⇒ summary: over the course of your lifelong friendship with jungkook, you can’t say that you’ve ever had the greatest ideas, and a fake relationship with the boy you’ve been in love with for years is no exception.
⇒ self-gratuitous ceo au, friends-to-lovers, and fake relationship trope rolled into one big shitstorm of a jungkook fic
⇒ pairing: jungkook x female reader
⇒ word count: 18k
⇒ genre: fluff, angst, and light smut
⇒ warnings: alcohol mentions, smut
⇒ a/n: hello all! i wanted to kickoff my writing on this blog with a bang, so here’s a longish fic on my wildest dreams.
⤷ summary : Your flower shop wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Then a tattoo artist with deadpan eyes and sleeves full of stories moved in across the street—and got smacked in the face with your peonies. Now there are window waves, petty bouquets from his ex, shared coffees, sketchbooks, flower meanings, and silences that feel louder than words.You swore it was nothing. He never said it was anything. But something’s blooming anyway.
⤷ pairing: Jungkook x fem!reader. ⤷ rating: 18+ mdni ⤷ genre: flufffff, humor, angst, yearning, opposite attracts, suggestive. ⤷ warnings: mentions of food, cursing, mentions of needle, tons of mention about flowers, grief, death of parents, overwhelmed, bestfriend!jihyo + bestfriend!tae, they alone are a sufficient warning lol, bad attempt at humor?? ⤷ word count: around 12k heheh
a/n : i wrote this fic because clearly therapy is too expensive and jungkook with rolled-up sleeves is free.
this is for the flower girlies, the tattoo boy simps, and anyone who’s ever made prolonged eye contact through a café window and overthought it for three days straight.
reblogs > oxygen.
playlist: ditto by nwj
The morning had already taken one look at you and decided, “Yeah, let’s ruin her.”
Sunlight spilled into the cramped storage room like it had beef with your eyes, spotlighting the exact thing you couldn’t find: the cartwheel.
“Where is that rolling piece of metal trash—” you hissed, yanking aside boxes of seed packets and one very suspicious sack of lavender labeled ‘For External Use Only,’ courtesy of drunk-Jihyo’s late night labeling spree.
The shop smelled like fresh soil, eucalyptus, and regret. Mostly because you’d forgotten to water the basil wall again, and it was starting to look like the botanical version of a hangover.
your foot caught on a bag of fertilizer, and you nearly faceplanted into a tray of thorny succulents.
“Jesus Christ’s left nipple, if I die impaled on a cactus I hope someone makes it a tribute piece.”
“You good back there or are you finally being sacrificed to the plant gods?” Jihyo called from the front, her voice sharp and amused like always.
“I’m wrestling with a demon cartwheel that’s actively hiding from me,” you yelled, popping up with wild hair and a very personal vendetta. “Either that or it grew sentience and fled this capitalist hellscape.”
A snort. A thud. Jihyo casually leaned against the doorway in her signature oversized overalls, one strap off her shoulder and a flower clip in her hair that somehow made her look both terrifying and cute.
“Did you check behind the dead hydrangea?” Jihyo asked, sipping her iced matcha like this wasn’t a crisis.
“That hydrangea is not dead. It’s dramatic. Like you.” You bent down and sure enough—there was the cartwheel, wedged behind a fallen bag of soil and a busted watering can.
“Oh my god, you were right.” you grunted, dragging it out and nearly dislocating your hip in the process.
“Say it louder. Maybe the roses will hear it and finally start respecting me.”
“I’d rather die by begonia.”
With a final heave and a string of whispered curses that would make a nun combust, you yanked the cartwheel free. Dust flew. A spider the size of anxiety scurried off. you coughed, wheezed, and dramatically wiped your forehead with the back of your hand like you were starring in a tragic indie film.
Jihyo watched, unimpressed. “You’re literally a psycho.”
“You chose this best friend life,” hissed you, grabbing a bucket of peonies and flinging it into the cart. “You could’ve ditched me in high school when I made you that floral condom bouquet for your birthday.”
“You hot glued a magnum onto a sunflower.”
“And you cried.”
“I cried because my mom saw it first.”
A loud cackle echoed through the greenhouse ceiling. This was the rhythm of them. Chaos, sarcasm, and a whole lot of weird affection they never really had to explain.
Then you loaded the last of the blooms onto the cart and smacked palms together like you’d just won a war. “Alright. I’m heading out. Gotta replace the window pots with the new batch before the city sends another passive-aggressive letter about ‘noncompliant aesthetic violations.’”
