’re sitting here like this, bruised up and half hard—looks like you let him do a lot.”
You tug the bandage free and start wrapping his side, knuckles brushing occasionally against the growing bulge between his legs. Not by accident. But not with mercy either.
“You know what’s pathetic?” you say while you work, taping off the end of the wrap clean. “You’re leaking testosterone, bleeding adrenaline, and your brain still thinks getting teased is the real emergency.”
He exhales a sharp breath through his nose, watching your hands as you shift to check another abrasion along his upper thigh. You press into it—gently, clinically—but the hiss that escapes him is tangled in something else.
“You sure you’re not just into pain?” you ask, glancing up once, eyebrow raised. “Because you’re definitely into this.”
“Only when it’s coming from you,” he says without missing a beat, voice ragged now.
His thighs twitch again under your hands. His cock rests full and heavy between them, flushed and taut.
And still—he doesn’t ask you to stop.
He just waits for what you’ll say next.
You step back to grab more ointment from the bench behind you, cap twisting open with a soft snap. And that’s when it hits you—where the next abrasion is.
Right on the inside of his thigh. High.
You glance at him. He’s watching you—head tilted slightly, one arm draped over the back of the chair like he’s lounging. But his legs are still spread, cock resting thick and swollen between them, almost smug in the way it lies there. Waiting.
You exhale through your nose. Kneel.
Your face is level with it now. Closer than you’d meant to be, but you keep your eyes focused on the bruise just above his inner knee. Start there. Cool cream glides over his skin, and he twitches—not from pain. From how careful you are. From how close your breath is.
You work up slowly. The next abrasion is just shy of the crease between his thigh and groin. You lean in, steady fingers smearing the ointment over the darkening skin.
And still—he doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.
Just watches you.
You flick your eyes toward his cock—close enough to brush your cheek if you shifted wrong. And he knows it. There’s that flicker in his smirk. That slight breath through his teeth. That tell.
“You gonna tell me that’s from the fight too?” you murmur, tilting your chin up just slightly.
His voice is low, taut with restraint. “No. That one’s yours.”
You let the silence stretch, let your fingers glide slowly across his skin—cool cream against bruised heat. You’re deliberate with it, brushing too close to the base of his cock on purpose. Watching it twitch. Watching him grit his teeth.
“You’re pathetic,” you mutter, eyes on the bruise but voice laced with bite. “One loss and now you’re sitting here half-hard, begging for attention like it’ll fix something.”
His cock throbs in response—bold, involuntary. You don’t even flinch. Just tilt your head a little, the corner of your mouth twitching in a taunt.
“Maybe I do like pain,” he says, low and rough, like the truth tastes like blood on his tongue. “Maybe I like hearing you say shit like that.”
You don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Not really. Just a small smirk, eyes dragging down to where he’s practically pulsing. He notices. Of course he does.
Then—deadpan—he mutters, “Rub it three times and maybe a genie will come out.”
You snort, biting the inside of your cheek. “You should ask it for a win.”
That gets him.
He growls—actually growls—sitting up straighter in the chair, shoulder muscles flexing under bruised skin as if he’s ready to argue with his whole body.
“I slipped. That bastard’s elbows were illegal and you fucking saw it.”
You raise a brow, dabbing cream onto a darkened rib with a little more pressure than necessary. “You think I’m the ref now too?”
He clenches his jaw, eyes narrowing. His thigh shifts slightly, cock twitching again—like his whole body is keyed up, needing release and redemption all at once.
And you’re still right there. Eye level. Smirking. Calling his bluff without ever saying it.
You roll your eyes. “Illegal elbows, huh? That your excuse now? What happened to ‘nobody lands clean on me’?”
“I was off,” he snaps back, jaw tightening as he grips the edge of the chair. “Didn’t sleep. Taped wrong. Bad angle.”
You sit back on your heels just slightly, arms folding under your chest—subtle, but the movement doesn’t go unnoticed. His eyes flick down before snapping back to yours.
“Excuses sound real loud coming from the guy who strutted in with five wins and a God complex,” you toss back, calm, needling. “Didn’t see you ‘off’ when you were cashing in every night.”
He scoffs, leaning forward just a bit, towel long gone and confidence still clinging to him like sweat. “Five wins because I don’t fold when it gets bloody. Because I earned that run. You think any of those fuckers could last half a round in my shoes?”
“You think I care?” you shoot, eyes narrowing. “You want pity now? Or are you just desperate for someone to hold your bruised ego while your cock begs for attention?”
His lips curl into something sharp—half grin, half wounded pride. “No. I want you to admit that I’m still better than every man down there. Even when I bleed.”
You don’t flinch. “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
His nostrils flare. Pride flaring just as hard as his cock still is—full, aching, angry at the shame of tonight and more furious that you’re not giving him the comfort he expected.
“You think it’s easy standing in that ring alone?” he growls. “Earning that crowd, carrying that weight? You think any of them know what it costs to fucking win in front of you?”
You stare at him, unmoved. “Then win again.”
The line cuts deep, and you see it hit him in the chest. He swallows it down like it burns.
But he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t back down.
And neither do you.
You snap the lid on the ointment tin and toss it into the metal first aid box with a loud clang. The sound slices between the two of you like a warning shot.
He’s still sitting there, bruised and half-hard, jaw clenched like he wants to bite through the silence.
You don’t give him a single inch.
“Next time don’t come crawling to me unless you plan to win,” you say coldly, pressing the gauze rolls back into their place with sharp, quick hands. “I don’t patch up losers for fun.”
He stands. Not fast—he’s still aching—but it’s aggressive all the same. “Then don’t act like you know what it’s like in the ring,” he snaps. “You sit behind your little betting pad and act like you built this place, like you own something down here.”
You slam the first aid box shut and straighten, eyes level with his. “I don’t need to fight to run circles around you. You think brawling in a basement makes you untouchable? You’re just another desperate body trying to matter for five minutes at a time.”
His chest rises and falls hard, sweat drying on bruises, towel gone—he doesn’t even seem to notice. “I matter more than any of them,” he spits. “You think they come for the fights? They come to see me destroy people. They bet because of me.”
“You lost,” you fire back, shoving the kit into your locker. “They came to see you bleed tonight. And they liked it.”
His fists clench. “Fuck you.”
You laugh once, dry and sharp. “You’d love to, wouldn’t you? Even like this. Limp, bruised, angry. You’d still crawl if I let you.”
He steps forward fast—dangerous close—and your back straightens instinctively. His shadow hits you like heat.
“I’m not crawling,” he growls. “I’m standing. I’m still the one you watch every night. Don’t act like you don’t get off on it.”
You stare him down, lips twitching at the edge. “If I do, it’s not because you’re winning.”
That stings—visibly—but he leans in anyway, breathing hard, his bruises close enough to feel.
“This? You and me?” he whispers, biting it out. “This isn’t about the fight. It never was. You just like it rough.”
You narrow your eyes.
“So come out and admit it.”
You shove him hard, forcing him a step back, but that only makes his grin wider—eyes dark and hungry. Before you can react, he yanks you by your hoodie, dragging you roughly against the cold metal lockers.
His breath is hot on your face as he growls, “Adrenaline freak.”
Without missing a beat, you spit right at his cheek, voice sharp and defiant: “Says the attention slut.”
His eyes flash with fire, loving the challenge. The tension crackles like electricity between you, fierce and raw—neither backing down, both feeding off the fight and the heat it brings.
You push him back, he pushes you forward—an endless tug of war fueled by raw heat and fierce pride. Fingers grip clothes, pulling, yanking, tearing at fabric with desperate hunger.
His hands rip your hoodie off first, exposing bare skin to the cold air. Next, the bra follows, straps snapping free, then your jeans and panties are peeled down with relentless force. Sneakers kicked off to the side without ceremony.
Before you know it, you’re lying back on the cold, hard wooden bench, shirtless beneath him, the chill biting at your skin. He’s fully bare above you, his weight pressing down, eyes burning with that fierce, hungry fire only a fight—and desire—can ignite.
He towers over you, every inch the predator—breathing heavy, eyes dark and unrelenting. His voice drops low, rough with edge and satisfaction.
“Look at you,” he sneers, fingers tracing over your bare skin like it’s his possession. “So desperate to be beneath me. Pathetic.”
You catch the twitch of his cock every time he leers down, a silent admission that your humiliation only fuels him harder.
“You think you can handle this?” he mocks, voice thick with cruel amusement. “You’re just a little prize—something to be taken, used, and discarded.”
Each degrading word lands heavy, but so does the way he watches you, the twitch betraying what he really wants. The power, the control—it’s intoxicating, and he knows it.
You cross your arms over your bare chest, defiant even flat on your back, spine pressed to the cold wood. He stands over you, fully bare, jaw tight, bruised and bloodied but still breathing hard from the fight—and from this.
His eyes rake over you, slow and deliberate, like he’s deciding whether to punish or claim. You see the shift in his stance, the way his cock twitches despite his bruises, proof that your resistance only eggs him on.
“You’re gonna sit there with that attitude?” he mutters, low and rough, one hand dragging down his torso, over sore muscle. “After all that fight, now you fold your arms like you’re in control?”
He leans in, casting a shadow over you. “You got no idea how much I like dragging pride out of people like you.”
His words land heavy. His body, towering and bare, radiates heat. You feel the chill of the bench, the warmth of his breath, and that tight charge of something unspoken about to break loose between you both—like another round’s about to begin, only it won’t be in the ring.
He doesn’t touch you yet—not fully. He just hovers, shadow stretching over your body like a threat and a promise. His breath brushes your collarbone as he leans in, nose almost grazing your neck, lips barely apart. But his hands stay planted on either side of you on the bench, the tension in his arms and shoulders wound tight like a spring.
“You gonna keep acting like you don’t want it?” he growls against your skin, voice still gritty from the fight. “Cross those arms like you’re not dripping for it. Like you didn’t stare when I got knocked down. Like you didn’t wait for me.”
His thigh nudges between yours, spreading you wider without force, just pressure. Slow. Measured. A reminder.
Then his eyes flick down—once, twice. You see the twitch again. That visible reaction he can’t hide. As if your defiance is some kind of trigger. As if the part of you that won’t yield is the part that makes him hungrier.
“Yeah,” he mutters, a dry, broken laugh at his own expense. “Maybe I do like pain.”
His hand finally moves—two fingers dragging lazily from your jawline to the center of your chest, then lower, not grabbing, not groping—claiming. You feel the heat surge through you as his voice drops to a whisper:
“So go ahead. Keep crossing your arms. Keep pushing me. Just don’t act surprised when I make you regret it in the way you like best.”
You meet his gaze with a smirk, slow and insolent. “All that talk,” you murmur, your voice dripping challenge. “Still standing there trying to scare me? Thought fighters were supposed to act, not pose.”
That’s the spark.
He doesn’t warn you. Doesn’t let the moment stretch.
One hand clamps around your jaw, forcing your face up, eyes locked on his. “You think I won’t?” he growls, control cracking at the edges. “You think I don’t have more than enough in me to remind you exactly who you’re mouthing off to?”
His hips press forward—just enough contact to threaten, not enough to satisfy. You can feel how wound tight he is, bruised and burning from the loss, and now completely focused on you. The adrenaline hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s twisted into something more dangerous. More personal.
He leans down, lips brushing your ear now. “Don’t mistake patience for mercy,” he whispers. “You’ve had your fun.”
And then his hand trails down your throat, chest, stomach—pressing, mapping, like he’s laying claim inch by inch. “Now it’s my turn.”
You shift under his touch, deliberately slow, still smirking like you haven’t already given him exactly what he wants—your focus, your tension, your body arched toward his out of instinct, not surrender.
He sees it. Knows it. And it drives him mad.
His hand tightens where it rests low on your waist, grip firm enough to remind you just how easily he could flip the script if he wanted to. “You keep smirking like you’ve got the upper hand,” he mutters, voice low and strained, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. “You’re not on top here. Not even close.”
You open your mouth to fire back, but he’s already moving—pressing in close, forehead to yours, hips pinning you with slow, unbearable pressure. “You wanted the monster?” he whispers, jaw clenched, nose brushing yours. “Then stop acting like you don’t know what that costs.”
His hand slides up your thigh now, not soft, not rushed—just decisive. Hungry. The kind of touch that tells you exactly how much control he’s still holding back. The kind that says he hasn’t forgotten how you looked counting his losses with steady hands and no sympathy. How you told him losers don’t get to touch.
“You think I’m pathetic?” he rasps, eyes flicking to your lips, your chest, the marks already forming under his rough grip. “Fine. Then let me show you how pathetic men like me ruin women like you.”
And just like that, the space between you vanishes—no hesitation left.
He didn’t ask. Just leaned in, lips crashing against yours like a punch—messy, all teeth and desperation. His hand cupped the back of your head as if holding on kept him from unraveling completely. You gripped his sides, feeling the warmth of his skin under your palms, the tension in every bruised muscle.
He pulled you closer, chest to chest, his body heavy and raw. The heat between you wasn’t soft—it was urgent, animal. He ground against you, skin to skin, and you could feel the tremble in his thighs from the pain, from the leftover surge of the fight, from need.
His breath hitched against your mouth. “Don’t pull away,” he muttered, jaw clenched. “Not now.”
You didn’t. Your arms locked tighter around his waist, dragging him down with you as your back met the bench behind. The locker room lights flickered faintly overhead, dull and distant compared to the burn of him against you.
He breaks the kiss with a rough, breathless chuckle, eyes dark and raw. “I’ll win next time. You’ve got me wanting to come badly.”
You grin, sliding a hand down to grab him through the damp fabric. Without hesitation, you start jerking him off, slow and deliberate, the way you know hits the right nerve.
He leans back, biting his lip, a mix of frustration and need flickering in his gaze. “You’re relentless,” he growls, but you catch the spark—he’s loving every second of it.
Jungkook’s next fight was still five days away—five days of building tension and simmering heat. Today was the first.
You watched from the side, leaning against the cracked wall of the old taekwondo studio basement, the scent of sweat and leather thick in the air. He moved like a predator, punching the heavy bag with controlled ferocity, muscles flexing under the worn fabric of his tank top.
Every jab, every kick was precise, but you noticed the way his eyes flicked toward you—those dark, hungry glances that made your pulse spike. You leaned forward just enough to flash him a teasing smirk, letting your fingers trail slowly over your own skin like a silent promise.
He caught it immediately. The bag took a harder hit, swinging wildly as his breath quickened, but he kept going, the fight in him burning brighter every second you stayed.
You stepped closer, the air between you charged. His gloves slowed just a fraction as you let your fingers dance along your collarbone, deliberately slow, eyes locked on his.
“You’re working hard, but I wonder…” you drawled, voice low and teasing, “if all that energy’s really going where it should.”
His gaze darkened, muscles tensing as you circled the bag, matching his rhythm, your breath warming the space near his ear. “Maybe you’re not just fighting for the ring, huh?”
You let your hand trail lower, brushing your hip and letting your fingertips tease the waistband of your shorts, making sure he caught every inch of it. His gloves dropped an inch; his breathing hitched.
Jungkook snarled low, fists slamming into the bag with renewed force—but you saw the flicker, that crack in his focus, all because you knew exactly how to push his buttons.
He punches harder, each hit sharper, more focused—like he’s trying to knock the distraction right out of his mind. His eyes never leave you as you slowly toy with the thin strap of your tank top, pulling it just enough to catch his attention without fully revealing.
“Trying to fight,” he growls between clenched teeth, “not get turned on.”
You smirk, voice low and sharp, “With you? It’s literally the same thing.”
The words hit him like a jab straight to the gut, and you see it—his fists falter for a split second, then come crashing down on the bag harder than before, fueled by the raw edge of desire and frustration swirling in the air between you.
Second day, sweat already slick on his skin, Jungkook lay back on the mat, eyes locked on you as you counted out his crunches.
He grinned, breath rough, and said, “The best way to train? The breast way.”
You caught the teasing in his voice and shot back with a smirk, “Yeah? And what’s the ‘breast way,’ exactly?”
He chuckled darkly, eyes roaming deliberately before adding, “With a view like this, who needs anything else?”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t stop helping—knowing full well the game he was playing, and ready to push right back.
You laughed, shaking your head at his shameless joke, the sound light and teasing.
Jungkook smirked, not missing a beat. “Alright, enough crunches. Time to stretch.”
He eased into a slow stretch, muscles rippling under his skin, and you couldn’t help but tease him more. You knelt beside him, fingers tracing just a little too close to his hip, voice dripping with mock seriousness. “Careful, wouldn’t want you pulling a muscle where I like to grab.”
His eyes snapped to yours, dark and hungry, before he flexed deliberately, pressing just a bit closer. “Keep talking like that, and you’re the one who’s gonna be needing some serious stretching.”
You kept teasing, your fingers lingering a little longer, your voice dipping into a sultry whisper, “Feeling something yet? Don’t pretend you’re not.”
Jungkook’s eyes flashed with a mix of amusement and warning as he shot back, “Feel something? Yeah. But don’t start yapping—focus’s for fighting, not flirting.”
You didn’t listen.
Your hand moved again—slow, deliberate—pressing against the cut ridge of his side as he shifted into another stretch. You weren’t even pretending to be subtle now. “I am focused,” you said, your voice low and amused. “Focused on how tight you’re getting. Here. Here…” You traced lightly along his hip, brushing lower, just enough to feel that telltale tension under your fingertips.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw clenching as he looked at you. “Touch me like that again and I swear—”
“What?” you interrupted, tilting your head with a smirk. “You’ll fold me like your towel?”
Jungkook leaned in then, hand snapping out to grab your wrist—not rough, but firm enough to make your breath catch. His voice dropped to a gravel-lined growl. “Keep testing me, and you’ll find out how fast I can make you forget who started it.”
You looked him over, slow and hungry, then grinned. “That supposed to be a threat?”
“No,” he muttered, eyes dropping to your mouth. “It’s a promise.”
“You are tight though,” you murmur, hand dragging along his lower abdomen, heat in your eyes.
He doesn’t break form mid-stretch but shoots you a sharp side glance. “You are too,” he mutters, jaw flexing, breath short. Then he straightens up and points toward the weights like it’s some sacred reset. “Now focus. I’ve got three days until Friday.”
You snort. “Yeah, focus on that attitude. ‘Cause right now it’s tighter than anything else.”
He pauses. Smirks. Doesn’t look at you, but that cocky grin flashes, unmistakable.
“You keep running your mouth like that, and I’m gonna have to make sure you’re the one loosening up by Friday.”
You don’t blink. “That a promise or just you posturing again?”
He finally turns fully toward you, muscles coiled, eyes dark. “You’ll know the difference when I stop pulling my punches.”