“Grab coffee on the way back?”
“Obviously. Therapy in a cup, courtesy of our mutual emotionally stable barista.”
“Tell Namjoon I miss his arms.”
“I will. But also, no. Because that man has seen me sob into a croissant and I can’t give him more emotional leverage.”
You shoved the cart forward with a dramatic push and strutted to the front, calling, “Back in ten! Unless the peonies mutiny. In which case, I die a martyr.”
“Tell them to take you out quickly. I don’t want blood on the shop floor again.”
The door chimed as you stepped outside, sunlight blinding for a split second before your eyes adjusted to the bright city sidewalk.
The hands moved on instinct as you began unplugging flowers from the mini garden racks lining the store’s outer wall. Petunias, daisies, and snapdragons—each bloom whispered their own little stories, their own scent memories.
As you worked, a silence pressed in. Not uncomfortable—just familiar. Like the kind you settle into after a long day.
you remembered mornings like this with your parents. your dad humming off-tune while arranging seed trays, mom pretending to hate the sound. you missed them like a phantom limb. Not always visible. Always there.
And Jihyo—your soulmate. your anchor. you both have been inseparable since sophomore year when you punched a guy in the hallway for making fun of Jihyo’s laugh. Jihyo bought you a coffee the next day and said, “You’re mine now.”
She never left.
Tugging a particularly stubborn dahlia loose from its crate and groaning, you said “You better not be this dramatic when I re-pot you, you spicy little diva.”
You smiled at the thought of Namjoon waiting at the café a few doors down. Soft-spoken, cardigan-wrapped wisdom with biceps sent by angels. Barista by day, therapist on Tuesdays, secret emotional support system always.
“I’ll need a double-shot existential crisis blend by noon,” you muttered to yourself.
Just as you wheeled the cart around the corner, something snapped.
A horrible, clunky CLANK.
The front wheel of the cart locked into a sewer grate with the force of a divine punishment.
“Oh, no. No. Not today, Satan.” you backed up. Tugged. Nothing.
Then planted one boot against the edge and yanked with both hands.
CRACK. WHOOSH.
Half the flowers flung forward like floral missiles. you barely registered the sound of someone’s startled grunt.
you looked up.
Right into the very confused, very sharp-boned face of a man now covered in flamingo lilies and crushed peonies. He stood stock-still, long black sleeves, dark eyes, and exactly zero expression. And hot.
He blinked. Dead serious.
“Guess I finally got my flowers,” he said.
“Who died?”
you blinked back.
Then narrowed your eyes. “Depends. Do you count as emotionally deceased?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “I prefer emotionally hibernating.”
Both of you stared at each other. Then you realized that you had no idea who he was—but hated how unfairly hot he looked in this stupid lighting.
Also? One of your daisies was in his hair.
⸻
The bell above the shop door screamed as it slammed shut behind you, announcing your return like it was reporting a crime.
stormed inside, hair half out of its bun, one boot untied, and flower petals stuck in places flower petals were never meant to be. Your hands flew up as you muttered an impressively creative string of curses under your breath—something about lilies, sewer grates, and how God clearly had a sense of humor.
Jihyo didn’t even flinch. She looked up from behind the counter, one eyebrow raised, iced matcha still perfectly still in her hand.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said casually.
“No.” your voice dry, eyes wide. “Worse.”
“Worse than a ghost?” Jihyo set down her drink and stared harder. “Did the snapdragons finally talk back?”
You dragged the cart to a stop and slapped the leftover flowers on the counter like they’d betrayed you.
You held up your hands, exasperated. “My cart wheel got stuck. I yanked it, lost control, and the flowers literally flew. Hit this guy square in the jaw. And he just stood there. Didn’t even flinch. Like it happens to him every Tuesday.”
Jihyo was already grinning. “Wait. Was he hot?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Irrelevant.”
“That’s a yes.”
“It is not.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“I’m traumatized.”
“Tomato, tomahto.”
Groaning, collapsed onto the little stool behind the counter. “He had the face of a Greek god and the personality of a haunted spreadsheet.”
“So… mysterious and emotionally constipated?”
“Yes. And deadpan. When I asked if he was emotionally deceased, he said he preferred emotionally hibernating.”
Jihyo let out a wheeze. “Who says that?”
“Apparently the man I assaulted with my peonies.”
There was a pause.
Then Jihyo said, very slowly, “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Tell me this didn’t happen right outside the tattoo shop.”
You looked up. “Why would you say that like you know something?”
“Because if it’s the same guy I think it is… that would be Jeon Jungkook.”
Then your eyebrows shot up. “Who?”
“Tattoo artist. Quiet. Tall. Hot. Looks like he eats cigarettes for breakfast and has never emotionally recovered from middle school.”
“That was the vibe,” you muttered.
Jihyo leaned forward. “Did he have a mole under his lip?”
“I didn’t count his pores, Jihyo.”
“But you noticed the jawline.”
“Shut up.”
Jihyo grinned, and then her expression shifted into something half-serious. “You should probably stay away from him.”
Blinking, you asked. “What? Why?”
Jihyo shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Because he’s intense. And weird. And broody. And… tattoo artists are always dangerous.”
“That’s literally your type.”
“I know. Which is why I’m warning you.”
You frowned. “This is the first time I’ve seen him. How do you even know him already?”
Jihyo sipped her matcha, eyes glinting. “I have my ways.”
“Jihyo.”
“I once followed his Pinterest board by accident and ended up in a group chat with three men named Namjoon.”
“…What?”
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”
You stared at her best friend. “Sometimes I think you’re just collecting NPCs in real life.”
“And sometimes I think you’re one caffeine crash away from full villain origin story, so we’re even.”
⸻
Jungkook stood in the backroom of the studio, glaring at the mirror like it had done something personal.
He plucked the last of the crushed lily petals from his hoodie and held it up with two fingers like it was radioactive. “This was a mistake.”
The shop. The move. The entire city block. All of it.
He tossed the petal into the trash, only for another to fall out of his hair like nature was mocking him.
He muttered under his breath, voice low and biting. “Who gets hit in the face with flowers at nine in the fucking morning?”
And yet here he was. Still smelling faintly of florals. Still trying to forget the look on your face—equal parts shock, sarcasm, and something dangerously curious.
The worst part? He couldn’t even be mad. It was… funny. annoyingly funny. Now that if he thinks about it.
He picked another petal off his shoulder and cursed.
From behind the divider wall, there was a squeaky swivel.
Taehyung’s chair spun around like he was some sort of a James Bond villain.
He leaned back, smirking like a villain in socks. “You look like you just lost a custody battle to a florist.”
“I got ambushed,” Jungkook muttered.
Taehyung blinked. “By who? Garden gnomes?”
“No. A flower cart. And a woman.”
“A woman flower cart?”
Jungkook gave him a dead look. “She flung lilies at my face.”
Taehyung gasped. “Flung? On purpose?”
“No. It was… an accident. I think.”
Taehyung spun his chair again, slowly, thoughtfully. “Was she cute?”
Jungkook glared. “Why does that matter?”
“Because you’re growling, and that’s your ‘I’ve just met someone who might be at my level’ growl.”
“I don’t growl.”
“You definitely growled.”
Jungkook ignored him. “She said something about being emotionally deceased.”
Taehyung chuckled. “Sounds like your soulmate.”
“She insulted my tattoos.”
“Definitely your soulmate.”
There was a beat.
Then Jungkook turned, squinting. “Wait. How do you know what she looks like?”
Taehyung blinked, all innocent.
Jungkook stepped forward. “Taehyung.”
Taehyung lifted something from his lap—a flower. One of her flowers.
Jungkook stared at it like it was a bomb.
“You went to the shop?” he asked, eyes wide.
Taehyung shrugged. “It’s literally right across the street. You expect me to just ignore it?”
“You bought it?”
“I took it.”
Jungkook looked personally offended. “You stole a flower?”
“I left a ten,” Taehyung said. “Under the cactus. It counts.”
“That’s not how capitalism works.”
“It’s exactly how capitalism works.”
Jungkook rubbed his temple. “You’re unbelievable.”
Taehyung grinned, twirling the flower between his fingers. “You know, this place isn’t that bad. You’re already making enemies. That’s how you know a neighborhood is worth staying in.”
“I didn’t make an enemy.”
“Oh? So when are you asking her out?”
Jungkook threw the lily petal at him.
Taehyung ducked.
It hit the chair.
⸻
The new order came in just as you were dragging a bag of potting mix across the floor and losing a mild argument with a rogue fern. The bell dinged from the laptop. You wiped your hands on your already-dirty apron and walked over to check.
One custom bouquet.