Day 3.
The basement reeked of sweat, old mats, and dust that never quite got swept up. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, flickering like they were on edge too. Jungkook was working the dummy with brutal rhythm—controlled footwork, tight turns, fists slamming into the padded form with the same focus he’d use on a real opponent. No wasted movement. No hesitation.
You sat in the corner, legs spread over the arms of a folding chair, denim riding up your thighs. The room was damp, hot from his pacing and your stillness. Every strike echoed off concrete, like a countdown to something neither of you was naming.
His back flexed as he pivoted. The dummy jerked with each blow. You watched the way his tank stuck to him, drenched. The way his breath hitched and rolled out heavy. His body language said violence, but your brain didn’t separate it from sex anymore.
You tilted your head, the smallest smirk ghosting your lips. “You keep manhandling that dummy like it’s got a real grudge.”
He didn’t respond right away—just slammed a fist into the side of the dummy’s ribs, making it stagger on its base. Then he turned, sweat dripping from his jaw.
“Something on your mind?” he asked, tone low, eyes trailing from your thighs to your smirk.
You shifted slightly in the chair, playing casual but not hiding the flush under your skin. “Just admiring your form.”
He scoffed once, then stepped toward you slowly, wrapping the tape tighter around his bruised knuckles. “Yeah? Looks like you’re admiring more than that.”
“You’re not wrong.”
He stood in front of you now, chest heaving, glancing down at the way you sat like you owned the room. “You always look at me like that when I’m working?”
“Only when I like the view.”
His jaw tightened. One hand on the back of your chair, the other pressing on your thigh—not rough, not gentle. Just there. Holding.
“You want me distracted before the fight,” he muttered, voice close now. “I get it. You want me off-balance. But that’s a dangerous game.”
You met his stare without flinching. “Good. I like danger.”
Your thumbs hook into the waistband of your shorts, sliding them just low enough to make a point. Legs still spread on that folding chair, you don’t even look away from him—just let the air thicken between you and the sounds of fists meeting vinyl fill the old studio.
Jungkook doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t flinch. He just stills for a second, shoulders rising with one deep breath… and then snaps.
His punches land harder. Sharper. Like he’s not just training anymore, but exorcising something. The dummy rocks with every strike, and you swear you can feel it in the floorboards. Controlled violence, driven focus—he’s sinking deeper into that fight state and somehow pulling you with him.
That’s what you want. To sit there, turned on and untouched, knowing you’ve weaponized his desire. Watching him channel it into something brutal.
He doesn’t glance at you—not once—but his body speaks loud enough: tensed arms, squared jaw, the cut of his waist flexing as he drives his knee into the pad with a loud thud. It’s restraint and raw instinct tangled into one, and it’s all because of you.
You shift in the chair, lips parting slightly.
He finally speaks—low, gravelly, panting, still facing the dummy.
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”
Another strike.
“Keep watching. I’ll make it worse for you before Friday.”
And that’s exactly what you wanted.
You slide a hand to the waistband of your shorts again, slow and deliberate, and just enough to tug your underwear down a notch—barely revealing the curve of your hip and the soft skin below. Your eyes don’t leave him, watching as his punches falter for the barest second, a flash of something sharp flickering through his gaze.
His body tightens, muscles coiling with fresh energy. You know he’s trying to shove down the distraction, to focus—because the fight’s only getting closer, and he needs every ounce of control.
But you? You’re enjoying every second of this quiet war between desire and discipline.
A slow smirk curls on your lips as you lean back in the chair, daring him to lose himself just a little more.
“Just showing you what you do to me when you’re in the ring.”
Jungkook’s eyes flicker down your bare skin, dark with something fierce. His focus sharpens, but the edge of his smirk stays—like he knows exactly the effect he has on you. With every punch, he’s not just training his body; he’s channeling that fire between you into pure power. His strikes grow harder, faster, more precise—as if proving that desire fuels his fight, and fight only makes the need burn hotter.
You feel it deep in your core: the ache to be taken, controlled, pushed. And he’s giving it everything, not letting up, not losing focus—because for him, you’re the prize waiting at the end of every brutal round.
Your fingers slide slow, teasing just enough to pull focus. The heat between you thickens; your breath catches as your touch grows bolder, your wetness slick beneath your skin. You watch Jungkook—the tension in his jaw, the sharp inhale, the way his punches falter for a split second, then come harder, more desperate.
His eyes snap to you, dark and burning with raw hunger, like he’s been holding back everything and you just cracked the dam.
He loses it.
The controlled power breaks into reckless force, each punch hitting with more force and grit. His body pulses with need, not just for the fight, but for you—every muscle screaming to close the distance, to claim what’s his.
You smirk, knowing exactly what you’ve done. You pushed him to the edge, and now there’s no turning back.
Every time Jungkook lands a punch with fierce intensity, your hand follows suit—rubbing hard, slow, deliberate, matching his rhythm like a silent challenge. It’s a game between you, charged and electric.
He catches on, grinning darkly, pushing harder with each strike, his breaths coming faster, raw and ragged. The energy in the room thickens, the lines between training and something more blurred.
You arch off the chair, letting out a breathy moan, eyes locked on his. He doesn’t hold back, fists pounding the bag like he’s channeling all that pent-up heat—both physical and needful—into every blow.
The tension crackles. You both know this fight isn’t just about the ring anymore.
He keeps throwing punches, each hit harder and sharper, like he’s fighting through something deeper. You can see it in his eyes—focused, fierce, but also hungry.
Your hand doesn’t slow, rubbing yourself with growing urgency, matching his relentless rhythm. Your breath catches, then stutters as heat blooms inside you.
By the time he finally slows, chest heaving, sweat dripping, you’re crying out his name—your voice thick with need and release.
Jungkook’s eyes snap to you, wide and dark, caught between exhaustion and something raw and hungry. The room feels charged, like the fight just moved somewhere much more dangerous.
Those two days away feel like a silent pressure burning in his head—your absence gnaws at him, makes him restless. Every punch, every move in training, he feels your eyes on him even when you’re not there. The memory of you watching, teasing, pushing him—it’s a fuel he can’t shake.
On the last day before the fight, you show up like a shot of adrenaline straight to his heart. He can swear the fire in his eyes is sharper, his punches tighter, more controlled. He’s carrying your presence with him—fighting not just for himself, but to prove he can live up to what you saw in him.
There’s a hard edge to his focus now, a raw hunger that wasn’t there before. And yeah, you both know—he’s leveled up.
Night of the fight, you’re two hours early—plenty of time to get everything right. You unload cans of beer, stacking them neatly for sale at 3,000 won a bottle. Jeon’s right there beside you, hauling boxes, setting up folding chairs, arranging the space with that easy, efficient rhythm.
You both work in sync, the air thick with the anticipation of the crowd to come. When the last can is in place and the setup looks solid, you glance at the clock, then say you need to run back and change.
Jeon watches you go with that half-smirk, half-calculation in his eyes, like he’s already sizing up how tonight’s gonna play out. You head off, muscles tense and mind sharp—ready for whatever comes next.
You slam the lockbox shut with a solid click, setting it at your side like always. The air’s already loud with the buzz of early arrivals, metal folding chairs scraping, low murmurs and shifting weight of people prepping for blood. You don’t bother to look up as you pull on your biker jacket—ripped jeans hugging your thighs just right, boots planted wide, black top draped loose over your frame. Pen slides behind your ear. You’re in your zone.
Jeon walks up like he owns the place—which tonight, he kind of does. Sweat towel around his neck, gloves half-on, hair a mess from warm-up. He eyes you, slow and deliberate, then tips his chin.
“You gonna go to the locker rooms afterwards?”
You don’t even glance his way, just roll your eyes off to the side like he’s asking something new. “It’s part of habit,” you mutter, leaning back in the end chair near the drinks, foot tapping slow against concrete. Like always. Like clockwork.
He chuckles low and rough, then leans closer—his voice right in your ear, thick with promise. “Good. I hope not to keep you waiting, baby girl.”
That smirk he throws your way after? It’s not for show. It’s his tell. The one he always gives when he plans on ending the night with your back against something hard and your breath stolen from your lungs
“Counting on it,” you whisper back, just under your breath—enough for his ears only. Your voice is low, sharp like a promise and a challenge wrapped in silk.
He hears it. You know he does—his jaw flexes, that wolf-smirk curling at the edge of his mouth before he finally turns, walking off with the loose swagger of a man who knows exactly what he’s fighting for.
You barely have time to watch him go—customers are already filing in, waving cash, asking for cold beer, trying to get a read on the odds tonight. You slide back into work like muscle memory: pop the tops, count the change, hand over the cans. People shout out names, make side bets, ask you who’s gonna bleed first. You just shrug, unbothered, cash stuffing thick into your pouch.
You know your boy won’t lose tonight.
Not after the way you said that. Not after the way you looked at him like he was already yours to ruin.
The crowd’s thicker now, sweat and smoke hanging in the air like a second skin. Every movement in the ring pulls attention, but it’s Jeon they’re here for. The others? Just warm-up acts.
You lean back against your little setup—makeshift table stacked with beers and thick envelopes tucked beneath—and crack a cold one open for yourself, letting the chill bite your fingers. Your eyes never leave him.
The first bell of the night rings sharp.
He doesn’t flinch.
Jeon steps up to the edge of the ring, throwing his hoodie off with a flick of the wrist like it owes him something. Shoulders broad, taped hands flexing, body carved out of fight and grit. His name stirs low murmurs from the crowd—respect, fear, hunger.
None of it matters.
You know what he’s really tuned into. What’s really echoing in his head between every strike and block.
You.
How you whispered “counting on it.”
How you weren’t there for two whole days and he felt it like a bruise under his ribs.
How you pulled your panties off slow while he hit the bag, taunting him with wet fingers and parted thighs.
You see it in the way he rolls his neck before stepping into the ring, the way his jaw sets hard, like he’s not just here to win—
He’s here to remind everyone why they should’ve kept their eyes off what belongs to him.
And god, you love when he fights like that.
You’re chewing on the end of your pen—half out of habit, half to keep from smirking too much. Jeon’s already pacing in the ring, all coiled heat and deadly focus, and across from him stands a real contender. Not one of those cocky loudmouths that crumbles after two rounds. This guy’s sharp. Fast. He’s got scars like he’s earned his place.
You don’t blink.
The bell hits.
The fight starts ugly. Close. Raw. The crowd leans in—everyone knows this one’s worth watching. You keep your place by the edge of your setup, fingers gripping the edge of the table, pen between your teeth. Eyes only for him.
Jeon moves different tonight.
Not sloppy, not angry—hungry.
Every punch is clean. Every dodge precise. There’s a beat behind his rhythm, like he’s syncing his strikes to a memory, a need. That damn vision of you in that chair, thighs spread, whispering his name while he worked up a sweat.
His opponent throws a nasty combo—almost lands it—but Jeon slips the last hit, pivots, and lands a brutal body shot that makes the other guy stagger.
You feel it deep in your gut. That low, dangerous tilt to his jaw. The quiet flare in his nostrils. You know that look.
He’s not fighting for the win.
He’s fighting for you.
Like your gaze is a leash, and he’s showing off for the only person who gets to pull it.
You lean in, tongue flicking over your bottom lip, eyes locked on him. And just as he pins the guy in a clinch and hisses something too low to hear, he glances out—past the blood, past the noise, past the lights—and finds you.
One second. One connection.
Then he slams the guy to the ropes.
And you smile.
He sees it—that smile.
Barely a twitch at the corner of your mouth, but to him, it’s a flare. A gunshot in his chest. A live wire dragging across the bruises of his ribs. His opponent’s breath is ragged, trying to recover from the last blow, but Jeon doesn’t give a fuck. Doesn’t give him time.
That smile flips a switch.
He straightens, body slick with sweat, eyes locked not on the man in front of him—but on you. Just for a second. Then his head turns, jaw tight, and he steps forward.
No hesitation.
His left hand snaps up to parry the wild jab, and the moment he finds that opening—he unleashes.
Right hook, precise and heavy. The guy’s guard drops and Jeon doesn’t even pause—he follows up with a vicious uppercut straight to the solar plexus. You hear the thud from your table. The crowd winces. You don’t.
You just breathe deeper.
The opponent stumbles, tries to clinch again, but Jeon shoves him off, eyes cold now. His gloves hang low like he’s toying with the man, baiting him. Waiting.
The guy charges.
Big mistake.
Jeon sidesteps like it’s nothing. Cuts in. Elbow. Body shot. Head shot.
The man folds halfway—Jeon catches him by the neck, slams him back upright just to look at him. No words. Just one final blow, sharp and clean across the jaw.
The guy drops like a felled tree.
Ref counts. Crowd explodes.
But Jeon doesn’t move.
Doesn’t look at the ref. Doesn’t play to the crowd. He walks, slow and deliberate, to the edge of the ring. Sweat dripping. Gloves hanging loose. Eyes burning holes into yours.
He breathes hard through his nose and mouths, “Smile again.”
You do.
And he smirks—blood on his lip, chest heaving—like he just won the real fight.
The ring erupts.
Jeon hasn’t even raised his arms and the crowd is already on their feet, noise hitting the ceiling like thunder under metal. Boots stomp. Bottles clink. Voices clash—some shouting his name, others just screaming because they don’t know what else to do with that much adrenaline in their blood.
You sit still.
Barely.
Your fingers are locked tight around the edge of the table where you’ve been keeping cash, beer, and bets all night. The wood creaks under your grip. Your lips are parted slightly, breath stuck somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Eyes trained on only one man.
And he’s standing in the center of the chaos like he owns it. No, like he built it.
Jeon doesn’t bask. Doesn’t need to. He just lets the noise pour over him, sweat streaking down his chest, jaw locked with leftover rage. Someone tries to reach into the ring—he doesn’t even look. His gaze is still on you, unflinching, like you’re the only person in the room worth acknowledging.
The ref says something, raises his arm, and the crowd roars louder.
Bets are paid. Fists are bumped. Even the losing corner nods in bitter respect. But Jeon? He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t blink. He just steps down off the platform, muscles straining, blood dried at the corner of his mouth—and walks straight toward you.
And you?
You finally start breathing again. But slower now. Deeper.
Because you know what’s coming.
And so does he.
The locker room hums with distant noise—metal lockers clanging, muffled footsteps, faint cheers still leaking through the cement walls. You move through it like routine, slipping past the empty benches with the last box of unsold drinks and leftover slips tucked under your arm. The adrenaline’s starting to fade, leaving behind a heavy calm in its place.
You drop the box by your locker, toe off your shoes, and without thinking much more—just letting muscle memory take over—you head for the showers. The room is dim, half the lights buzzing faintly above. The cold tiles hit your feet first, then your calves, thighs, chest—until the cold water washes over you and bites at your skin like punishment and relief all in one.
It numbs you at first. Then the warmth creeps in, steam curling around your neck as you close your eyes and press your palms flat to the wall.
You barely register the sound of feet against tile. But you feel it—the shift in the air. The hand at your waist. Hot against the contrast of cold.
“Hmm,” comes low, smug in your ear. “How much I make tonight?”
His voice is thick with the aftermath of battle—raw, gravel-edged, but triumphant.
You don’t turn. Just smirk, water still dripping from your lashes as you answer:
“Over 5 grand to your name, Kook.”
His hand grips tighter. You feel the pride in him before you even hear the quiet chuckle behind your ear. It rumbles from his chest to your back as he pulls closer, forehead grazing the wet crown of your head.
“Should’ve made it ten the way I hit that fucker,” he mumbles.
You hum. “Maybe next time. You still owe me dinner, remember?”
“I just bought you five,” he mutters, nosing the side of your throat now.
“And yet,” you murmur, eyes opening as your fingers graze over his on your waist, “you’re still here with your hands on me in the public locker room like some horny rookie.”
He laughs, low and rough. “And you’re letting me.”
The water keeps pouring.
And you don’t deny it.
You finally turn in the shower, droplets trailing down your body as you face him. His hair is damp, messily pushed back, sweat still clinging to the edges of his temples despite the steam. But your eyes don’t land there—they land on the split in his bottom lip, red and a little swollen. Not fresh, but not handled either.
You reach up and brush your thumb gently over it.
He flinches—just barely—and lets out a soft hiss through his teeth.
“You get this cleaned up?” you ask, tilting your head, your fingers lingering at the edge of the wound.
“Nope,” he says, a smirk starting to curl behind the sting. “Told you. I was serious about making you my nurse. If we’re this intimate, might as well play the part.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes, stepping a little closer so your front brushes against his. “You do this with every girl you sleep with?”
He doesn’t flinch at the accusation. He just looks down at you—really looks—and then grins slow, crooked. “No.”
“No?”
“Just you.” His hand settles on your bare hip like it belongs there. “I get to earn a good fuck with you. That’s not casual. That’s something I take pride in.”
There’s no teasing in his tone this time. Just blunt truth and the way he always makes everything sound like a challenge and a promise in one breath.
You narrow your eyes slightly, testing. “So, what—you want a trophy? A pat on the back?”
He leans down, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.
“No,” he whispers. “I want to fuck my prize. Again. And again. Until she can’t stand straight. That’s my pat on the back.”
And then his lips ghost over that smirk of yours, as the water runs between you both.
You turn your back to him, water cascading down your spine as you lather soap over your arms and chest. The heat dulls the ache in your muscles and the echo of the crowd still buzzing in your bones. You hear the soft squirt of the bottle behind you—your soap—and then his voice, a little closer now.
“You know I like showers,” Jeon says, rubbing the clear gel between his palms like it’s his. “Why didn’t you call me?”
You shrug lazily, eyes half-lidded under the stream. “Figured you’d be busy getting patched up. Or soaking in attention.”
His hands are on your waist again, warm even under hot water. “Attention from who?” he scoffs, like the idea offends him. “I don’t come in here hard and bruised just to get fussed over by strangers.”
You hum, rinsing your arms off slow. “No? You seemed to like it when I did it.”
“That’s different,” he mutters, and you feel him press closer, his breath against your shoulder now. “I like when you touch me. I like your hands on me, your soap on my skin. You not calling me in here? Felt like a punishment.”
You tilt your head back, still not facing him. “Maybe it was.”
He laughs, low and rough, and you feel his fingers trace the side of your hip, then slip just under the curve of your ass. “That so?”
You nod once. “Mm.”
“Then I’ll take my punishment properly,” he mutters, lips brushing your wet shoulder now. “But you don’t get to act innocent when I soap you down next.”
You feel his presence before he touches you—warm breath trailing up your spine just as his fingers slide around your waist, slick with the same unscented soap you always use. He moves slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing the shape of your hips through his palms. The water falls between you both, hot and steady now, mist curling into the narrow space between your bodies.
“You know I like showers,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, voice low and edged with mock reproach. “Why didn’t you call me?”
You let out a breath, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “You were busy bleeding in the ring.”
He smirks against your skin, not denying it. His lips ghost down your neck, hot and patient. He lingers at your pulse point, letting you feel his breath, then the soft press of his mouth—wet from the water, but warmer than the spray. He doesn’t kiss. Not yet. Just lets the tension simmer.
“I won, didn’t I?” he says. “Five grand says I get to be here.”
His hands trail down now, past your waist, slicking over the curve of your thighs before retreating again, not quite giving you enough. He doesn’t grope. He doesn’t rush. He wants you aware of his restraint. He wants you squirming before he even starts.
You turn just slightly, catching his eye. “So this is part of the prize now?”
He tilts his head, eyes burning with something more than lust—focus, maybe. Hunger. “No,” he says. “This is what I fight for.”
You hold his gaze. Neither of you moves for a beat—steam curling around your legs, water trailing over collarbones and spines. His hand rises again, brushing your ribs now, palm flat over your side.
His palm lingers beneath your breast, not quite touching, just feeling the way your breath shifts under his hand. His thumb drags a lazy circle over your ribs as if he’s grounding himself there—like your skin is some kind of anchor after the adrenaline spike of the fight.
You shift, barely. Not away. Just to give him more surface to touch. The motion doesn’t go unnoticed—his eyes flick downward, watching how the water glides over the curve of your breast, how your nipples tighten in the air between you. He doesn’t reach. He watches. He memorizes.
“I don’t want to be touched like I’m fragile,” you murmur.
He huffs, that half-laugh he gives when you say something that doesn’t match what he’s already decided. “You’re not,” he says. “But I’m still gonna take my time.”
Then he kisses your neck again. This time, it’s not a ghost—his mouth opens slightly, lips wet and dragging across your skin before closing into a real kiss. One that lingers just long enough to taste. You feel his cock stir against your thigh, half-hard now, but he still doesn’t grind into you. Not yet.
“You watching me from the crowd,” he says against your neck, “wearing that smug little smile, biting that stupid pen…”
You smirk. “Lucky pen.”
He bites your shoulder, soft but pointed. “Lucky for who?”
You slide your hand behind you, brushing his thigh—slow, deliberate, the same way he touched you. “Who do you think?”
His hand grips your hip harder, the patience thinning. You hear it in his breath. Feel it in the subtle twitch of his cock against your backside.
“You tease me like that again,” he says low, voice all gravel and water, “I might not stop when I should.”
“Good,” you breathe.
“You gonna behave if I fuck you in the shower?”
You don’t answer. You lean your head back against his shoulder, offering your throat, eyes closed as the heat between you sharpens.
He groans softly, like you just confirmed something he’s been aching to prove.
He doesn’t rush—he tightens his grip instead, grounding himself in the curve of your hip as his other hand drags up your belly, gliding through the water and across soap-slick skin until it rests just below your breast. Not groping. Just feeling. Mapping you. Like this is something he earned tonight and he’s not about to waste it on clumsy hunger.
“You don’t even get it, do you,” he murmurs near your ear, voice steady but thick with whatever’s clawing at his ribs. “You being there… the way you looked at me like I already won… I fought like I had something to fuckin’ prove.”
His lips press to the side of your throat again. A little harder now. No teeth—just heat, pressure, presence.
You swallow thickly, feeling the pulse at your neck jump. “That guy was huge. Dirty, too. You still dropped him.”
“That’s ‘cause I kept thinking about this,” he says, running his hand lower again, over your thigh this time—slow, dragging, the pads of his fingers grazing your inner leg like he’s resisting the urge to move closer. “Your legs spread, those eyes on me… You know what that does to me?”
You hum faintly, still refusing to give him the satisfaction of saying it outright. But your body’s already answered—your thighs press tighter, and when his cock brushes against the curve of your ass, you don’t pull away. You tilt, lean, let him settle in closer.
He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you into him. His chest is hot against your back, wet and solid, and the low groan in his throat when your hips brush back against him is pure need.
“I should be icing my jaw,” he mutters, nudging your hair away to kiss behind your ear. “But I’d rather bruise my hips on you.”
The water streams down both of you, soft and steady, and you let your head fall back on his shoulder, exposing more skin, more breath.
He lingers like that for a long moment. Just holding you. Letting the steam cloud the space around you while his cock grows heavy between you, thickening slowly against the curve of your ass.
“You’re quiet,” he says, nosing at your cheek, your jaw. “Planning something?”
You turn your head just enough for your mouth to graze his. “Waiting to see if you’ve really earned what you want.”
That does it.
He grits his teeth and grabs your thigh, lifting and pushing gently against the tile wall, and suddenly he’s there—hot, hard, twitching against your soaked skin.
His breath catches.
And then steadies—on an exhale that’s more like a growl with the edge sanded off. His grip loosens just enough to smooth your leg higher, guiding your foot to rest on the low corner ledge of the shower. Not rushed. Like he’s savoring the setup. Letting the moment stretch so thin it starts to ache.
His hand drags back up the inside of your thigh, firm and warm and claiming. He doesn’t tease anymore—he just feels, thumb brushing the slick heat between your legs once, twice, like he needs the proof of what he did to you tonight.
“You’re soaked,” he murmurs against your neck, lips brushing the water there like it’s the only thing cooling him down. “Not from the shower.”
You barely manage a breath before he presses his cock slowly between your legs—not inside, just nestled there, the thick weight of it sliding against your wet heat as he moves his hips in the smallest, laziest grind.
He shudders.
Not just from the friction. From the feel of you. From the way you open for him instinctively, like your body already knows its place—like your heat missed him.
His voice drops, ragged and low. “Tell me you want me like this.”
You do. You hate how badly. But you make him wait another second, just to make him feel the hunger twist deeper.
Then softly, close to his mouth, “I want you to take your time.”
A curse grits out behind your ear. Then his hand closes gently over your hip, and he angles you just enough.
And finally, he starts to push in—slow, deep, the stretch thick and molten and impossibly intimate, like he’s carving himself into you inch by inch, owning the space inside you like he belongs there.
His breath stutters. “Fuck, baby…”
You brace against the tile, jaw slack, eyelids fluttering shut as he buries himself to the hilt. Full. Still. Like even he needs a second to breathe through the sensation.
“I’m not gonna last long if you keep feeling like this,” he mutters. His hand slides up your ribs, palm warm over your sternum. “Gonna make you come slow with me. You good?”
You push back.
Not with force—but with intent. A shift of your hips that lets him feel just how deep he is. How welcome. How right. Your head tips against his shoulder, arms reaching back to thread around his neck, dragging him lower, closer, until his chest molds to your back and his breath is caught against your cheek.
Your fingers clutch at him, anchoring. Not out of desperation, but because you choose him there. The way you arch, the way you stay open, the way your body holds him—it says everything.
He groans. Muted and rough and deep in his chest.
“Fuck—baby…”
And when you roll your hips again, deliberately slow, deliberately tight, he curses louder, hips jerking once before he steadies. One of his hands fists at your waist. The other spreads flat over your chest, palm heavy over your heartbeat. Holding you in place. Feeling every thrum of want through your body.
You turn your head just enough to find his eyes in the reflection of the shower glass—half-lidded, jaw clenched, soaked strands of hair dripping down his temples. And then you look at him, really look, while you whisper—
“This is how I say it.”
And you clench down—hot, slow, dragging him deeper into your heat. His eyes flare.
“Shit—don’t do that unless you’re ready to get fucked through this wall,” he growls against your ear.
But you’re already arching again. Open. Offering. Wordless and slick and his.
He thrusts once, sharp. Then steadies.
“You sure?” he rasps.
His grip tightens.
You feel it in your ribs first—how he hauls you closer, how his chest seals tighter to your back, slick skin to skin. The sound of water muffles under his growl, under the wet slap of his hips pulling back just enough to test your nerve.
You tilt your head with a smirk, breathing hard. “Why? Gonna fold that easy?”
He laughs, low and guttural—more teeth than humor. One hand drops from your chest to your thigh, hiking it up so wide the stretch cuts into your core. His other hand splays over your throat—not choking, but present. A reminder. His thumb presses the underside of your jaw until you tilt your head back and expose your neck.
“You don’t get it, do you?” he pants, lips ghosting the edge of your ear. “I like being pushed.”
His hips slam forward. Once. Deep. You lurch into the wall, a gasp leaving your throat.
“You pull the trigger, you better be ready for the bullet, baby.”
Another thrust. Harder. Measured. And still he speaks right through it, voice tight with restraint.
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing? Huh?” He’s relentless now, setting a rhythm that forces your palms to flatten against the wall to steady yourself. “You come in here, all open and wet and mouthing off like you can handle it—”
You gasp, cutting him off, but he laughs again and drags his teeth down your neck.
“—and now you’re shaking.”
“I’m not,” you pant, biting your lip hard.
He snaps his hips again, brutally deep. You cry out this time, head dropping forward.
“Yes, you fucking are.” His voice is vicious, full of pride. “You’re dripping down my thighs.”
He pulls you back onto him again, jaw tight as your body clamps around him, heat coiling low in your belly.
“You still wanna push, sweetheart?”
Your breath hitches.
“Then take it.”
Your fingers scrape the tile. You can’t find balance—not when he’s fucking you like he owns the moment, owns you, with that punishing rhythm that doesn’t slow, only digs deeper. His body is a furnace pressed against yours, every inch of him molded to your back, his grip on your throat tightening—not to choke, but to keep you still.
Like if you moved even a little, you’d break apart.
“You feel that?” he grunts, grinding so deep you swear he touches something electric inside you. “That’s not just cock—that’s consequence.”
You moan, desperate and breathless, and he chuckles.
“Not laughing now, huh?” His hips snap again, hard, your body jolting forward, breasts pressed to the cold tile as the heat from his chest brands your back. “You walked in here thinking you could tease and talk shit like I wouldn’t fuck it out of you.”
He bends lower, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You know what that makes you?”
Your teeth sink into your lip. You try to breathe, try to speak, but the next thrust shatters the thought.
“A brat with a wet pussy,” he snarls, dragging his hips back so slow the stretch feels endless. “And I love brats.”
You whimper. His hand on your thigh slips up, palm broad and hot as it presses to your belly, holding you where he wants—hips pinned, arch tight.
“I’m gonna make this fucking hurt so you remember what happens when you rile me up.”
His thrusts start again—slower, deeper, meaner. He’s not chasing his release. He’s disciplining you with pleasure, making your body take every inch like it’s a lesson you asked for.
“Say it,” he growls. “Tell me you knew what you were doing.”
You manage a sound—half breath, half defiance.
His teeth scrape your neck.
“Say it.”
“…I knew,” you gasp, broken and desperate. “I knew what I was doing—”
“That’s right,” he growls, gripping your hips tighter. “And now you’re gonna learn what I do when you ask for it like this.”
He fucks you harder. No mercy. No slowing. And all you can do is take it.
He takes you apart slow and savage, breath hot against your spine, body caging yours as the shower drowns the sounds you make. It’s a blur—of slick skin, dragging hands, the ache of how deep he goes, how long he holds you open just to feel you throb around him. A blur of him growling your name, of your nails scraping tile, of shuddering through your high before he lets go too—spilling into you with a stuttering curse, like you wrecked him just as much.
By the time the steam fades, so has the frenzy. He rests his forehead to your shoulder, breath still catching, arms caging you in—not to trap, just to stay close. You both stay like that, unmoving, letting the heat between you settle into something quiet. Something done.
You snort, tugging the hoodie over damp skin, feeling it cling for a moment before settling soft and familiar. His cum still drips down your thigh, but he doesn’t rush to clean it—just watches it, almost proud, then zips his leather jacket over a shirt he probably shoved on without drying off. His chain glints under the collar.
“If I’m gonna take you to dinner,” he murmurs again, pressing a lazy kiss into your spine, “it’s gonna be fancy. Steak. Wine. One of those places that looks you up and down before they seat you.”
You chuckle, running a towel through your hair as he bends to buckle his boots.
“We taking my bike or yours?” you ask, turning toward the lockers.
“Winner’s first,” he grins, licking his bottom lip where it’s still slightly split. “We ride yours. We can swing by mine on the way back—gotta pay my cut to the boss anyway.” He jerks his head toward the exit, a low grunt punctuating the sentence.
You toss him the keys, watching how easily they spin on his fingers. His eyes flick to you, that cocky smirk creeping in like he hasn’t just fucked you into the tile ten minutes ago. But there’s something else under it now too—satisfaction, steadiness. Maybe even the kind of pride that doesn’t need words.
“Let’s go, nurse,” he throws over his shoulder, already heading toward the exit. “You’re riding behind me tonight.”
Your husband forgets your second anniversary. What starts as disappointment and heartbreak soon spirals into doubt- about your love, your marriage & whether he even sees you anymore. But when Jungkook realizes his mistake, he’s willing to do anything to prove that his love has never wavered..
Can he make it up to you, or is it already too late?
Pairing - CeoHusband!Jungkook x Wife!Reader
Genre - 18+, established relationship au, angst, fluff, smut, some more angst MDNI
ONESHOT - 11k words
Warnings - angsty ride, hurt/comfort, workaholic Jungkook, miscommunication, crying, deep emotional intimacy, slow build, Jungkook is an idiot but trust me he's sweet alright😭, Explicit smut- unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), soft dom Jk, nipple play, lots of kissing, love-making, creampie, pet names <3, praises, happy ending (sad ending's not in my veins🫸)
a/n- snsjkqkw It's my first fic (well more like I've taken the courage to actually post it)🥹 do let me know your thoughts on it <3 n consider a reblog if you like it, thank you for reading! 🫶
The soft glow of the overhead light casts long shadows across the dining room, but its warmth does nothing to chase away the cold emptiness creeping into your chest.
You sit in one of the dining chairs, fingers idly tracing the gold band on your ring finger, the once-familiar weight of it feeling heavier than ever. The house is silent, except for the distant hum of the city beyond the windows.
Jungkook is late. Again.
You’ve lost count of how many nights have passed like this, curled up alone in bed, the space beside you growing colder with each passing hour.
He always has a reason. A meeting that ran overtime, a last-minute project, something urgent that demands his attention more than you do. And you’ve always understood. Until now.
Your second anniversary is just around the corner, and for the first time in weeks, you have something to look forward to. Something that, surely, he wouldn’t forget.
You let out a slow breath, staring at the untouched dinner on the table. It’s the third time this week you’ve set two plates, only to eat alone. The food has long gone cold, but you still can’t bring yourself to clear it away. Some foolish, desperate part of you still hopes Jungkook will walk through the door, pulling you into his arms, murmuring apologies against your skin.
But the door stays closed. Your phone stays silent.
You check the time—almost midnight.
He used to call. Even when he was busy, he always found a way to let you know he was thinking about you. A quick text. A voice note. Something. Now, hours pass without a word, and you’re left wondering when exactly you started feeling like a ghost in your own marriage.
You clench your fists, blinking back the sting in your eyes. This isn’t you. You don’t doubt him. You don’t overthink things. But these days, love feels a lot like waiting, and waiting feels a lot like breaking.
And you’re so damn tired of breaking.
You close your eyes, trying to remember the Jungkook from before, before work took over, before the distance set in. The man who, despite his quiet nature, always found a way to make you feel cherished. He wasn’t one for grand speeches, but his words had always carried weight. Small, simple confessions once meant everything. Now, silence is all you get.
It wasn’t always easy with Jungkook. Back in college, he was cold, reserved, a storm you could never quite predict. But little by little, he let you in. His love had been careful, deliberate, whispered promises in the dark, stolen glances across crowded rooms, fingertips brushing against yours like a secret only the two of you understood.
And now, it feels like you’re losing him.
The thought sends a sharp ache through your chest. You tell yourself it’s just work, that the weight of being CEO is heavier than either of you expected. That he still loves you, even if he doesn’t say it as often.
But love isn’t supposed to feel like this.
The clock hits midnight.
You don’t know what you were expecting. A text? A call? Maybe the sound of the front door unlocking, Jungkook stepping in, exhausted but still managing to hold you close?
But there’s nothing.
Your throat tightens as you stare at the small cake sitting on the dining table, the frosting slightly uneven, the decorations a little clumsy. You were never a good cook. Jungkook knew that better than anyone. But in the early days of your marriage, you had tried. Because back then, cooking together had been something special. Flour-dusted fingertips, shared laughter over burnt pancakes, stolen kisses between stirring batter.
So tonight, with him too busy and too stressed, you thought a quiet, cozy celebration would be enough. Something small, something just for the two of you.
But now, looking at the untouched dinner, the unlit candle, and the cake that no longer seems worth eating, you realize how foolish that hope was.
You glance at your phone—no messages, no missed calls.
You put away the plates. You put the cake in the fridge, even though you know it’ll probably stay there, forgotten.
And then you crawl into bed alone, wrapping your arms around yourself because if Jungkook won’t hold you, who else will?
----
You stir, feeling the warmth of an arm lazily draped around your stomach. The weight is familiar, and for a moment it feels like everything is okay.
Jungkook is still asleep. Shirtless, his toned chest rises and falls in steady breaths, his face soft in the morning light. His dark lashes cast faint shadows on his skin, and his lips parted just slightly, making him look so much younger, so much more at peace.
You take your time looking at him, memorizing the exhaustion on his face, the faint crease between his brows even in sleep. He must’ve come home late—so late that you hadn’t even heard him.
Still, he’s here. Beside you. And that alone is enough to make something flicker in your chest.
Maybe he’s planned to stay home today.
Of course he remembers.
You can’t help but lean in, pressing a soft, loving kiss against his cheek. His skin is warm beneath your lips, and for a fleeting moment, everything feels like it used to.
Jungkook mumbles something incoherent, his brows knitting slightly before relaxing again. A small, sleepy noise escapes him, and the sound makes you giggle softly.
He stirs, his grip on your waist tightening just a little before his lashes flutter open. His dark eyes, still hazy with sleep, land on you, and for a second, there’s nothing but quiet warmth in them.
"You're up early," he murmurs, his voice thick with drowsiness. His thumb absentmindedly brushes over your waist, a touch so familiar yet so foreign all at once.
You smile, brushing a few strands of hair from his forehead. "Couldn't sleep much," you admit softly.
Jungkook hums in response, his eyes falling shut again for a moment. He nuzzles into the pillow, his grip on you still firm like he has no intention of letting you go. And for a brief, fragile second, the weight of last night, of the distance, of everything, seems to disappear.
Maybe he really did plan to stay home today. Maybe this morning means something.
Your heart clenches with the smallest trace of hope.