Delivery included.
Okay. Nothing weird so far.
You clicked the order open and read through the notes.
“Color preference: white, yellow, pink. No red. He doesn’t deserve red.”
That made you blink.
Then came the request for the note card.
‘Hope your tattoos age better than your personality. You used to be hot, now you’re just annoying. Love, Somin.’
Then blinked again.
Then you read it aloud, slowly. “Hope your tattoos age better than your personality… You used to be hot, now you’re just annoying…”
You stared at the screen, expression blank.
“Damn.”
From across the shop, Jihyo looked up from her sketchpad. “What?”
“Got a breakup bouquet.”
“Oh? What’s the message?”
You turned the laptop toward her.
Jihyo squinted. Read. Let out a low whistle. “Yikes.”
“Right?” you muttered, grabbing a tray of carnations. “This one’s bitter as hell.”
“What’s the name?”
“Somin.” you scrolled down. “And it’s going to… Jeon Jungkook.”
shit.
Jihyo looked up again, fast. “What?”
You turned back to your best friend, slowly. “Jihyo.”
“Don’t say it.”
“It’s the guy.”
“What guy?”
“The one I hit in the face with flowers this morning.”
Jihyo blinked. “No way.”
“I’m not joking. It’s him.”
“That’s insane.”
“I know.”
You both stared at each other for a second.
Then Jihyo said, “Okay, but also. Of course.”
She started pulling the requested flowers into her arms. Daisies, pink carnations, yellow tulips. Pretty, harmless-looking things. Which only made it worse.
“No red?” Jihyo asked.
“Apparently red is too respectful.”
“Sounds like she wants him to feel ugly while surrounded by beauty.”
“She literally wrote ‘you used to be hot’ in the note. Like, that’s so rude.”
“But also funny.”
She wrapped the stems quickly, tying them together in a white paper cone with yellow tissue inside. Neutral, warm tones. Nothing romantic. Nothing angry. Just soft enough to sting.
“Honestly,” you said while curling the ribbon, “he didn’t look like a guy who dates.”
“You said he was hot.”
“He is hot, but not in a healthy way.”
Jihyo made a face. “What’s unhealthy-hot?”
“The kind of hot that looks like he listens to ambient noise playlists and ruins birthdays.”
“Oh. Brooding hot.”
“Exactly.”
Then you clipped the note card on the front and stepped back.
The bouquet looked great. Perfect even. But something about the whole thing rubbed at you. The name. The face from this morning. The way he hadn’t flinched. And now this?
Who was this man?
Who dated someone like that, and then broke up so badly they needed to be dragged through bouquet?
He really didn’t look like the dating type. He looked like the type who said “we’ll see” and meant “you’ll never hear from me again.”
The more you thought about it, the less surprised it was that it ended messy.
“Want me to deliver it?” Jihyo offered.
“No. If I’m going to be part of this weird post-breakup ritual, I want to see it through.”
“You’re weirdly invested.”
“I just want to see if he looks shocked.”
“Why would he? He probably gets hate mail in his smoothie orders.”
You picked up the bouquet carefully and grabbed the shop keys. “Be back in ten.”
“Take your time. Text me if he cries.”
“I won’t. But you’ll sense it.”
—
The inside of the studio was quiet. Too quiet.
As you stepped past the glass door, the contrast hit her. Where your shop was all warm wood and green life and things that needed care, this place felt still. Dark walls. Exposed metal shelves. Glass cases. Ink bottles lined up like a science lab.
There was art, too—framed sketches pinned on the walls. Mostly black and grey. Some flowers, some birds, one full back piece of a koi fish mid-motion. But everything was… controlled. Clean. Balanced.
It was almost too perfect.
Minimalist. Precise. Like whoever ran this place had a deep need for order, even if the tattoos themselves were full of movement and mess.
You took a step further in, bouquet still in hand.
The smell was different here. Ink. Alcohol wipes. Metal. Nothing soft. Nothing sentimental.
It made you wonder, again, how someone like that got involved with someone like Somin.
The buzzing of the tattoo machine cut out.
And a second later, he appeared—Jeon Jungkook, in the same black sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly damp like he’d just washed off whatever was left of this morning’s disaster.
You held the bouquet out before he could say anything. “Delivery. From someone named Somin.”
His face didn’t move, but something flickered in his eyes. A recognition. And maybe a sigh too quiet to hear.
He looked at the bouquet like it was a trap.