Jungkook lets out a long breath and shifts onto his back, stretching his arms above his head before blindly reaching for his phone on the nightstand. His warmth leaves your side, the air turning cold almost instantly.
You watch as his expression shifts, sleep slipping away as his screen lights up. His brows furrow, jaw tightening ever so slightly.
Then, with barely a glance in your direction, he mutters, "Shit, I need to get to the office."
The hope you held onto so desperately?
Gone.
You blink, your mind scrambling to catch up.
Maybe he's kidding. Maybe this is just one of his teasing games, the kind where he acts all nonchalant just to catch you off guard later. That’s how it used to be. Him pretending to forget something important, only to turn around and surprise you in a way that left you breathless.
So you wait.
You wait for the smirk to tug at his lips, for him to toss his phone aside and pull you into his arms. You wait for him to kiss you insane, to murmur a husky "Happy anniversary, baby," against your skin.
You wait for him to prove you wrong.
But he doesn't.
Jungkook swings his legs over the bed, rubbing a hand down his face before standing up. He moves through the motions—grabbing a fresh shirt from the dresser, checking his notifications again, already half-immersed in whatever work emergency is pulling him away.
The realization settles in. suffocating. He’s not playing. He’s not pretending. He really forgot.
And with that, the last flicker of hope inside you dies.
----
The sound of the bathroom door clicking shut barely registers in your mind. The faint rush of water follows soon after, but you’re still frozen in place, staring at the empty space where Jungkook was just moments ago.
Your fingers grip the sheets as you try to process it, try to make sense of the ache settling deep in your chest.
He forgot.
The thought circles endlessly, refusing to fade. It should be simple, just a mistake, something easily fixed with an apology. But it doesn’t feel simple. It feels like another crack in something that’s already been fragile for weeks.
Your gaze drifts to your phone, the screen lighting up with messages from friends and family. Warm wishes, sweet texts. All reminders of the day that Jungkook should have been the first to acknowledge. And of course, they must have messaged him too.
But you know the answer before you even have to question it. Jungkook has two phones—one for work, one for personal use. And these days, his personal phone sits untouched, collecting dust somewhere in the house while his work phone never leaves his side.
Your throat tightens.
Even if someone did remind him, would he have even seen it? Would it have even mattered?
You swallow hard, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes.
Maybe you should say something. Maybe you should remind him.
But a part of you, one that you don’t want to acknowledge—wonders if it even matters anymore.
You push yourself up from the bed, the weight in your chest making it harder than it should be. You don’t want to sit here, waiting for him to remember, waiting for an apology that might never come.
So you move. Just as you step toward the bathroom, the shower turns off. The door opens a moment later, as Jungkook steps out, towel slung low around his waist, droplets of water trailing down his toned chest.
For a brief second, your eyes meet. He looks at you, blinking away the last remnants of sleep, his expression unreadable. There’s no sign of realization, no flicker of guilt or hesitation. Just the same tired, distracted gaze you’ve been seeing for weeks.
You say nothing. Instead, you walk past him, entering the washroom to go about your usual routine. brushing your teeth, washing your face, anything to avoid the tightness in your throat.
The sound of the sink running is the only thing filling the silence between you.
By the time you step out of the washroom, Jungkook is already dressed for work. His tie is slightly loosened, one hand adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves while the other holds his ever-present work phone. He looks like he’s in a hurry, but that isn’t surprising. He’s been having breakfast at the office for weeks now—always rushing out, always too busy.
Still, you can’t grasp that he’s actually forgotten.
Some part of you still expects him to pause, to turn around and say something. But he doesn’t. He’s focused on his screen, scanning through emails like today is just another ordinary morning.
Your chest tightens. You need to look away before the emotions creeping up inside you spill over. So, you pretend.
You settle at the table, opening your laptop like it’s just another workday. Since you’ve been working from home for the past couple of months, this isn’t unusual—but today, it’s not about work. It’s about avoiding him. About keeping your head down so he doesn’t see the way your hands tremble slightly.
If you act normal, maybe it’ll hurt less. Maybe you won’t break in front of him.
And maybe, just maybe, if you pretend hard enough, you can fool yourself into believing it doesn’t hurt at all.
“Baby, can you help me with the tie?”
His voice is smooth- like every other morning before this one. Like today isn’t supposed to mean more.
You hesitate for half a second before standing up, walking towards him. Your fingers move automatically, looping the fabric, tightening the knot, straightening it against his crisp shirt. You should pull away the moment you’re done, return to your seat, to your laptop, to pretending like everything is fine.
But just as you step back, Jungkook’s hand catches your wrist.
Before you can react, he tugs you closer, his warmth enveloping you as his large hand cups the side of your face, fingers splayed against your skin like he’s memorizing the feel of you. His touch is tender, his thumb tracing slow circles against your cheek, his dark eyes holding yours for a beat too long. like he’s seeing you, really seeing you, for the first time in days.
Then, he kisses you.
Warm & lingering. Like he actually means it. Like he actually feels it.
“Need it for good luck,” he mumbles lovingly against your lips, his voice deep, hushed.
You blink up at him.
Jungkook pulls back slightly, offering a small smile. “Big deal with the Kims today.”
And just like that, reality crashes back in.
Your mind struggles to process, to understand how he can be like this. How can he kiss you like this and still not remember.
His mind is somewhere else. His thoughts, his focus—none of it is here. None of it is with you.
You force a smile, nodding wordlessly. Because what else is there to say?
----
Jungkook moves around the house, gathering his things- his wallet, his keys. You stay where you are, settled on the couch with your laptop open, pretending to be busy, pretending that your heart isn’t sitting heavy in your chest.
Just as he’s about to leave, he steps toward you, bending down to press a quick kiss to your forehead.
“Love you,” he murmurs.
Before you can even respond, he’s already halfway through the living room, his focus elsewhere, his steps hurried.
A bitter chuckle escapes your lips before you can stop it.
You remember a time when things were different. When he used to whine, pout, and nudge you relentlessly if you didn’t say it back right away, just to tease him.
Flashback
The movie playing in the background had long been forgotten, the dialogue drowned out by the soft moans slipping from your lips. The purple neon glow cast dreamy hues across the living room, painting Jungkook’s skin in shades of violet as he moved above you.
His fingers laced tightly with yours, grip tightening slightly as his thrusts grew more desperate.
“J-Jungkook…” you moaned softly, nails digging into his hand.
He groaned against your neck, his breath hot, voice wrecked. “Fuck, baby…”
Your body arched beneath him, pleasure building to something uncontrollable. “I—I’m gonna—”
“Come for me, baby,” he urged, voice deep and rough, sending you tumbling over the edge.
You both unraveled together, gasping, shaking, holding onto each other like the world outside didn’t exist.
Jungkook pressed lazy, loving kisses all over your face, his lips brushing over your cheeks, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. “You alright?” he whispered.
You nodded, a sleepy, satisfied smile tugging at your lips. But then he just stared at you. A little too long. A little too intensely.
And then, barely above a whisper, like a secret meant only for you—he said, “I love you.”
Your eyes widened slightly, a playful grin tugging at the corner of your lips as you bit down on them, trying to contain your smile. He’d been saying it more often lately, slowly getting used to voicing what he felt.
But when you took a second too long to respond, he groaned dramatically, dropping his head into the crook of your neck like a kicked puppy.
“Say it back,” he grumbled.
“What?” you teased, laughing.
Jungkook huffed, then playfully bit down on your shoulder, just enough to make you squeal.
“Say it,” he demanded, his voice muffled against your skin.
Still giggling, you cupped his face and pressed a soft kiss to his nose. “I love you, you big baby.”
His grin was instant, arms wrapping around you as he pulled you even closer, like he could never get enough.
End of Flashback
Now, he just says it in passing. quick, thoughtless, already moving on.
The front door clicks shut, and just like that, Jungkook is gone.
You sit there, fingers motionless on your laptop’s keyboard as the weight of what just happened settles deep in your chest. He forgot. He kissed you, held you, told you he loved you, but none of it was because he remembered.
Is this what your relationship has become?
Work, work, work. Always work.
It’s not that you expect Jungkook to run behind you all the time, to ditch his responsibilities just to shower you with affection. Hell, you supported him through everything- through college, through late nights chasing his dreams, through every stressful moment leading up to him becoming CEO. You believed in him.
But what about your love? Your marriage? Communication?
You’ve been patient. Too patient. more understanding than any normal wife would be. And you know Jungkook. You know he loves you, would bring you the whole damn world if you asked. But then why—why are you beginning to question it all?
Jungkook stepped into the CEO position a few months ago. At first, things were fine. He handled it well, still made time for you. But then… everything became about work. Slowly, then all at once.
You can’t even remember the last time you had truly loving sex. Not that Jungkook doesn’t love you but it doesn’t feel the same anymore. There’s tension in his touch, frustration in the way he moves against you. It’s not the warmth, the desperation to be close to you like it used to be.
Is this how life is going to be from now on?
Sure, you could talk to Jungkook about your feelings. Tell him that the distance is starting to feel unbearable.
But when?
When he’s always checking his phone? When he barely even looks at you in the mornings? When you feel like you’re living with the CEO rather than your husband?
Well, happy anniversary to you.
----
Your gaze drops to your hand, to the delicate band wrapped around your finger.
Your wedding ring.
For the first time in a long time, you really look at it- tracing the intricate details, the subtle shimmer in the morning light. And suddenly, it feels… heavier. Like you’re only noticing the weight of it now, as if it’s trying to remind you of everything it once meant.
Before you even realize what you’re doing, your fingers slip beneath the band, sliding it off. It’s only when the cool air brushes against your bare skin that it hits you.
Your breath catches, eyes widening at the sight of the ring resting in your palm. You hadn’t even thought about it—you just did it. And now, staring at the small, beautiful piece of jewelry, something inside you cracks. Tears gather before you can stop them.
Jungkook had spent weeks searching for this ring. Dragged you to countless jewelry stores, analyzing every cut, every design, obsessed with finding the perfect one. And no matter how many times you had told him that anything would make you happy, he had refused to settle for less.
"It has to be special," he had murmured against your temple the day he finally found it, slipping it onto your finger with the softest smile. "Because you’re special."
A broken sob escapes your throat as you clutch the ring tightly in your palm.
How did you end up here?
----
Jungkook leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he watches the final contract details appear on his screen. The deal with the Kims had gone smoothly, better than expected, actually. It should’ve been a moment of satisfaction, of relief.
Instead, he just drowns himself in more work.
The hours blur together, his coffee going cold beside him as he moves from one task to another. Another meeting. Another report. Another email. The same routine, the same cycle.
It’s later than evening when a familiar voice interrupts the quiet hum of his office.
“So you’re really here.”
Jungkook glances up, his fingers still typing as Taehyung steps into his cabin, arms crossed, a deep frown on his face.
“Hey, hyung,” Jungkook greets, barely looking away from his screen.
Taehyung scoffs, shaking his head playfully. “I really didn’t believe it when Yuna said you were still in your cabin.”
Jungkook blinks, confused. “Why?”
Taehyung gives him a look like he’s the biggest idiot in the world. “Y/N must really love you to let you work even today. My wife—dude, she would’ve killed me.”
Jungkook hums absentmindedly, still typing, still lost in work. “Mmm.”
Taehyung clicks his tongue, watching him for a second before letting out a chuckle. “Anyways, you’re still an asshole for working on your anniversary.”
Jungkook’s fingers freeze over the keyboard. The realization crashes into him all at once, like a punch to the gut, like ice spreading through his veins.
Fuck.
Jungkook’s fingers hover motionless over the keyboard.
His mind races to catch up with Taehyung’s words, but they don’t make sense. Not right away.
Anniversary?
No, that can’t be right. His brows furrow slightly as he glances at the date on his laptop screen.
November 22.
His wedding anniversary.
For a second, he just stares, as if the numbers might shift into something else, something that doesn’t prove what an absolute idiot he’s been. His heartbeat picks up, but his body doesn’t move. It’s like his brain refuses to register it fully, like if he doesn’t react, it won’t be real.
He’d forgotten.
Completely.
No hints, no reminders, no last-minute realization before heading out this morning. Just an entire day of emails, meetings, and a deal he had been so damn focused on that he hadn’t even spared a single thought for you.
His wife.
But—no, that can’t be right. He would’ve remembered. He should’ve remembered.
His jaw tightens, his mind scrambling for some excuse, some reason. anything to justify how this happened. But no matter how many ways he tries to twist it, the truth doesn’t change.
You had expected something. Of course you had. And Jungkook had given you nothing.
Taehyung’s voice barely registers now, his casual teasing just background noise to the way Jungkook’s pulse is starting to hammer against his ribs.
His wife. His love. His anniversary.
And he had let it pass him by like it was just another day.
How the fuck is he supposed to fix this?
Taehyung squints at Jungkook, waiting for some kind of reaction. When Jungkook stays quiet, his fingers frozen over the keyboard, Taehyung lets out a sharp laugh.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” He leans forward, palms flat on Jungkook’s desk. “You just realized, didn’t you?”
Jungkook inhales deeply through his nose, his jaw tightening. “Hyung, not now.”
“Oh, no. Especially now,” Taehyung shoots back, shaking his head. “Damn, man. Y/N must really love you to put up with this shit.”
Jungkook doesn’t reply, his mind already spiraling. He checks the time—late. The entire day is gone. He’s spent hours sitting here, drowning himself in work while you—
Fuck.
He pushes his chair back abruptly, grabbing his phone and shoving it into his pocket. His coat is next, yanked from the back of his chair as he moves on instinct.
“Whoa, whoa.” Taehyung raises an eyebrow. “So now you care?”
Jungkook levels him with a glare, his voice lower, sharper. “Hyung.”
Taehyung lifts his hands in surrender, though his smirk lingers. “Go. Try not to get divorced on your second anniversary.”
Jungkook doesn’t wait for another word. He’s already out the door, moving faster than he has all day.
And for the first time today, work is the last thing on his mind.
----
Jungkook’s mind races as he grips the steering wheel, his fingers tightening with every passing second. The city lights blur past, but all he can focus on is the suffocating weight in his chest.
How the fuck did he forget?
His phone vibrates in the passenger seat- probably another work email but for the first time in months, he ignores it. Instead, he swipes through his contacts, pressing the first name that comes to mind.
“Pick up, pick up,” he mutters, jaw clenched as the dial tone rings.
“Yes, Mr.Jeon?”
“Yuna.” His voice is rushed, urgent. “I need you to get me something. Flowers. A gift. Something big—just—fuck, anything.”
A pause. “Sir?”
“Now,” he snaps.
There’s a shuffle on the other end before his assistant hesitantly speaks again. “I…Mr.Jeon, it’s almost 10 p.m. Most places are closed.”
Jungkook exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. Of course they are. Because he’s too fucking late.
His grip tightens around the wheel. “Just—check. Call whoever. I’ll pay whatever.”
“Understood,” Yuna replies before hanging up.
What the fuck is he even doing?
No expensive gift, no overpriced bouquet, no last-minute grand gesture can erase the fact that he forgot. That he spent an entire day drowning in work while you—his wife, his love, the woman who has stood by him through everything—sat at home, waiting for him to remember.
His hands clench the wheel.
How much had he missed? How much had he ignored?
And the worst part—the part that makes his pulse spike, that has panic clawing at his ribs is the question he doesn’t have an answer to.
What if you’re done waiting?
Jungkook slams his foot down on the gas.
He’s not losing you. He won’t.
----
Jungkook steps into the house, and immediately, something feels off. The air is still. The silence stretches, suffocating, pressing against his chest. Almost all the lights are off, the space eerily empty, like no one has been here for hours.
His throat dries. “Baby?”
No answer.
He frowns, dropping his keys onto the counter with a sharp clink. His feet move quickly, checking the kitchen, the living room, even the hallway leading to the bedroom. nothing.
A weird feeling starts creeping up his spine. His heart beats faster as he strides toward the bedroom door, only to find the bed untouched, the sheets exactly the way he had left them this morning.
You’re not here.
His pulse spikes, a cold sweat forming at the base of his neck. His hands tremble as he yanks his phone out, immediately dialing your number.
One ring.
Two rings.
Three.
Straight to voicemail.
His stomach drops. A shaky breath escapes him as he stares at his screen, the call log mocking him with the lack of response. His fingers tighten around the device, his mind spiraling.
Where are you? At this time of night, alone- where could you have gone?
The walls feel like they’re closing in on him. His lungs strain for air.
Then, another thought claws its way in, violent and unwelcome.
Did you leave?
No. No. His chest tightens, his breath coming faster now. That’s not—that’s not possible. You wouldn’t just leave him. You wouldn’t—
He swallows hard, shaking his head. Don’t go there, Jungkook. Don’t even fucking go there.
But the panic is already curling around his ribs, suffocating, unrelenting.
You’re not here. And right now, that is the worst fucking thing in the world.
Jungkook’s fingers tremble as he redials your number.
Voicemail. Again.
“Fuck.” His breath comes out uneven, panic clawing at his throat. His hands are clammy, his chest tightening with every passing second. Where are you?
His mind is spiraling now, every worst-case scenario flashing through his head. His jaw clenches as he swipes to his contact list calling your friends.
Each time, the same response.
No, I haven’t seen her.
Did you check with—
Wait, what’s going on?
Jungkook grits his teeth, his hand tightening into a fist. His breathing is shallow, his pulse out of control. You weren’t with your friends. You weren’t picking up. You weren’t home.
And he still had no idea where you were.
Jungkook grabs his car keys with shaky hands, his mind racing. He doesn’t know where to go, doesn’t have a plan. All he knows is that he has to find you.
His feet move on instinct, carrying him toward the door. But just as he reaches for the handle, something catches his eye.
A small glint.
His breath stills. His gaze shifts toward the couch, and that’s when he sees it.
Your wedding ring.
Sitting there. Abandoned.
For a moment, everything stops. The pounding in his chest, the rush of his movements—everything.
The air in the room feels heavier, suffocating. His fingers twitch at his sides as he stares at the delicate band, his stomach twisting into something painful.
You never took it off. Never.
Jungkook swallows, his throat suddenly dry. He steps forward, slowly, almost cautiously, like touching it will somehow make this nightmare real.
His hand trembles as he picks it up, the cool metal pressing into his palm..
Jungkook stares at the ring in his palm, his vision blurring as a lump lodges itself in his throat. Tears burn at the corners of his eyes, his chest tightening painfully.
You wouldn’t just leave him like that… would you?
The thought alone knocks the air from his lungs. His grip on the ring tightens as his mind spirals, drowning in questions that only make the ache worse.
Were you thinking about this before today?
How long have you been feeling like this, so alone, so unloved that taking off your ring even crossed your mind?
A sharp breath escapes him, shaky and uneven. His knees buckle, and before he can stop himself, he’s sinking onto the floor, the weight of everything crashing down at once.
The ring feels heavier than it should, pressing into his palm like a cruel reminder of everything he’s neglected, everything he’s taken for granted. He squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling a slow, trembling breath.
He needs to find you. He needs to fix this.
Before it’s too late.
Jungkook exhales shakily, forcing himself to move. His legs feel unsteady, but he pushes through, gripping the wedding ring so tightly it bites into his skin.
Somehow, he manages to stand, his entire body tense with desperation. He stumbles toward the door, his heart pounding, his mind racing with every possibility of where you could be.
But just as his fingers reach for the handle—
The door swings open.
And there you are.
Jungkook freezes, his breath catching in his throat. For a split second, everything stills. His panic, his thoughts, his entire world narrowing to the sight of you standing in front of him.
Then, in the blink of an eye, he moves.
He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it nearly knocks the air from your lungs. His grip is desperate, his hands fisting into your clothes, his entire body pressing against yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
You stand there, stunned, your own arms hovering slightly, unsure of what just happened.
"…Jungkook?” your voice comes out confused, hesitant.
But he just clings to you, burying his face into your neck, his breath warm and uneven against your skin.
You don’t know what’s going on.
But Jungkook?
He feels like he just got his heart beating again. You feel the way his body trembles against yours, his grip impossibly tight, like he’s holding onto you for dear life.
Then, the sound reaches you. A broken, uneven breath, followed by the unmistakable hitch of a sob.
Your heart clenches. “Kook…” Your voice is soft, laced with worry as you try to pull back, just enough to see his face. But he doesn’t let you. His arms only tighten, his body curling into yours, as if letting go would physically hurt him.
Panic bubbles in your chest, your hands instinctively reaching up to cradle his face, your fingers threading into his hair. “Hey… what happened?” Your voice wavers slightly. “Are you okay? You’re scaring me.”
But Jungkook just shakes his head against your shoulder, another quiet, shaky breath leaving him.
You don’t understand.
But whatever this is, whatever’s breaking him like this—your own heart aches just watching him fall apart. Your concern deepens with every shaky breath that leaves Jungkook. He’s still clinging to you, his body trembling slightly, his face buried against your shoulder like he’s afraid to let go.
You don’t know what’s wrong, but seeing him like this—Jungkook, your Jungkook—completely unraveling, is enough to make panic rise in your chest.
Gently, you pull back, your hands cupping his face. His skin is warm, slightly damp from his tears, and when his glassy eyes finally meet yours, your stomach twists painfully.
“Come inside,” you whisper, your voice softer now, coaxing. “Please.”
He swallows thickly, nodding ever so slightly, but his grip on you doesn’t fully loosen. You guide him inside anyway, one hand wrapped around his wrist as you lead him toward the couch.
He sits down heavily, elbows resting on his knees, fingers threading through his hair as he exhales shakily. His shoulders are still tense, his whole body radiating something raw and unspoken.
You kneel in front of him, reaching for his hands, but he doesn’t lift his head.
Your worry deepens. “Jungkook… please tell me what’s wrong.” Silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating. His fingers twitch against his temples, his breath uneven.
“I—” His voice is hoarse, cracking slightly. He swallows hard, gripping his knees. “I thought you left me.”
You blink, his words settling in, but it takes you a moment to fully process them.
He thought you left him?
Your brows furrow slightly as you shake your head. “Jungkook, I was babysitting Hanuel.”
His breath is still uneven, his hands gripping his knees like he’s trying to ground himself. His eyes flick up to meet yours, confused, searching.
“Hana and Seokjin had a date night,” you explain gently. “They asked me to watch him for a few hours.”
Hanuel, your neighbour's son. Jungkook stares at you, his body still tense, like his mind hasn’t caught up yet. You watch as his lips part slightly, his gaze flickering between you and the ring still clutched in his hand.
His fingers tighten around it, his knuckles paling. A beat of silence passes before he swallows thickly, his voice barely above a whisper.
“…Then why was this on the couch?”
The question hangs heavy in the air, fragile and uncertain, as if he’s afraid of the answer. And for the first time tonight, you don’t know what to say.
“I…” The word barely escapes your lips before you stand up, turning away from him. You can’t meet his eyes, not when your emotions are still raw, not when the weight of everything is pressing so heavily on your chest.
Jungkook notices immediately. Panic flickers across his face, and in an instant, he’s scrambling up after you. “Wait—baby, please.” His voice is desperate now, thick with emotion, his hands reaching out like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, stepping closer, his tone cracking under the weight of his own guilt. “I—fuck, I forgot—I don’t know how, I don’t even have an excuse, but—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head, his eyes glassy as they plead with yours.
“I never meant to make you feel like this,” he whispers. “I swear, I didn’t.” But you still don’t look at him. And that alone is enough to make his heart sink.
You swallow hard, your arms wrapping around yourself as you stare at the floor. His words, his desperation, his guilt—they all swirl around you, but they don’t erase the ache in your chest.
“Do you even realize how much this hurt?” Your voice is quiet, but the weight of it makes Jungkook flinch. “I spent the entire day thinking—hoping—that maybe you had something planned. That maybe you were just pretending to forget.”
Jungkook’s throat bobs as he steps closer, hesitating before reaching for your hand. You don’t pull away, but you don’t hold onto him either.
“I know,” he whispers. “I know I fucked up, baby. I—I was so caught up in work, I just…” He trails off, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “That’s not an excuse. Nothing is. I should’ve remembered. I should’ve been there.”
You let out a hollow laugh, finally lifting your gaze to meet his. “Jungkook… this isn’t just about today.”
His brows furrow, but he doesn’t interrupt.
You take a shaky breath. “It’s been weeks..maybe even longer—since I felt like your wife instead of just… someone waiting for you to come home.” Your voice wavers, but you push through. “And it’s not that I don’t understand. I do. I’ve always understood. But at what point do I stop being understanding and start being invisible to you?”
Jungkook’s breath catches, his grip on your hand tightening like he’s afraid to let go. “You’re not invisible,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “You never could be.”
“Then why do I feel like I am?”
Silence.
Jungkook shakes his head, his jaw clenching as he exhales unsteadily. “I never wanted to make you feel this way,” he murmurs. “You are everything to me, baby. Everything. I don’t even know who I am without you.”
Your eyes sting, but you force yourself to hold his gaze. “Then show me, Jungkook. Because I can’t keep being the only one fighting for us.” The vulnerability in your voice nearly breaks him.
He’s been losing you, piece by piece, for a while now. And he hadn’t even noticed.
Jungkook feels his stomach drop, the weight of your words hitting harder than any argument, any fight you could have thrown at him. His grip on your hand tightens, but you don’t squeeze back.
He’s losing you.
And it’s not because of one forgotten anniversary—it’s because he hasn’t been here.
He swallows hard. “Baby…” His voice cracks, his free hand reaching up to cup your cheek, but you step back before he can touch you.
The distance, however small, is enough to make his chest ache.
“Tell me, Jungkook,” you whisper, your voice barely holding together. “When was the last time we sat down and had breakfast together? When was the last time you really looked at me—not just kissed me on the forehead before rushing out the door?” You shake your head, a bitter chuckle escaping. “When was the last time we made love without it feeling like you were trying to release your stress instead of loving me?”
Jungkook’s breath hitches.
You let out a slow exhale, your voice calmer now but even heavier with hurt. “I don’t need grand gestures. I don’t need fancy gifts or a picture-perfect romance. I just… needed you to see me.”
His entire body feels cold. Because the truth is—he doesn’t have an answer.
He’s been so caught up in his responsibilities, his work, his stress, that he’s let the one person who has always been there for him slip through his fingers.
And the worst part? He didn’t even realize it was happening until now.
“Fuck.” His voice is raw, his hands running through his hair as he looks at you, really looks at you. At the exhaustion in your eyes, the way your lips tremble slightly like you’re holding back everything.
His heart clenches painfully. “I fucked up, didn’t I?”
You don’t answer right away. Instead, you hold his gaze for a long moment before whispering, “I don’t know, Jungkook. Did you?”
Jungkook's breath is unsteady, his chest rising and falling too quickly as he stares at you, at the distance between you, the weight of your words suffocating him.
He moves. Before you can react, his hands are cupping your face, his touch desperate, almost shaky. His forehead presses against yours as he exhales a trembling breath, like he’s trying to hold himself together.
“I see you,” he whispers, his voice raw, strained. “I swear to god, I see you, baby. I just..I lost myself somewhere along the way, and I didn’t even realize I was dragging us down with me.”
His thumbs brush over your cheekbones, a silent plea laced in his touch. “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you.”
Your heart clenches, but you don’t push him away. You should- you should make him sit with this, make him feel what it’s been like for you all this time. But then his grip tightens, his voice breaking.
“Please, baby.” His lips hover just above yours, not quite touching, his breath warm against your skin. “Tell me it’s not too late.”
His vulnerability shakes you to your core.
You close your eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to steady yourself. “I don’t want to lose us either, Jungkook,” you whisper. “But I can’t keep being the only one holding on.”
Jungkook shakes his head instantly. “You’re not. You won’t be.” His lips ghost over your forehead before he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “Let me prove it to you. Please.”
His desperation is tangible, seeping into every word, every touch. And for the first time tonight, you wonder if maybe, just maybe—he really does see you now.
Jungkook watches you, searching for something—anything in your eyes that tells him he hasn’t completely lost you.
Before doubt can settle in, he takes your hand, pressing it over his chest, right where his heart is hammering wildly. “Feel that?” he whispers. “That’s what you do to me, baby. Always.”
Your fingers twitch against his shirt, but you don’t pull away. You don’t move at all, just staring up at him, your expression unreadable.
He swallows hard. “I know I don’t say it enough. I know I don’t show it enough, but fuck, Y/n—” His hands tighten around yours, his voice barely above a breath. “There is nothing in this world that matters more to me than you.”
You let out a slow exhale, your gaze flickering, like you want to believe him. like a part of you does, but the hurt is still too fresh. So he gives you more.
“I’ll fix this,” he promises, his thumb brushing soft circles over your wrist. “Not with flowers, or gifts, or some last-minute bullshit—but with me. With us.”
His voice drops lower, thick with emotion. “Just tell me it’s not too late.” Your lips part slightly, but you don’t speak. Instead, you finally—finally press your palm flat against his chest, feeling the way his heart beats erratically beneath your touch.
It’s enough to break something inside Jungkook. His grip tightens as he leans in, his lips brushing against your temple, then your cheek—slow, hesitant, as if he’s still afraid you’ll slip away.
And when you don’t, when you let him, he exhales a shaky breath, his forehead resting against yours once more.
“I love you,” he whispers. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Like if he says it enough, he can make up for all the times he didn’t. And maybe, just maybe—you’ll believe him again.
Jungkook’s breath is warm against your skin, his forehead still pressed against yours, his grip on you unwavering. His words linger in the air between you. raw, desperate, filled with a love that had always been there, even when he’d failed to show it.
You swallow hard, blinking against the tears clouding your vision. He’s waiting—watching you so intently, so hopelessly, as if your next words will either put him back together or completely shatter him.
You take a shaky breath. “Jungkook…” Your voice wavers, and his grip tightens instinctively. “I love you too.”
A sharp exhale leaves him, his entire body sinking slightly in relief. But before he can say anything, you continue. “But this hurt,” you whisper. “More than you realize.”
Jungkook stiffens, nodding quickly, his hands cupping your face again, his thumbs brushing away the tears that slip down your cheeks. “I know, baby. I know. And I hate myself for it.” His voice cracks, his jaw clenching before he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead.
You let your eyes flutter shut for a second, exhaling slowly. “I don’t want promises, Jungkook,” you murmur. “I just… I need to feel like I matter to you again.”
His hands tremble slightly as they slide down, wrapping around yours. He lifts them to his lips, pressing gentle, reverent kisses to each of your knuckles, his dark eyes never leaving yours.
“You do,” he whispers. “More than anything. And I’m going to spend every damn day proving that to you.” His voice is steady now. no hesitation, no doubt. Just quiet, determined love. And though the ache in your chest hasn’t fully faded, something shifts.
Because this time, you don’t just hear him. You believe him. Even if just a little.
Jungkook presses another lingering kiss against your knuckles, his touch reverent, as if grounding himself in you. But before he can lose himself completely, you gently murmur, “Have you eaten?”
The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. He shakes his head, gaze still searching yours. “No… I—"
“Go freshen up,” you say softly, stepping back just a little. “We’ll eat together.”
His fingers twitch against yours, hesitating to let go, but eventually, he nods. With one last glance—like he’s making sure you’re really here, he pulls away and heads toward the shower.
While he’s gone, you move to the kitchen, setting out dinner in quiet contemplation. The ache in your chest hasn’t completely faded, but there’s something else now- a warmth that wasn’t there before.
----
By the time Jungkook emerges, hair damp, dressed in a fresh t-shirt and sweatpants, you’ve already placed the food on the table.
He hesitates for only a second before joining you, sliding into his chair. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice softer now.
You nod, offering a small smile as you take a seat. The conversation is light, effortless. Jungkook fills the silence, stealing glances at you like he’s still memorizing you all over again. And through it all, his hand never leaves yours, his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles against your skin.
After dinner, he helps with the dishes, working beside you in quiet understanding. The air between you feels lighter, yet still fragile, like something delicate being pieced back together.
Jungkook sets the last dish onto the drying rack, wiping his hands on the towel before turning to you. There’s a soft, almost hopeful look in his eyes, like he’s clinging to this moment.
You step away, hesitating for just a second before opening the refrigerator. Jungkook watches in silence as you carefully pull out the cake, placing on the counter, your fingers grazing the edges of the plate, before finally speaking.
“I…I’d made this.”
The words are quiet, but they hit harder than any raised voice ever could. Jungkook’s entire body stiffening as guilt crashes into him all over again. His eyes flicker to the cake- to the careful details, the effort, the thought you had put into it, for him. And suddenly, it feels like the walls are caving in.
His throat tightens. His fingers curl at his sides. He can’t look at you. He doesn’t deserve to. Tears gather in his eyes, blurring his vision, his heart breaking all over again, not just because he forgot today, but because he had broken you in so many ways without even realizing it.
And that? That’s something he doesn’t know how to forgive himself for.
“Jungkook..”, your voice barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the heavy silence like a knife.
He wants to look at you, wants to say something—anything, but he can’t. His head remains bowed, his hands gripping the edge of the counter, as if holding himself together takes everything in him.
You take a small step forward, the space between you feeling larger than it actually is. His silence is deafening.
“Jungkook,” you say again, a little firmer this time.
His lips part, a shaky breath slipping through, but no words come out. He wants to speak, to apologize again, to tell you how much he loves you, to somehow fix this- but his throat feels tight, his chest heavy.
He doesn’t know if words are enough.
“I… I’m so fucking sorry, baby,” Jungkook chokes out, his voice trembling as he finally speaks. His hands shake at his sides, his eyes still glassy with unshed tears. “I’ve been an asshole—a terrible husband. I don’t even know how to make this right.” His breath stutters, his words spilling out faster now, raw and desperate.
“I wouldn’t even be surprised if you left me,” he continues, shaking his head. “You should’ve. You deserve better. I—I can’t believe I—”
“Jungkook.”
You don’t let him finish.
Instead, you reach up, cupping his face with both hands, your thumbs brushing away the tears that have already begun to fall. His lips part in surprise, his rambling cut off as you rise onto your toes.
A gentle kiss on his lips.
Soft. Loving.
Tear-streaked and real.
Jungkook exhales shakily against your lips, his whole body melting into yours. His hands find your waist, holding onto you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.
The kiss is slow, there's no desperation, no urgency. Just you and him, emotions bare. Tears continue to slip down your cheeks, mixing with his, salty and warm, but neither of you pull away. Because in this moment, there’s no need for words.
Just this.
Just love.
When you finally pull away, your forehead rests against his, both of you breathing heavily, your tears still wet against each other’s skin. Jungkook’s grip on your waist is firm, like he’s grounding himself in your touch, afraid to let go. His lips part, like he wants to speak, but before he can, you whisper,
“You’re not a terrible husband, Jungkook.”
Jungkook’s eyes glisten with more unshed tears, his lips pressing into a thin line, unable to speak. You wipe his tears away with your thumbs, offering him the smallest smile. “Just… love me better, okay?”
His throat bobs as he swallows hard, nodding again, more determined this time. “I will.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but you believe him.
You press one last gentle kiss to his cheek before stepping back, glancing at the cake still sitting on the counter. “Come on,” you say, nudging him lightly. “Let’s cut this before it melts.”
Jungkook lets out a breathy chuckle, wiping at his face as he nods. He steps beside you, his hand instinctively finding yours again as you both move toward the small cake. The two of you cut into it together, Jungkook’s fingers lacing through yours around the knife handle. He doesn’t let go, even as you both take small bites in comfortable silence.
Once the plates are cleared, you tug at his wrist, nodding toward the bedroom. “Come to bed?”
Jungkook exhales, relief washing over his features as he nods. “Yeah.”
A few minutes later, you’re both under the covers, warmth surrounding you as Jungkook pulls you against his chest. His arms wrap tightly around you, his breath fanning against the top of your head as he whispers,
“I love you.”
This time, you don’t hesitate to say it back.
“I love you too, Jungkook.”
And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep in his arms, where you’ve always belonged.
Jungkook’s fingers still tremble against your skin. Even as he holds you, his grip is laced with hesitance, a silent fear lingering beneath the warmth of his touch. It’s in the way his hands press into your back yet remain careful, as if he’s afraid of holding on too tightly.
You can feel the erratic thud of his heart beneath your palm, his breaths uneven, his chest rising and falling as if he’s struggling to keep himself steady.
And something about that, about him—makes your own heart ache.
Slowly, you lift your head from his chest, your eyes locking onto his in the dim glow of the room. His lips part slightly, his gaze unreadable, but the moment you lean in, his breath catches.
You kiss him.
It starts soft, so gentle, full of longing. Filled with everything you can’t put into words.
Jungkook melts into it instantly, his grip on you tightening, pulling you impossibly closer. The warmth of his lips, the slight hitch in his breath when you press harder. it sends a familiar heat curling through you.
The kiss deepens, your fingers gripping his t-shirt with urgency, needing to feel more. It’s desperate, heady, the space between you charged with something deeper than just want—something raw, something that had been missing for too long.
Jungkook pulls back gently. His forehead stays pressed against yours, both of you panting softly, but his hands shake slightly as they hold you in place.