You waited.
He took it.
Then added, because you were still curious, still wondering what kind of guy stood in a place like this and dated a woman who wrote that kind of message:
“So… who is she?”
He looked at you. Eyes steady. Voice flat.
“None of your business.”
Well. That was that.
You were about to turn and leave when another voice called from the back.
“Ex,” Taehyung said, popping his head out from behind the corner like he’d been waiting for the moment. “They dated for a bit. She’s a stylist. Wanted to start a brand together. It didn’t work out.”
You glanced over at him.
He was dressed in a button-up that looked like it hadn’t been ironed once in its life, half-unbuttoned like he lived in an indie movie. Long hair, open smile. Something about him screamed “I paint at 2am and text you memes while shitting.”
“She was a bit much,” Taehyung added, casually. “He was worse.”
Jungkook sighed and dropped onto the low stool by the counter.
You looked at the two of them again—Jungkook with his blank expression and hands that looked like they were made for detail work, and Taehyung who was very clearly the opposite of all that.
“So,” you said, breaking the silence. “This is your studio?”
Jungkook nodded without looking at you.
Letting your eyes wander again, you looked at The shelves. The organized mess. The monochrome everything.
It didn’t feel cold, exactly. Just guarded. Like it was built to keep things separate. Clean.
“He doesn’t like color,” Taehyung said, watching you look around.
“I can tell.”
“He says it’s distracting.”
“It is,” Jungkook muttered, flicking the note card back and forth between his fingers.
“But he still draws in color sometimes,” Taehyung added, grinning. “He just doesn’t let anyone see it.”
That made you glance back at Jungkook.
He met your gaze briefly, then looked away.
“I should go,” you said, stepping back. “Good luck with the… flowers.”
He didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. His silence was louder than most people’s reactions.
And as you pushed open the glass door, bouquet-less now, you thought—not about the breakup, or the drama, or even Somin’s perfect insult.
You just thought about how someone who surrounded himself with sharp lines and cool tones still had lilies in his hair this morning.
By the time you got back to the shop, your shoulders were tight and thoughts were on loop.
You pushed open the door and let it fall shut behind harder than you meant to. The bell gave a half-hearted jingle like even it was too tired to care.
Jihyo didn’t look up right away. She was perched on the stool behind the counter, sipping the same iced matcha she’d been nursing for the past hour like it held ancient wisdom. Her phone was in her other hand, fingers scrolling lazily.
But her eyes flicked up the moment she heard the door click.
She studied your face for maybe three seconds.
Then she raised one eyebrow and said, “You look like someone just told you your plants are fake.”
Blinking you ran a hand through your hair. “Worse.”
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
Jihyo leaned forward, setting her cup down. “Okay. Who died?”
You dropped her tote bag on the floor and walked over to the stool across from her, sitting down like your bones had turned to dust.
Jihyo waited, eyes fixed on you, already halfway smiling.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” you asked.
“Absolutely. Now spill.”
You leaned back and crossed her arms. “His studio is… weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Not bad weird. Just… different. It’s really clean. Black walls. Metal shelves. Everything is organized to the point of it being almost clinical. But the artwork is insane. It’s beautiful, like detailed and emotional, but the place itself doesn’t match it. It feels like someone trying really hard not to feel anything.”
Jihyo stared. “You were only in there for two minutes.”
“I absorb energy fast.”
“You’re not a sponge.”
“No, but he might be. A dense one.”
Jihyo snorted.
You kept talking, like you needed to get it all out before it sat too long in your head. “And when I walked in, he didn’t even look surprised. Just took the bouquet and read the note like it was a lunch menu. Like, ‘oh, here’s my side of emotional damage today.’
“He really didn’t react?”
“Barely. When I asked who Somin was, he told me it was none of my business.”
Jihyo sat up straighter. “He said that?”
“Yep.”
“And you didn’t slap him?”
“Didn’t seem worth it.”
“Huh.” Jihyo tilted her head. “Okay but… he’s not wrong. You did kind of ask a personal question.”
“I was delivering a breakup bouquet with the emotional weight of a concrete block. I think I earned the right to ask.”
“Fair.”
You paused. “Then Taehyung chimed in.”
Jihyo gasped. “Taehyung?”
“His studio partner. Has long hair. Probably owns at least three mesh shirts.”
“God I love mesh-shirt men.”
“He said Jungkook and Somin dated. Said it ended messy. Said Jungkook was worse.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
Jihyo looked almost smug. “I could’ve told you that.”