His lips part, his breath uneven. “I… we shouldn’t…” He swallows hard, voice thick with hesitation. “I mean… I don’t want you to think I’m gonna fix this with sex.”
His words cut through the haze of warmth between you, grounding you both back in reality. You understand. Because even now—even now, he’s afraid. Afraid that this isn’t enough. Afraid that he isn’t enough.
Your eyes soften as you take in his hesitance, the uncertainty in his gaze, the way his breath trembles against your skin.
You reach up, your fingers threading gently through his hair, grounding him. “I’m never gonna think like that, Kook,” you murmur, your voice quiet but sure.
His lips part slightly, his brows still knitted in concern, but before he can say anything, you lean in again. This time, the kiss is softer, filled with nothing but love.
You linger for a moment, your lips brushing against his as you whisper, “I just… I need you.” Another soft kiss. “Please.”
Jungkook exhales sharply, his entire body shuddering under the weight of your words.
And just like that, whatever hesitation he had left—it’s gone.
Your breaths grow uneven as your lips move against his, the heat between you intensifying with every passing second.
Jungkook shifts, his body hovering over yours, his weight pressing down just enough to make you feel him. His hands slip beneath the oversized t-shirt you’re wearing, his touch still hesitant, fingertips ghosting over your waist like he’s memorizing the feel of you all over again.
But you don’t want hesitation.
You tug at his shirt, a silent plea, and Jungkook obeys without question, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. Before he can think, you pull him back in, capturing his lips in another deep, hungry kiss.
A quiet groan escapes him, his hands finally exploring freely, pressing against your skin, feeling the warmth beneath his palms. His lips leave yours only to trail down your neck, his breath warm as he presses soft, lingering kisses there.
You shiver when he reaches the collar of your shirt, your own hands moving to help him remove it. Dark, love-filled eyes roam over every inch of your skin, his lips parting slightly, as if he’s trying to find the words but nothing he could say would ever be enough. Still, he tries.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe. “So fucking perfect.”
Your breath catches when he lowers himself again, his lips planting soft, reverent kisses along your collarbone, trailing lower over your shoulder, your chest. Your husband's mouth mapping you like you’re something sacred.
His lips slowly wrap around one breast, his tongue flicking teasingly before sucking softly. A moan escapes you, your fingers tangling into his hair, tugging lightly as he hums against your skin. His other hand moves to your neglected breast, his thumb brushing over the sensitive peak as he keeps mouthing sweet nothings against you.
“You’re everything,” he whispers between kisses, his voice muffled against your skin. “I love you so much, baby.”
And as the heat between you builds, his touch grows bolder. A desperate whimper escapes your lips as your fingers tangle deeper into Jungkook’s hair, your body arching toward him, silently pleading for more.
He groans against your skin, the sound low and warm, vibrating through you. “Patience, baby,” he murmurs, pressing another lingering kiss to your chest before trailing lower, his lips tracing the curves of your body. “Let me take my time… let me make love to you.”
The way he says it, love—makes your stomach tighten, your heart aching as much as your body craves him. His hands glide down your waist, slow and purposeful, before slipping between your legs. His fingers find the damp fabric of your panties, pressing just lightly enough to make you gasp. Your hips lift instinctively, chasing his touch, and Jungkook groans at the feeling.
His dark eyes meet yours, silently asking for permission. You nod, unable to form words, and that’s all he needs.
Hooking his fingers into the waistband, he tugs your panties down, dragging them slowly along your legs before discarding them somewhere behind him. His gaze never leaves you as he lowers himself further, trailing kisses down your stomach, over the sensitive skin of your hips.
He settles between your legs. You feel completely bare under his intense gaze, the way his lips part slightly, his eyes darkening as he drinks you in.
“So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice filled with something reverent, something devoted. His hands spread your thighs wider, his thumbs brushing along your skin in slow, soothing circles.
“My wife.”
The words send a shiver down your spine, making your core clench in anticipation.
Finally, he closes his mouth around you. One long, slow stroke of his tongue, and you fall apart instantly, a breathless moan slipping from your lips as your head tilts back against the pillows.
Jungkook hums against you, pleased, his hands gripping your thighs as he licks another slow, teasing stripe through your folds. “So fucking sweet,” he groans, the heat of his breath against your slick skin making your body tremble. “Gonna make you feel so good, baby.”
He isn't just making love, he's devouring you.
Jungkook hums against you, the vibration sending a shockwave of pleasure up your spine. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open as his tongue moves with slow, deliberate strokes. learning you all over again, savoring every little gasp and shudder that escapes you.
“Jungkook—” Your voice is breathless, almost pleading, your fingers tightening in his hair, tugging him closer.
He groans at that, the sound reverberating through your core as he laps at you with more purpose. His tongue flicks over your clit, teasing, testing, before he sucks gently, making your back arch off the bed.
“Fuck—” You whimper, your thighs threatening to close around his head, but his strong hands keep you spread wide, completely at his mercy.
His lips brushing your sensitive skin as he pulls back just enough to look up at you. His lips are slick, his dark eyes burning with desire.
Your cheeks burn, he dives back in, this time with more urgency. His tongue moves in tight circles, alternating between slow, teasing strokes and deeper, firmer licks that have your breath hitching.
One hand slides up your stomach, fingers splaying across your skin before reaching your breast, rolling a nipple between his fingers. The combined sensation makes your thighs tremble, a moan tearing from your lips as your hips buck against his mouth.
Jungkook groans, clearly enjoying how responsive you are, his grip on you tightening as he eats you out like it’s his last meal. He flicks his tongue over your clit again, then sucks, harder this time, sending sparks shooting through your body.
“-fuck, Jungkook—” Your head tilts back, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure builds, coiling tight in your stomach.
He pulls back just enough to murmur against you, “You gonna cum for me, baby?”
The heat inside you is unbearable now, hot and consuming. You nod desperately, your moans spilling freely as you grip his hair, your body teetering on the edge. Jungkook doesn’t stop. He pushes you closer, his mouth working you over with expert precision, his hands holding you steady as your body starts to tremble.
“Come for me, baby,” he whispers against your heat. “Let me taste you.”
And with one final flick of his tongue, you shatter. Pleasure crashes over you, your back arching, thighs trembling as you moan his name like a prayer. Jungkook groans, drinking in everything you give him, his hands stroking your body as he helps you ride it out.
Only when your body goes slack does he finally pull away, pressing soft kisses against your inner thighs, his voice thick with pride and adoration. “You’re so perfect,” he breathes between kisses, his voice thick with adoration. “My love. My wife.”
Jungkook moves up, trailing kisses along your body, over your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone. When he reaches your lips, he captures them in a deep, languid kiss, his hands cradling your face like you’re something fragile, something cherished.
Your fingers roam over his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles before moving lower, brushing over his abdomen until you reach the hardness straining against his sweats.
A groan rumbles from his chest at your touch, his hips twitching into your palm as you cup him, feeling just how ready he is.
“Baby…” he breathes against your lips, voice thick with want. You tug at the waistband of his pants, wordlessly asking for more. Jungkook obliges, sitting back just enough to push them down, kicking them off entirely.
He’s fully hard, the sight of him making your stomach tighten, heat pooling between your legs again. But before you can do anything, before you can even reach for him Jungkook takes your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. The intimacy of it overwhelming.
His other hand moves between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance, his eyes locked on yours, searching, making sure-
With a final nod from you, he pushes in, slow and careful, stretching you inch by inch.
A soft moan escapes your lips, but Jungkook kisses you instantly, swallowing the sound, his own groan muffled against your mouth as he sinks deeper. The moment he’s fully inside, he stills, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing you in. And as he holds you close, as your bodies mold together so seamlessly, you realize- this isn't just sex.
This is home.
Jungkook moves slowly, each roll of his hips deep and deliberate, as if he’s trying to make up for every moment he let slip away. His body is pressed flush against yours, warmth seeping into every inch of your skin, his breath shaky against your lips as he kisses you between each movement.
Your fingers dig softly into his back, nails pressing just enough to ground yourself in the overwhelming sensation of him. One hand moves to his hair, your fingers threading through the strands, tugging gently as his lips travel from your mouth to your jaw, down your neck, planting soft, lingering kisses that make your heart ache.
It’s slow, it’s deep, it’s love.
And then, suddenly, you feel it.
A faint tremble against your body.
Something warm and wet against your neck where Jungkook has buried his face.
Your breath catches as realization dawns- he’s crying. Tears gather in your own eyes without warning, the sheer weight of the moment crashing over you all at once.
You tighten your hold on him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as you press a soft kiss into his hair. “Kook…” you whisper, your voice barely holding steady.
He shudders at your touch, at the way you hold him, like you’re not just letting him fall apart but falling apart with him.
“I—” His voice cracks as he exhales shakily, his thrusts faltering for a moment. “I’m so sorry, baby.” His lips find your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin as he presses kisses there—apology after apology, praise after praise.
“You’re everything to me,” he murmurs between kisses, his words thick with emotion. “You always have been.” A tear slips down your cheek as you cup his face, guiding him up until his forehead rests against yours.
“I know,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I know, Jungkook.”
His lips crash against yours again, the kiss slow and deep, his movements resuming, gentle but full of something raw, something unspoken. His hands grip your waist tighter, his body moving in perfect sync with yours, as if this moment is rewriting everything.
“I’ve got you,” you whisper, voice laced with love. “I’ll always have you.”
Jungkook shudders, gripping you tighter, his lips pressing against your shoulder, his movements slowing but never stopping. You can feel the love in every touch, every kiss, every whispered breath against your skin.
And when the pleasure builds to its peak, you come undone together, your bodies melting into one as waves of warmth crash over you. His name spills from your lips, his deep groan following right after, his arms holding you so tight you swear he never plans on letting go.
Silence lingers, only the sound of heavy breathing filling the space. Then, Jungkook shifts, lifting his head just enough to press the softest kiss to your lips.
“I love you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse but full of devotion. “I don’t deserve you… but I swear, I’ll spend my life proving that I do.”
You cup his face, your thumb brushing away the remnants of dried tears. “Just love me like this, Jungkook,” you whisper, voice steady. “That’s all I need.”
His hands tightening around you as his forehead presses against yours. “I’ll love you more,” he vows, his voice breaking slightly. “More than this, more than anything. Always.” His words settle deep in your chest, warm and real, and when he pulls you impossibly closer, tucking you into his arms, you believe him.
His heartbeat is steady now, no longer frantic with fear. Just warm, solid, home.
As sleep begins to pull you under, you hear him whisper one last thing against your hair.
✎ summary: he´s observant, watches his prey like an experienced predator, but in 125 years of age, Jungkook had never craved someone as much as you. he had to have you.
note from cherry: warning!! Stalking., obsessive jungkook, crazy PATHETICALLY DOWN BAD jungkook. part one of our sexy obssessed stalker vampire. We love him here. Mini slow burn? Idk.
︶♱︶︶♱︶ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺︶♱︶︶♱︶︶
In the habitual sunday walk through the lush emerald park, the birds accompany your rhythmic heartbeat with their singing. Sunday matchas always taste better once the sun reverts to glow dimly at the horizon, dissappearing goodbye in a tortuously slow departure.
You were never fond of the sunsets as you were sunrises, steadily feeling a clench in your heart at something as radiant as the sun taking it's might to part from the world, vowing to greet you in the early hours of life's next morning. But in the unleashing dark, sometimes the return of the sun felt uncertain.
Almost ashamed to admit it- on rare, eerie occasion, you still feared the ominous that roams empty streets at dead hours way past midnight. Unlike a fairytale or a badly written horror novel- these creatures found themselves in every nook and cranny. Every slither of space, you were brought up to fear them. Never walk alone after sunset. Never look behind the treeline if you felt the presence of their piercingly colorful eyes stalking you every little step.
The world has become much less judgmental nowadays.
"Matcha latte to go?"
The fair skinned man calls out from behind the counter. His purple eyes dull of boredom in typical barista fashion, the smile he shoots you no less polite, although small, pointy fangs flash from it's corners.
"Thank you -" your eyes flicker to his nametag, "Nathaniel. Here's your tip, have a nice day" you reply, automated in that slightly raised frequency you twinge when talking to a stranger.
Your steps take you back through the way you walked initially, crunching on the freshly breeze grass beneath your soles, tracing the familiar route back to your apartment.
It had become utterly familiar to him too. The route was the same- sunday after sunday. On occasion during the week- mostly during exam season, when your body called for an added fuel.
He may have gotten used to the steps he took, synchronizing them alongside your own. However, he'd never get used to your pink lips cupping the straw in their little hold. How you sip the drink with the innocents of a little dove, unaware of the shudders that go through his body, stirr in his abdominal region.
It had captured him wholly. Unexpectedly but calculated nonetheless.
It must have been planned. Seeing your precious little blush, the shirt that snuck up your torso as you put back a book into the raking shelve of the bookstore he works at. It must have been no less than fate, the blood red string of fate that is tugging his nervoussystem in your direction. Letting something awaken inside of him- something of his roots. Akin to his nature- to taunt him of his designation, the realization that he was not merely a simple man.
And his madness grew with each breath of air that filled your lungs. Even when he wasn't around to watch you take them, as long as you inhale the same oxgyen- he craved to breathe you in as though you were his source of essentials.
Chance encounters don't exist- not in 125 years has it happend to him, not a singular interaction devoid of purpose or contrary, filled to the brink with the naked, uncanny urge to engulf this very thing into his chest. That's how he knew you were his calling.
"Hey, sorry, you dropped this"
He taps on your shoulder, unguarded, you spin around, glancing at his face, down his large, faintly colorless hand that held something dear to you.
In the midst of beautifully ordinary walk, you hadn't noticed the drop of your keys.
"Oh god- thank you. That could have ended badly" you offer a small giggle, airy, light. He tries to not let his eyes roll back at the melody, handing you your keys with an aching heart. Soon enough- he told himself- soon enough he will get to enter your space.
"Yeah. Cute guy you got on there. Has he got a name?"
The little, blue bow adorned monchichi keychain catches your eye for a second before they naturally wander up to his deep red eyes. They glint slightly, taking notice of his pointed fangs that he charmingly flashes through a grin.
"Mocha" your answer is polite, small. He knew better than to pry too deep, settles to hum,
"Mocha" he recites, tilts his head the slightest bit, "I think ive seen you at my bookshop before. But i never got to know your name, pretty?"
The instant he asked, he wanted to answer this question for you in place of his theatrically put on questioning expression. Replace it with genuine lust in his voice as he lets the syllables of your name roll over his tongue, just like he's been chanting them in the dark- when no one's watching - when there's no eyes to graze the beautiful sinner he's become once his stiff cock stands proudly in his hand.
You tell him your name regardless. How could you have known that the shadow who seems to follow you around, internalized it like a favourite poem all along.
You were oblivious to his ways, clueless even. He failed to hold back a miniscule slip of tongue, wetting the metal ring in the corner of his pale rose lips.
"Thats a beautiful name. I'm Jungkook"
You bless him with your little giggle for another time, remarking in your head about how easy it was to talk to the handsome creature. The one who's face had been burned into your imagination for quite some time now, tucked away into some box, beneath the litters of faces you've seen at the morisaki bookshop.
"Suits you"
"Is that good?" he asks, showing of his signature grin to which you nod,
"Its elegant"
"Vampires tend to be" he says, vaguely gesturing to your cup, "You like matcha? I could treat you to one, if you like?"
Satisfaction courses through his bloodstream at the airbrushed pink that dusts your cheeks, taking note of the way your pointy gel nails fiddle slightly with your jeanpocket,
Alongside the pleasure, relief floods him in it's soothing tide- he had finally uttered the sentence he meticulously practiced to say over and over again- watch his micro expressions in his reflection to tweak each subtle give away, enhance every unique feature he held within those constructed words.
"I'd like that" you reply, choosing a demure answer that attempts to hide your attraction to Jungkook, your girlish excitement at meeting him again.
"Same time next week?"
Succumbing to his natural charm was inevitable. Nothing could have prepared you for the lull in his voice, how every word he pronounced sounded like those of an ancient spell. The strike in his unusually colored eyes differed so drastically from the fairness of his flawless skin. It was drowning you in its hues.
Jungkook walked home with a use of his speed inflicted upon the pace of a human step. The sight of your lips trembling slightly as you gave him your number, the one he had memorized weeks ago, still playing in his mind's eye like a movie. It would become his favourite memory until he created more explicited ones- though he grew acustom to cumming at the simple sound of your name in his head- spoken by his own voice, now blissfully interchanged with the way you offered it to him earlier.
Patience is a virtue he had mastered inescapably, it grew into his life through vicious blessings, beautiful curses. 24 hours that multiply and blend into unexciting memories.
All strings had gotten loose upon your arrival. How would he be able to await another seven days without seeing you, without hearing you pronounce mundane words or viewing your camera app being opened over a little flower on the pavement.
He couldn't wait, no matter how much patience he had.
His shadow casts itself behind the many cars parking up your street, he zones in on your surroundings- the little shoulder look you give in the dark, as if to spot anything that could endanger you. It made his heart wrench,
"I'd never let you get hurt" he whispers to himself, watching the cold air manifest into transparent smoke as he speaks.
You rattle your keys, unlock the shabby apartment door with stiff fingers, suffering the low temperatures. From your peripheral, it almost looked like a blow- a gust of wind running by your side.
But when you turn around with hitched breath, its empty.
Jungkook exhaled once your figure disappeared into the building. Carelessy, he swung by, wanting to get just an inch closer, an inch away from having his highly receptive senses flooded with your gentle scent. For his yearning heart to get a fraction of gratification.
The closer he is, the more he needs to have. It clouds him like the smoke of a stormy night, rips him into the unknown, the unexplored and hidden desires of digging his teeth into the graceful skin of your neck.
Sunday finally comes around, the end of the week igniting him with a new flame. He'd been painfully dragging himself around in those remaining hours, holding himself back from standing in front of your bedroom window to watch you pick out your outifit, pace around nervously like you did before meeting with your friends on Wednesday nights. A tradition of getting cocktails at least twice a month, you appeared lovely, casual even. But jungkook saw it all behind the curtain of effortlessness, the pile of discarded outfits, your hairbrush thrown on your bed in frustration. The sweet, winged eyeliner that took three songs and four retries to draw on. He'd seen it all, every inch of your skin as you try on dress after skirt, shirt after blouse, no matter how much he restrained himself to avert his gaze.
Now, he's seeing you approach from afar, walking tentatively in the beautifully dim sunlight.
He skips a few steps to be in your vicinity quicker- you blink confused, before breaking out into a small laughter.
"Right, you can do that"
He returns your smile, his heart races at the sight of you so close to him, so attainable.
"Its pretty efficient"
You hum, tracking your gaze from the top of his pierces eyebrow, down his plump lips, taking your line of sight down the contours of his sharp jaw before your focus shifts on the unbuttoned top part of his silky black shirt. His prominent collarbones peak out just enough to make you elicit a barely audible sigh,
In his mind, he's been drifting to your bedroom, to his hands that let the pretty grey fabric graciously fall down the dips of your figure.
"You look really pretty, grey suits you"
Jungkook's smoothe voice guides you through the rest of the joint night.
Along his gentle nature, there is some sort of belonging. A shiver of closeness that runs down your back, even when it's just his knuckles that gingerly bump yours while you walk around the blooming trail. You catch him from time to time, in the midst of your conversation, how he lets himself wander off in thought a bit, yet, he's attentive, responsive, dancing the line of being completely entranced by the string of words leaving your lips.
"Youre easy to talk to" you tell him truthfully while throwing away the empty cup. He chuckles a little,
"Yeah? Well, you make me feel comfortable, i think thats why"
"I do? I feel like i'm so awkward" you chuckle- honestly, maybe you were a bit awkward. Trying your hardest not to let him pay and telling bad jokes about his vampire qualities that he'd probably been told multiple times before. Nothing shy from enticing in his eyes.
"I think youre adorable"
"You're way too honest. Is that a vampire thing?"
His hand brushes a little strand away from your face, stalled in front of the acquainted doorstep of your apartment. The soft hair glides through his slender fingers like liquid gold. From the back of his throat, a small groan of approval sounds,
"No, but I'm bad at lying anyways"
Your lips curve into a grin, mirroring his expression. The thumping in your chest rings so loudly, you're almost sure he's able to pick up the frequency with his immaculate hearing. Its a pounding you haven't yet felt before. It may be the deep night around you- adding to his sexy mystique, the way his eyelids seemed to drop the least bit, following the lure of the moon.
"When can I see you again?" He asks with a quiet, breathy tone. Goosebumps threathen to plaque his dull skin as you bite into the corner of your lip,
"Whenever you want. Just.. text me"
He nods, "Okay pretty"
With that, you smile and disappear into the walls of your home.
Jungkook exhales a long, deep breath. His eyes fall closed, body slumping against a nearby tree. Utter delight crashes his head, grounds him into the world that he is slowly, meticulously creating for you to be part of. For you to be the sun of.
Similarly, you collapse right against the closed door. Smiling stupidly like a giddy teenage girl, running your hand through your hair, you break into a fit of giggles. Immediately pulling your phone out to text your best friend about what had just happend in the last long, dreamy hours.
But before you get the chance to click on her chat log, a message lights up your screen,
Jungkook >.< : cant wait to see you again
He bites back a smile, the reflection of you getting excited over his text dances in his pupils as he stands off to the side of your slightly parted curtains,
"good night sweetheart" he mumbles, gradually turning back to resort back into his own home.
Messages like these had crept their way into your normal days.
Good morning texts, little things that reminded you of each other- mentions of movies to watch together or selfies with meaningless captions like "hard work day :( " decorated your chat in extensive loads. Despite not much time having past since the first date, time has acquired another meaning in its entirety. So much so that you find yourself aimlessly wandering inside a grocery store after suggesting Jungkook should come over for dinner.
He slipped into your life with ease, fitting into a space that seemed to be cut out just for him, and how much you adored him was almost embarrassing to admit.
You had never invited him to your home before, but he didn't mention it. Instead, he typed back that he'd be there at 7 pm, until he remembered that he isnt supposed to know your exact address- quickly adding the question onto his last message.
His breath quickens the instant he's greeted with you facing him, the tulips in his hand feel heavy all of a sudden, wanting nothing more but to drop them and engulf you into his selfish hands instead.
"Come in kook", while wrapping your arms around his taller frame, you can sense the way he tenses, his busy hand clenches the boquet with restrained power, the other one makes it to your back, carefully pulling you into his chest. He inhales your scent in pure ecstasy, button nose nudging the top of your freshly shampooed head.
Once inside- he's looking around the confined space with curious eyes. As many times as he had seen glimpses, being on the other side of your windows felt like a perverted secret. After hours of studying your schedule, analyzing common places, people, interests that are woven into your life, he would finally solidify himself as the most important.
Lucky was an understatement. Jungkook felt blessed- divinely touched to be able to move around the four walls of his angel- his very own godsend gift. His, only his.
The sigh he lets out almost serves as a way to release his overflowing happiness into the atmosphere, let go of his orchestrated hours that took him to his destination- you.
"Pretty place" he compliments, watching you pick out a vase for your favourite type of flowers, "hm, thank you. I love tulips, crazy how you picked them" you say, sparkling innocently as your fingers adjust the petals,
"Good guess right?"
The air thickens with his approaching steps, his aura carries itself over you, there's an undeniable chemistry brewing between you. Presents itself in the quickening of your heartbeat, the tension in his beautifully otherwordly features.
"No garlic i hope?" he jokes, pointing to the ingredients spread on the counter. The thin fabric of your tanktop collides with his cotton tshirt, his muscular arm holding onto the cupboard in front of you. The yearning inside of you leads you to turn around, facing him and essentially, trapping yourself between the kitchen island and his steady body.
Perfect, he thinks.
"Very funny" you giggle, looking up into the deep red you would never get used to. Its mesmerizing to see the color intensify from time to time.
Jungkook reaches his hand out to take your chin between his fingers, tilting your head up into his direction. His face is relaxed but the slight quiver of his lips, as if holding back from letting his canine teeth dart out, doesn't get past your observing eyes.
It doesn't get past him either, how you seemed to nibble on your lip a little, taking deeper inhales with the duration of his gentle touch.
"You're so pretty" he mumbles, growing an inch closer to your face with patience. The proximity makes his blood heat up, he barely has the chance to touch you before every single thought of raw and uncontrollable desire overtakes him,
Your gaze flickers down to his parted lips, the lip ring shines with a slight coat of saliva and you wish for nothing more than a deep collision, just as jungkook craves the taste of you all over his tongue.
As much as he has his instincts under control, he cannot deprive himself any longer.
Rationality vanishes from his thoughts- as his lips press gently against yours, he begins moaning in pure satisfaction. A slight taste of you was all he ever dreamed of having- but he should have known better than that. There was no way of not needing more- he had to have you, taste you, kiss and claim everything you had to give him.
The deep moan makes you whimper into the now passionate kiss- hands having found their way into his tousled hair, tugging at the roots with care. His lips clash to yours over and over, nipping at your bottom lip, licking over it to ask for premission.
You grant it to him immediately, the need to get as close as possible is indescribable, it is more than desire, more than a feeling or a simple word, you pull him in deeper and he whines at your desperation, seeing himself mirrored in you.
"Taste so fucking good. I need you, i need you so goddamn much" he groans against your lips- tongue pushing and tangling with your own, his hands wander up and down your sides as if to soothe himself, holding on to his control for all he's worth.
He steadies himself by breaking the kiss for a breath of air with his forehead meeting yours in a moment of isolation. It was hasty, messy and nonetheless perfect. He craved more, longed for another taste.
You're the first to break the silence, barely letting the words run past your lips in the midst of hightend breathing,
"I like you so much"
He doesn't recall when he last felt this intense amount of pleasure, he doesn't waste another breath on words, kissing you with newfound but always present lust, exploring the softness of your skin hidden beneath the tanktop- his shaky fingers itch at the brief shiver that passes through you- wanting to make you shiver again and again,
"You have no idea how crazy i am about you" he mutters while shifting his attention to kiss along your jaw, his mouth remains open and wet against your skin- running his tongue down your neck so, so gently.
The validity behind those words are something he cannot bear open to you in this moment- but he swore to himself he would eventually.
It takes all his willpower not to sink his pointy teeth into the delicate skin, feeling the pulse running wild like it was begging him to bite.
"Wanna make you feel so good"
Moans of his name fall from your lips, he recriporates each one with needy whimpers of his own, working to touch and worship whatever he has beneath his hands at the moment- already tugging at the bottom of your shirt, before you register it, its lying on the tile floor,
"Hold tight sweetheart"
The nickname adds to the heat pooling in your underwear- supported by simply one of his hands, a reminder of his inhumane strength. You´re lifted to the kitchen island, sitting with your thighs open for him to stand between. The thick bulge that's been present from the moment his lips met yours presses against you every so slightly- providing both of you with tiny amounts of pressure.
His lips run down invisible paths to your bra covered chest, submitting to his urges like a man devoid of free will- of any power.
"Wanna bite you s'bad" he rasps, unfastening your bra and attaching his plump lips to your stiffend bud, rolling the oppsite one in his skilled fingertips,
Institutiavely, your thighs clench around his hips, seeking more friction at the thought of his pretty fangs snaking into your skin. Jungkook completely surrounded you with his scent, his words, his presence.
Serving justice to all the mysteries and tales about his kind- his passion, his groans, his possessive hands are far to good to be the ones of a weak human man- his teeth ghost over you and in that instant, he becomes everything.
"You can- just not - mhmm- too hard"
Interrupted by your own noises of satisfaction, the words come out without any fear. Replaced by the sheer pleasure he lays upon your body, the look of desire in his features as he keeps grabbing, kissing, moaning for you.
He looks at you through his lashes, mouth leaving your chest wet and glistening, his lips are swollen as they breathe out his next words,
"You're a dream, my beautiful angel"
His lips return to your neck, suctioning harsher than previously, grazing the sharpness with every sloppy suck of your skin- and when he finally, ever so slightly indulges in sinking his teeth in- you make the most wonderful noise to him.
The moans of your name fall from his lips naturally, like a continuous prayer to your body, letting his fingers toy with your breasts- allowing his teeth to leave little lovebites in pretty shades of red spread across your neck.
"Youre so pretty, the prettiest angel" he whispers lovingly, gliding his fingers down your arm while admiring his work of art.
His skin burned- burned with the helpless devotion he cannot restrict.
"You´re mine, you´re mine angel all mine, do you understand?"
Posession creeps into the kisses to your stomach- he is touching you, his hands are the ones wandering your body, his lips are the ones marking up near every inch that falls victim to him, but it hardly registers in his head because you scratch along his muscular back- nodding without a doubt in mind,
"Feels so good- oh fuck jungkook please"
You whine- you whine for him and it gets him to nuzzles his nose into your slick lace panties, inhaling deeply to submerge himself in your femininity,
"Anything you want, im gonna fucking worship you baby. Gonna make you come until you beg me to stop"
Jungkook hooks his large hands on the underside of your thighs, kneeling in front of you as though he was actually praying to you- letting your legs dangle over his broad shoulders.
The sight of your wet folds, red and swollen clit all due to him- all in front of his very own diluted eyes made him salivate, he marked your entire thighs with deep red and purple bruises that you met with loud moans, trembling throughout your body- wandering until it´s coming out in your whiney tone of voice that kept asking for him- asking as if he wouldn't burn down the world for you.
"My pretty little pussy, look at that, look at how wet you are for me"
It was so overstimulating to him, hightend all his feelings, blurred his extensive vision at the first drop of your slick on his greedy, relentless tongue.
"Fucking angelic- taste so good" he whines into your pussy- laps and laps at the stickyness with vigour and precision when licking a long strip up to circle your clit.
In between closing your eyes, your droopy sight caught vision of jungkook sitting there, hugged by your thighs, his eyes framed with disshevld strands, glazed and cloudy- mouth wet with messy pleasure smeared along his skin.
"Mhh- kook- you look so hot like this"
The praise thrills him- diving into your need with the large overcast of his own, his cock twitching and aching so badly beneath the blue jeans but somehow- being on his knees for you, listening to your beautiful voice call out for him- it was better than any contact he ever dreamed to experience before.
His eyes roll back into his head upon the arrival of your first orgasm- overcoming you with a loud cry, your thighs clamp around his head, trap him there like you dreaded the separation as much as he did.
"Kook- fuck- ohhh fuck"
You shook, plead for more and his tongue obeyed, thrusting the wet muscle into you fast, his thumb rubbing tight circles on the throbbing pearl of your crying cunt,
"Good girl, good, good girl, come for me- let this pussy know who's it is"
He heard the second high before he saw it- the broken sob, the sniffling that send shocks into his constricted cock, made it beg for attention. It worsened as he glanced up,
"god baby- so fucking cute" he groans so loudly, smashing his lips to your cunt - sucking harshly on your oversensitive clit that endured so much of his suckling and gnawing.
Your moans continue to flow, changing into meek cries of his name, the pearly tears roll down your reddend cheeks ending on your quivering lips that are now covered in the salty liquid.
And at the thought of tasting them, oh so pathetically, Jungkook's cock pulses angrily - leaks with cum all over himself, coating his length in warm, milky pleasure, meeting the sensation of your tangy sweetness blessing his mouth.
"ahh.. mhh.." you stumble out, slowly dropping the slight grinding on his numb and swollen lips, just as jungkook pants and whimpers, having finished untouched- because pleasing you was his priority, his greatest achievement- and he hasn´t even gotten to feeding you every inch of his cock, hasn´t even seen it disappear into your tight, pulsing pussy,
"oh angel, you´re so beautiful, so good, did so so good baby" his lips run his trails back and forth on your thighs, calming their shaking with the addition of his big hands stroking your hips,
You tug at his shoulder and he recieves the silent question, bringing his body up to stand upward, dazed and bathing in your afterglow
It doesn´t take long for your eyes to find the wet patch,
"See that? All because of you. All yours" he says, pulling you into him by the small of your back, like a puzzlepiece, your hands wrap around his shoulders- both of you relish in the company of one another,
How right it truly felt to be held by his magical hands,
To meet his lips in another soft kiss, tasting the remains of yourself on him.
It was right,
He had done absolutely everything in and beyond his power to secure that, now that he had it in his grasp, black and white,
He would always make sure it stays that way, even if it meant digging his teeth into your neck until you bled.
“You’re mine, little one,” he growled, voice thick with need, his lips bruising yours. “Fuck no strings attached. You’re my only girl, and I’m never letting you go.”
pairing: ceo dom!jungkook x university student sub!femreader
genre: neighbors au, slowburn, age gap, grumpy x sunshine, forbidden desire, romance, fluff, angst, smut
warnings: 18+, explicit smut, emotional vulnerability, fear of rejection, heartbreak, misunderstanding, jealously, emotional confrontation, emotional intimacy, domestic dynamics, nicknames ("little one" and "sir"), D/s dynamics, power dynamics, body worship, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, clit play, eating out, tongue fucking, face riding, edging, oral sex (m. receiving), cock sucking, face fucking, penetrative sex, big cock!jungkook, hard dom!jungkook rough sex, degradation kink (use of terms like "slut" and "fucktoy"), light bdsm elements, different positions, spanking, hair pulling, dirty talk, breeding kink (she is in birth control), mild pain in intimacy, praise, nipple play, hickies/marking, making out, crying during sex, aftercare
wc: 4.44k
part: 01 / 02 (final)
a/n: i love this couple so muchh, enjoy !
masterlist
۶ৎ
The autumn leaves crunched underfoot as you walked the short distance between your cozy, pastel-hued apartment and Jungkook’s sleek, modern house next door. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and fading summer blooms, a reminder that the humid days of your first meeting had given way to a cooler, more intimate season. Months had passed since you, a shy, petite university student, had knocked on his door with a tin of chocolate chip cookies, trembling under the weight of his intimidating presence. Now, Jeon Jungkook was no longer just the grumpy, dominant CEO who’d made your heart race with fear and fascination—he was "Koo" or "Kookie", nicknames you’d adopted with a playful ease that mirrored the closeness you’d built.
Your life at twenty-one was a delicate balance of literature studies and quiet solitude. Your small apartment, with its fairy lights, plush blankets, and overflowing bookshelves, was a sanctuary where you thrived as an introvert. Your days were filled with morning lectures, afternoons in the university library, and evenings curled up with novels or scribbling essays. Baking remained your love language, the kitchenette alive with the scent of vanilla and sugar as you whipped up cookies or cakes, often for Jungkook now. You were used to him—his towering frame, his deep voice, the way his dark eyes softened just for you. The initial terror of his dominance had melted into a comfort that felt like home, though your shyness still flared when he looked at you too long, his gaze piercing through your defenses.
Jungkook’s world was vastly different, a high-stakes whirlwind of power and responsibility. As the CEO of a multimillion-dollar tech empire, his life was a relentless cycle of boardroom battles, international calls, and strategic decisions that kept him tethered to his laptop late into the night. His house, with its dark furniture, sharp lines, and minimalist aesthetic, was a fortress of control—until you entered it, bringing warmth and softness. He worked grueling hours, but your presence had become his anchor, whether you were studying at his kitchen island, reading on his couch, or sleeping in his bed, your small frame tucked against his broad chest. He cooked for you—grilled chicken, stir-fried noodles, or spicy ramyeon—his hands deft despite their roughness, and he loved seeing you in his oversized shirts, the fabric drowning your petite body. But he was equally captivated when you wore your sundresses or delicate nighties, the sight stirring a hunger he kept carefully restrained.
You spent hours at his place, your textbooks spread across his floor or table, highlighters and pens scattered as you studied. Jungkook would work nearby, his laptop open, stealing glances at you with a quiet intensity that made your cheeks burn. Sleepovers were routine now, your body pressed against his in his king-sized bed, his arms a protective cage, his breath warm against your neck. Mornings began with him making you coffee—sweet with whipped cream and chocolate chips, a detail he’d memorized from your rambles—while you sipped it, wrapped in one of his shirts, your hair a messy bun. He’d tease you, calling you “little one,” his voice low and fond, and you’d blush, hiding your smile behind your mug.
Jungkook visited your apartment too, though he preferred his own space, finding your cozy chaos charming but overwhelming. He’d sit on your couch, laptop on his thighs, watching as you studied or read, your pen scratching paper or your lips mouthing words from a novel. He loved the sound of your humming, the way you’d tuck your legs under you, oblivious to his gaze. He’d work with you nearby, the normalcy grounding him, your presence a balm to his high-pressure life. You baked for him constantly, cookies and cakes that filled your apartment with sweetness, and he’d eat them with a rare smile, the memory of your first meeting—your nervous offering, his gruff response—always lingering.
Neither of you spoke of the “no strings attached” rule he’d set months ago. It was a ghost, ignored as you fell deeper into each other. You were falling hard—his grumpiness, his quiet care, the way he remembered your coffee order or carried your groceries without asking. Every “little one,” every touch, made your heart ache with love. Jungkook, though he’d never admit it aloud, was falling too, his guarded heart cracking despite his fear of tainting your light with his darkness. He’d watch you sleep, your lips parted, cheeks flushed, and feel a pang of something he hadn’t felt in years—hope.