You tilted your head. “How?”
“Because I’ve seen him.”
“But you said you didn’t know him personally.”
“I don’t. But he walks past the shop sometimes. Goes to Namjoon’s cafe. He’s the kind of guy who always wears headphones and looks like he’s calculating the emotional ROI of saying hello to people.”
“That is… specific.”
“I have a gift.”
You stretched your arms above your head and let them fall dramatically. “I don’t even know why this is bothering me. I’ve delivered worse messages than that.”
Jihyo leaned forward again. “It’s bothering you because the guy you slapped with lilies now has a face and a story.”
“It’s not bothering me. I’m just… confused.”
“Sure.”
“I’m serious.”
“Of course you are.”
you sighed.
Jihyo smirked and stood up, walking over to the mini fridge. “Want iced tea?”
“Please.”
She grabbed two cans, handed one over, and plopped back down.
After a sip, you spoke again, quieter this time. “You know, it’s weird. When I walked into his studio, I was expecting something grungy. Messy. Chaotic artist vibes. But it wasn’t like that. It was… careful. Almost empty. Except for the art. And even that was tucked away like he didn’t want people to notice it.”
Jihyo looked at you with something softer now. Not teasing. Just curious. “You think he’s lonely?”
you shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe he just likes things quiet.”
There was a pause. Then Jihyo asked, “Did he say anything else?”
Looking at the ceiling, you sighed and continued, “He asked if Somin used pink carnations. And when I said yes, he said that tracked. Then he said she spelled something wrong.”
‘’And?”
“I told him I fixed it.”
Jihyo grinned. “You’re such a menace.”
“I didn’t want my shop associated with grammatical errors.”
“You should embroider that on an apron.”
There was a moment of silence again. The kind that settled between both of you easily. Like this was just another normal day. Another weird customer story. Another coffee run waiting to happen.
Except it wasn’t quite normal.
You couldn’t shake the feeling from earlier. That glance. The smell of ink and metal. The way he didn’t ask who you were, or why you were there, or what you thought of the bouquet. He just existed in the silence like he was used to being left alone in it.
And maybe that was the part you couldn’t stop thinking about.
⸻
The days passed the way late summer always did—slow, a little sticky, quiet in that not-quite-comfortable way. The flower shop settled into its usual rhythm: morning arrangements, weird online orders, walk-ins asking for “whatever looks like forgiveness.”
And once in a while, you saw him.
Not in a movie way. Just… glimpses.
Sometimes Jungkook would walk past the shop without looking in, headphones in, hood up even though it wasn’t cold.
Once, he was standing at the corner by the bus stop, arms folded, waiting.
Another time, he was unlocking his studio door across the street, early in the morning, before the rest of the world had stretched its arms and pretended to care.
Both of you didn’t speak.
Didn’t nod or wave or even make eye contact.
He was just there. Occasionally. Like a streetlight you didn’t think about unless it flickered.
You didn’t talk about him either. Not to Jihyo. Not even to yourself.
But you noticed. Quietly. Stupidly. Like your brain was filing away sightings you hadn’t asked for.
It was one of those thick, grey-cloud afternoons when the air felt like it might rain but hadn’t decided yet. The kind of weather that demanded caffeine and gossip.
You and Jihyo pushed open the front door of Namjoon’s café and were immediately hit with that warm, toasted smell that always felt like a hug.
Common Grounds, as the chalkboard sign called it, looked the same as always. Cozy lighting. A rotating display of weird local art on the walls. A single speaker near the counter playing a low, lo-fi playlist that sounded like it belonged in a coming-of-age film.
Namjoon was behind the counter, wiping it down like it had personally wronged him.
When he saw them walk in, he smiled like they were regulars at a bar and he was secretly keeping all their trauma tabs.
“Afternoon,” he said, setting the cloth aside. “You both look like you’ve survived something.”
Jihyo stepped up first. “We survived four back-to-back customers asking for ‘boho neutral’ wedding florals.”
“Which means beige,” you added, “but they won’t admit it.”
Namjoon raised an eyebrow. “You want sympathy or sugar?”
“Both,” Jihyo said. “Iced matcha for me. Extra syrup.”
Then you stepped up next. “Can I get an iced americano with oat milk?”
“Sweetener?”
“Surprise me. But not in a ‘give me diabetes’ way.”
He chuckled. “So nothing with lavender.”