Tonight, you were at his house, sprawled on his living room floor, surrounded by textbooks, notes, and a laptop glowing softly. It was past 9 PM, the room lit by a floor lamp’s warm glow, casting shadows across the dark hardwood. You wore one of his black t-shirts, the fabric hanging loose, and cotton shorts, your hair in a messy bun, strands framing your face. Your recent exam loomed over you, the results a specter of doubt. You’d studied relentlessly, but insecurity gnawed at you, your pen tapping restlessly, your brows furrowed in frustration.
Jungkook lounged on the couch, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal veiny forearms, his dark slacks hugging his thighs. His laptop sat open, but his eyes were on you, sensing your distress. “Little one,” he said, his voice deep, cutting through your spiraling thoughts. “What’s eating you?”
You sighed, dropping your pen, your shoulders slumping. “I’m so stressed, Koo,” you admitted, voice small, almost a whisper. “This exam… I don’t know if I did okay. I studied so hard, went over every chapter, made flashcards, but what if I messed up? What if I forgot something? I keep replaying the questions, and I’m scared I failed.”
He closed his laptop, setting it on the coffee table, and slid to the floor beside you, his presence warm and grounding. “Hey,” he said softly, tilting your chin up with a calloused finger. “Look at me. You’re the smartest girl I know. You’ve got this. You always do. You’re killing yourself over nothing.”
Your cheeks flushed, but the doubt clung stubbornly. “But, Kookie, what if I didn’t? What if I let myself down? I can’t stop thinking about it, and it’s driving me crazy.”
His eyes softened, a rare vulnerability in their depths, and he pulled you into his arms, his lips brushing your forehead. “You’re too hard on yourself, little one,” he murmured, kissing your temple, then your cheek, his breath warm against your skin. “You’re not failing anything. You’re brilliant, and I’m proud of you.” His lips found yours, a gentle kiss that deepened as you melted into him, your frustration dissolving under the warmth of his touch, your body relaxing against his solid frame.
He lifted you effortlessly, settling you in his lap on the couch, your knees straddling his hips. The hardness of his bulge pressed against your core through your thin shorts, and you gasped, a soft whimper escaping as you blushed furiously, hiding your face in his neck. You’d explored plenty—his mouth on you, your lips around him, his fingers inside you—but he’d never fucked you, always stopping short, respecting your pace. The sensation was new, overwhelming, and you felt a rush of heat, your shyness warring with the need pulsing through you.
“Shh, baby,” he murmured, hands stroking your back, his touch soothing. “Just a break, yeah? Let me take care of you. You’re all wound up.”
You nodded, still buried in his neck, and he tilted your chin, kissing you again, hungrier now, his tongue teasing yours, tasting the strawberry lip balm you wore. Your hands clutched his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as the kiss grew desperate, your bodies pressed closer. Clothes came off in a frenzy—his shirt unbuttoned and discarded, your t-shirt tugged over your head, your shorts and panties slid down your legs—until you were bare, your skin flushed under his intense gaze, your breasts heaving with each shaky breath.
Most nights ended with his fingers curling inside you, his mouth on your pussy, or you sucking him off, his praises filling the air. But tonight felt different, a charged undercurrent humming between you. Jungkook pulled back, his eyes dark with desire but searching, his hands cupping your face. “Little one,” he said, voice rough, thick with need, “I want you. All of you. I want to fuck you, baby, but only if you’re ready. If you want me to stop, I’ll stop. I’ll always stop.”
Your heart raced, a mix of fear, desire, and trust swirling in your chest. You blushed, your voice trembling but sure. “I… I want it, Kookie,” you whispered, eyes meeting his despite your shyness. “I trust you. I want you.”
He searched your face, his thumb brushing your cheek, his expression softening. “You’re sure, baby? We don’t have to. I need you to be absolutely certain. This is a big step, and I don’t want you to feel pressured.”
“I’m sure,” you said, voice stronger now, though your cheeks burned. “I want you, Koo. I’ve wanted you for so long. Please.”
He nodded, kissing you deeply, a possessive edge to it that made you shiver. “Okay, little one,” he murmured against your lips. “I’ve got you. Gonna make you feel so good.”
His worship of your body began slowly, reverently, his lips trailing down your neck, leaving a constellation of hickies that bloomed dark against your skin. “So fucking beautiful,” he murmured, kissing your collarbone, your shoulders, his hands roaming your curves. “My perfect girl. Look at you, all mine.” His words were a balm, soothing your nerves, stoking the fire in your core.
His hands found your breasts, palming them gently, his thumbs brushing your nipples until they hardened, a soft gasp escaping you. “These tits,” he growled, voice low, “so fucking perfect.” He leaned down, taking a nipple into his mouth, sucking slowly, his tongue swirling, drawing a whine from you as your hips rocked against him. His other hand teased your other nipple, rolling and pinching, the sensation sharp and electric, making you squirm in his lap. He switched, lavishing the same attention on the other, his teeth grazing lightly, just enough to make you cry out, your hands tangling in his hair.
“Kookie, please,” you whimpered, the ache between your legs unbearable, your pussy dripping onto his slacks. “Need you.”
He chuckled, the sound dark and fond, kissing his way down your stomach. “Patience, little one. Gonna take my time with you.” He spread your legs, settling between them, his breath hot against your inner thighs. “Fuck, look at this pussy,” he said, voice reverent, his fingers parting your folds to reveal your swollen, glistening core. “So wet for me, so pretty. Been dreaming about this.”
You blushed, trying to close your legs, but he held them open, his grip firm. “Don’t hide, baby,” he said, eyes meeting yours. “You’re perfect.” He lowered his mouth, his tongue flicking over your clit, and you cried out, hips bucking. He groaned, the vibration sending sparks through you, and began to eat you out with a hunger that left you trembling.
His tongue worked in slow, deliberate strokes, circling your clit, teasing with light flicks before sucking it into his mouth, his lips sealing around the sensitive bud. “Taste so fucking good,” he murmured, voice muffled, his tongue dipping lower to lap at your entrance, tasting your arousal. He licked you like a man starved, his tongue plunging inside, curling to hit spots that made you see stars. Your hands gripped his hair, tugging, and he moaned, the sound pushing you closer to the edge.
“Sir,” you gasped, the honorific slipping out, your body arching off the couch. He growled, sucking your clit harder, his tongue relentless, and you felt the coil in your core tighten. He added a finger, sliding it inside your tight heat, curling to stroke your walls, then a second, stretching you, his pace matching the flicks of his tongue. “Kookie, I’m—oh god,” you whimpered, your thighs trembling.
“Come for me, little one,” he said, voice commanding, his free hand gripping your thigh. “Let go.” He curled his fingers, hitting that perfect spot, and you shattered, your orgasm crashing over you, a wave of white-hot pleasure that had you screaming, your pussy clenching around his fingers as you soaked his face. He licked you through it, drawing out every shudder, every whine, until you were boneless, panting beneath him.
He crawled up, kissing you, letting you taste yourself on his lips. “Good girl,” he murmured, his voice soft, proud. “You did so well.”
You were still catching your breath when he stood, stripping off his slacks and boxers, revealing his hard, thick cock. It was massive, veins prominent, the tip glistening with precum, and your eyes widened, a mix of awe and fear. “Koo,” you whispered, voice small, “it’s… it’s too big. What if it doesn’t fit?”
He knelt back on the couch, kissing you softly, his hand stroking your hair. “We’ll go slow, baby,” he promised, his voice gentle but firm. “You don’t have to do this. We can stop right now. But if you want it, I’ll make it good. You’re on birth control, right?”
You nodded, cheeks burning. “Yeah. I… I want to try. I want you, Kookie.”
He smiled, a rare, tender smile, and positioned himself between your legs, his hands spreading you gently. “Gonna stretch you first,” he said, sliding one finger inside your soaked pussy, then two, then three, scissoring them to prepare you. You moaned, gripping the cushions, your body adjusting to the stretch, the burn easing into pleasure as he curled his fingers, his other hand palming his cock, eyes locked on your face.
“You’re so tight, little one,” he murmured, voice strained. “Gonna feel so good around me.” He worked you until you were trembling, pussy dripping, ready for him, and then he positioned himself, the tip of his cock brushing your entrance. “Look at me,” he said, voice firm. You did, his eyes intense but gentle, watching for any sign of discomfort. “Tell me if it hurts, okay? We stop anytime you say.”
You nodded, and he pushed in slowly, just the tip, stretching you beyond anything you’d felt before. You whimpered, the burn sharp, and he paused, kissing your lips, your nose, whispering, “You okay, baby? Talk to me.”
“Y-Yeah,” you breathed, clinging to his shoulders, nails digging in. “It’s… it’s a lot, but I’m okay. Keep going.”
He eased in, inch by inch, your walls clenching around him, the stretch intense but grounding, his careful movements and soft whispers—“You’re doing so well, little one, so fucking perfect”—keeping you anchored. You cried out when he was fully inside, biting his shoulder, the pain mingling with a fullness that sparked pleasure. He stilled, letting you adjust, his hands stroking your sides, his lips brushing your ear. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, voice strained, his control wavering. “Feel so good, baby.”
The pain began to fade, replaced by a throbbing need, and you shifted, testing the sensation. “Move, Koo,” you whispered, voice shaky but sure. He did, slow thrusts that had you gasping, the stretch easing into something delicious, his cock hitting deep, filling you completely. His eyes never left your face, ensuring you were okay, and when you moaned, “Faster, please,” he obliged, his pace quickening, the room filling with the slap of skin, your cries, and his low groans.
“So wet for me,” he growled, voice thick with lust. “My tiny little one, taking my cock so well. Look at you, so fucking small, and you’re mine.” His dirty talk made you clench, and he groaned, thrusting harder, his control fraying. “This pussy’s made for me, isn’t it? So tight, so perfect.”
You came with a scream, your pussy pulsing around him, nails raking his back as you clung to his chest, your body shaking. “Kookie!” you cried, the pleasure overwhelming, your clit throbbing as he kept thrusting, rubbing your sensitive bud with his thumb, drawing out your orgasm until you were whimpering, “Too much, Koo, please.”
“Gonna fill you up, little one,” he growled, his thrusts erratic now, chasing his release. “Take it all for me.” He came with a loud growl, hot spurts coating your walls, his cock pulsing as he filled you, his grip tightening as you both collapsed, panting, your bodies slick with sweat.
You were sore, sensitive, but blissful, your head resting on his chest, your studies forgotten, your mind calm for the first time in days.
He kissed your forehead, his voice tender. “good girl.”
The next few weeks were a blur of closeness, your lives intertwining seamlessly. Jungkook texted constantly when you were in class—"You safe? Did you eat?"—his protectiveness warming you. He’d make you coffee or food when you studied, his encouragement unwavering. “You’re killing it, baby,” he’d say, kissing your temple. After that first night, he skipped work the next day, insisting he could as the company owner. “I want to be with you,” he said firmly, silencing your protests with a kiss.
He spoiled you, buying you books, clothes, a star-shaped necklace that you wore daily. Sometimes, he’d barge into your apartment unannounced, his need palpable. “Missed you,” he’d growl, lifting you onto your study table after a stressful session, eating you out until you were crying, your notes crumpling as you came on his face, his tongue lapping every drop. He’d suck your clit, tongue-fuck you, his fingers curling inside, making you scream his name, your thighs trembling around his head.
When he had a bad day, you’d comfort him, your lips around his cock as he guided you, fucking your mouth with a control that made you shiver. “Such a good girl,” he’d praise, cumming down your throat as you swallowed eagerly, his words warming you. He loved when you sucked him, your small mouth struggling to take his size, your hands stroking what you couldn’t fit, his groans spurring you on.
Your baking was a ritual, cookies and cakes filling both your homes, and Jungkook would eat them with a smile, reminiscing about the day you met. “Best day of my life,” he’d say, kissing you. “Was such a grumpy bastard, but you still smiled at me.”
Sex was constant, Jungkook fucking you everywhere—against his wall in a quick, hard frenzy when he was angry, your screams echoing as you scratched his back; slow and deep on his bed, him thrusting from behind as you bunched the sheets; or you riding him, his hands guiding your hips as you moaned his name. On birth control, you let him cum inside you, his breeding kink evident in how often he filled you, his hands groping your breasts randomly, your nipples always hard for him, his lips or fingers teasing them until you whined.
One evening, after acing a test, you rushed to his house, eager to share the news. You froze at the sight of a woman hugging him in his doorway, her arms around his neck, laughter in the air. Your heart shattered, tears welling as his “no strings attached” words echoed. You’d been foolish to hope for more. Turning, you ran back to your apartment, sobs choking you, your vision blurred.
For days, you avoided him, ignoring his texts—"Little one, where are you?" "Answer me, baby, I’m worried"—and calls, keeping your curtains closed, staying inside when he was out. He knocked angrily on your door, his voice booming, “Open the door, now!” but you curled up in bed, crying, refusing to face him, your heart breaking at the thought of him with someone else.
One evening, your door burst open, Jungkook storming in, hair messy, eyes bloodshot, bags under them like he hadn’t slept in days. He pinned you against the wall, his grip firm, his voice a growl that shook you. “What the fuck, little one? Why are you shutting me out? You don’t get to do this to me!”
Tears spilled, your voice breaking as you pushed at his chest. “Let me go, Koo! Go back to your girl! I saw her, hugging you, and you said no strings, so just leave me alone!”
His eyes widened, then narrowed, anger flaring, his jaw clenched so tight it trembled. “What girl? What the hell are you talking about? You think I’d look at anyone else when I have you?”
“The one hugging you!” you sobbed, fists hitting his chest weakly. “I saw her, laughing with you, and I thought… I thought you didn’t want me anymore. You said no strings, and I was stupid to fall for you!”
He grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head, his voice shaking with fury and desperation. “That was my cousin,” he snapped, eyes blazing. “My younger cousin, visiting from Busan. She’s like a sister to me. You think I’d touch anyone else when I’m fucking obsessed with you? When I can’t breathe without you?”
You froze, tears slowing, shame flooding you. “I… I didn’t know,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I thought you didn’t want me. I was so scared, Koo.”
His anger softened, but the intensity remained, his eyes searching yours. “Scared? You ghosted me, little one. Do you know what that did to me? I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t work, thinking you hated me. You don’t get to do that again, you hear me?”
“I’m sorry,” you sobbed, tears streaming. “I was hurt, and I didn’t know what to do. I love you, Kookie, and I thought I lost you.”
He kissed you roughly, all pent-up longing and anger, his hands tearing at your clothes—your t-shirt, your shorts, your panties—until you were naked, gasping under his touch, your body trembling. “You’re mine, little one,” he growled, voice thick with need, his lips bruising yours. “Fuck no strings attached. You’re my only girl, and I’m never letting you go.”
He flipped you onto all fours on the floor, the carpet rough against your knees, your hands scrambling for purchase. “You don’t get to run from me,” he said, voice dark, his slacks and boxers hitting the floor. He gripped your hips, his cock brushing your entrance, and thrust in one go, filling you completely. You gasped, the mix of pain and pleasure overwhelming, your pussy stretching around him as he pounded into you, hard and fast, no mercy in his movements.
“Thinking I’d want anyone else,” he growled, spanking your ass sharply, the sting making you cry out. “Call me sir, little one. You forgot who you belong to.”
“Sir!” you screamed, nails scratching the floor, your body rocking with each brutal thrust, his cock hitting deep, filling you to the brim. “I’m sorry, sir, please!”
“You’re so fucking tight,” he grunted, gripping your hair, pulling your head back, his hips slamming into you. “My tiny girl, taking my cock like a slut. You feel me in your stomach, huh?” His hand covered your mouth, muffling your screams, your cries echoing in the small apartment. “Gonna wake the whole damn neighborhood, little one.”
He rubbed your clit, his thrusts relentless, leaving bite marks on your back, his teeth sinking into your skin as he claimed you. “You’re mine,” he snarled. “No one else. Say it, now.”
“I’m yours, sir,” you sobbed, body shaking as pleasure built, your pussy clenching around him. “Only yours, I swear.”
He spanked you again, harder, his voice dripping with possession. “That’s right, you little brat. Running from me, thinking I’d let you go. You’re my fucktoy, my girl, my everything.” He gripped your hips, pulling you back to meet his thrusts, his cock hitting so deep you felt it in your core. “Gonna fuck you so hard you’ll never forget who owns this pussy.”
You screamed his name, and he growled, spanking you again. “It’s sir, you needy little thing. Say it.”
“Sir!” you cried, tears streaming, your body trembling as he fucked you mercilessly, his hand on your clit pushing you to the edge. He tugged your hair, his other hand bruising your hip, his dirty talk relentless. “Such a tight little cunt, taking me so well. You’re gonna cum for me, aren’t you? Gonna scream for your sir.”
You came with a wail, your pussy pulsing around him, your body convulsing as you scratched the floor, your clit throbbing under his fingers. “Sir, please!” you screamed, the pleasure blinding, your vision blurring. He didn’t stop, thrusting harder, fastermuu faster, his growls filling the air. “Gonna fill you up, little one,” he growled, his thrusts erratic. “Breed you till you’re dripping with me.”
He came with a loud growl, hot spurts filling you, his cock pulsing as he claimed you, his grip tightening. You were screaming, your body shaking, and he kept thrusting, drawing out your orgasm until you were a sobbing mess, your pussy clenching around him.
He pulled you into his arms, kissing your tears away, his voice soft now, soothing. “Shh, baby,” he murmured, brushing your hair back. “I’m sorry for the no strings bullshit. You’re my girl, my only girl. I love you.”
You sniffled, clinging to him, your voice small. “I’m sorry, Koo. I was so stupid, thinking you’d want someone else. I love you so much.”
He wiped your tears, his eyes soft, a stark contrast to his earlier fury. “I love you, little one. More than anything. You ever ghost me like that again, I’ll lock you in my house and fuck you till you can’t walk, got it?”
You giggled, lips swollen, hair messy, your face flushed. “Promise,” you whispered, kissing him softly, your heart full.
He carried you to bed, your bodies tangled, and you lay there, talking about the day you met—his grumpiness, your nervous cookies, how it led to this. “Best day of my life,” he said, kissing your nose. “You walked in with those cookies, and I was fucked. Knew you were trouble.”
You laughed, tracing his jaw. “Trouble? Me? You’re the one who scared me half to death.”
He grinned, rare and boyish, pulling you closer. “Yeah, but you loved it. My little one, always blushing for me.”
Jungkook, the man everyone feared, loved you fiercely, his heart yours despite his darkness. You were his light, his haven, and as you drifted to sleep in his arms, you knew you were his—his little one, forever.