You pointed at him. “Exactly.”
As he moved to prep their drinks, you rested her elbows on the counter and watched him work. Everything Namjoon did was calm. Measured. Like his brain had already made peace with the chaos of the world and decided to just keep brewing coffee until it stopped spinning.
Jihyo leaned against your shoulder. “If he wasn’t a barista, he’d definitely be a monk.”
Namjoon looked over his shoulder. “I heard that.”
“Good.”
He slid the iced matcha across first, then reached for the espresso machine.
“Things still slow at the shop?” he asked you.
You shrugged. “Busy enough to keep me from overthinking. Not busy enough to keep Jihyo from reorganizing the entire stockroom.”
“I color-coded the succulents,” Jihyo said proudly.
Namjoon didn’t even blink. “You’re terrifying.”
“I’ve accepted that.”
Her drink arrived next, and they thanked him in unison before heading to their usual table by the window. It was small, slightly uneven, and always had one chair that squeaked—but it was theirs.
Jihyo and you sat down, the quiet buzz of the café settling around you like background music. Outside, the wind pushed gently at the shop signs, and somewhere, a dog barked exactly once.
It was a good moment.
Then Jihyo froze mid-sip.
She set her cup down slowly and leaned in.
“Don’t turn around.”
You blinked. “That’s never a good start.”
“No, seriously. Pretend I said something interesting and make a face.”
You stared. “You have never said anything interesting in your life.”
“Just do it,” Jihyo hissed. “Okay now. Very casually. Turn around.”
You turned your head like you were just adjusting the loose strand of hair.
And there he was.
Jungkook.
Ordering at the counter. Shoulders squared, head slightly tilted as he scanned the menu like he hadn’t been here before.
Taehyung was next to him, chatting with Namjoon like they were old friends. He leaned on the counter, grinning at something Namjoon said, while Jungkook looked… still.
Not tense. Just—quiet. Like always.
You blinked and turned back to Jihyo, expression unreadable.
Jihyo raised both eyebrows. “Well?”
You took a sip of your coffee. “Weird seeing him here.”
“He comes sometimes. I’ve seen him twice before.”
“You’ve never mentioned it.”
“You never asked.”
You rolled your eyes and looked down at the cup between your hands. “He looks… normal.”
Jihyo shrugged. “He is, probably. Just the moody, internal kind of normal.”
You sat there for a few more seconds, sipping their drinks, neither saying much. The conversation had stalled, but not in an uncomfortable way. Just enough to make you glance up one more time.
Jungkook was still there.
You both hardly just returned to the comfortable silence between two people pretending not to think too hard about someone behind them, when a voice interrupted them. Loud. Bright. Familiar in a way she hadn’t expected.
“Wait—wait, wait, wait.”
Taehyung.
You didn’t even need to turn around. His energy had that unmistakable stamp of disruption ahead.
“Oh god,” you muttered under your breath, reaching for your drink like you might need it as a shield.
Taehyung’s voice kept going. “Are you serious?”
Then he was standing at the side of your table, blinking between the two of you with the wide-eyed awe of someone who just found a childhood friend in a cereal aisle.
“I knew I recognized you,” he said, pointing at Jihyo. “You’re the one who posted that video about the bouquet arrangement that looked like a roast chicken. That was you.”
Jihyo blinked. “It was a turkey.”
“I knew it.”
Then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—he turned around and grabbed Jungkook by the wrist, who was halfway through picking up his coffee.
“Come here,” Taehyung said. “Come here right now. Look at this.”
Jungkook looked like he’d rather evaporate. “I just want to sit—”
“Look at this,” Taehyung repeated, ignoring him. “This is the florist’s best friend.”
Jungkook glanced at you. Then at Jihyo. Then back at Taehyung, visibly unimpressed.
“I’m so glad you dragged me for this,” he said flatly.
“Shut up. You love it.”
“Deeply.”
Taehyung pulled a chair and dropped into it without asking. Jihyo, looking only mildly stunned now, laughed softly and scooted over to give him space. Jungkook followed slower, reluctantly, settling into the chair across from you like he’d been given a seating assignment at a wedding he didn’t want to attend.
There was a long pause.
You looked at Jungkook.
He looked at you.
No one said anything.
Then Jihyo turned to Taehyung, eyebrows raised. “So. What made you watch the bouquet video?”
Taehyung shrugged. “I was high and thought it was a cooking tutorial.”
Jihyo let out a small laugh. “It was a turkey.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Taehyung said.
“You should. I cried.”
The two of them were off after that, bouncing off each other like old friends even though they’d just met. Somewhere in the middle of trading flower shop horror stories and dramatic customer encounters, Taehyung gasped.
“No. No way.”
“What?” Jihyo asked.
“You posted that chart of flower colors and what they say emotionally, right?”
“Yeah…” she replied slowly.
“I printed that and taped it to Jungkook’s drawer.”
Jihyo stared. “The one that said ‘red = lust, pink = you might care but don’t want to admit it’?”
“That one.”
Jungkook sighed, lifting his coffee like it was the only thing tethering him to sanity.
“Is that why he glared at my tulip sketch last week?” Jihyo asked, smirking.
“Probably.”
“Unreal.”
Without warning, Taehyung jumped up. “No, you have to see what he did with the petals last week. You’ll die. Come on.”
He grabbed Jihyo’s sleeve without hesitation.
“What?” she blinked, caught off guard.
“Come. It’s two doors down. It’s insane. You’ll love it.”
“I haven’t even finished—” she started.
“You can bring the cup.”
Jihyo gave you one last amused look as she stood up. “Pray for me.”
“Not likely,” you muttered.
And just like that, the two of them disappeared through the café door, mid-sentence, mid-laugh, like they’d been doing this forever.
You blinked at the space they left behind.
Then turned your head slowly to Jungkook, who hadn’t moved.
You sat in silence for another moment.
And then finally spoke. “Are they always like that?”
Jungkook exhaled. “Only on days that end in Y.”
That cracked something. Not a full smile, not quite. But a tiny shift in the quiet.
You looked over at him again. He was still dressed the same—black sweatshirt, simple jeans, hair tucked behind one ear now. But there was something softer in the way he leaned back, eyes not quite as guarded as usual.
“You work with him every day?” you asked.
He nodded. “Unfortunately.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” he said, then added after a pause, “but he’s good. Keeps things from going still.”
You traced the rim of her cup with her thumb. “I get that.”
They fell quiet again, but it didn’t feel awkward. It just felt like two people sitting next to each other in a city that kept moving around them.
Jungkook was the one to speak next. “So… the flower shop. That’s yours?”
“Yeah.”
“You always run it alone?”
You shook her head. “Jihyo helps. It was mine and my mom’s originally. We started small, just arrangements and houseplants. Then she got sick. I took it over.”
He didn’t say anything, and you didn’t expect him to. The silence was enough.
“I kept it because it felt like something alive,” you said. “Something that needed hands. It made the grief quieter.”
He was still for a long moment. Then he said, quietly, “That makes sense.”
You looked up at him.
“I get that,” he added, voice calm. Sincere.
You didn’t answer right away. There was no need to fill the quiet with anything more.
After a while, you asked, “What about your shop?”
“I started out doing graphic design,” he said. “Did a few illustrations. Got bored. Tattooing felt closer to the skin. Like it meant something.”
“And now?”
“Now I do a lot of cover-ups. Custom work. Things people don’t want to explain.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Some things are easier to wear than say.”
You nodded slowly, letting the thought sit.
“What about your tattoos?” you asked. “Any of them have stories?”
“A few.”
He didn’t elaborate. you didn’t push.
Both sat together for a while after that. Not talking. Not planning to.
And you realized you didn’t mind the silence this time. Not here. Not with him.
Jungkook looked over once more. “I didn’t say thanks earlier. For the flowers.”
You tilted your head. “You mean the breakup bouquet?”
“Yeah. That one.”
“You’re welcome. It was petty. But it looked good.”
“Most things that hurt do.”
You looked at him, really looked this time.
And after a moment, you said softly, “That’s true.”
Neither of you got up. Neither of you rushed it.
For the first time since that ridiculous cart wheel got stuck in the street, it felt like you weren’t on opposite sides of something.
Just two people.
Sitting still, together.
⸻
It was close to midnight when you gave up trying to sleep.
The room was dark, warm from the day’s leftover heat, one window cracked open to let the wind in. Your sheets were half-tangled around your legs. The pillow was slightly too warm on one side, and flipping it didn’t help.
You turned again, then sighed. Pulled the covers up. Kicked them off.
And still—your mind stayed awake.
It wasn’t even a big deal. That’s what you kept telling yourself.
You’d run into each other. Talked a little. Shared a few quiet minutes at the café while Jihyo and Taehyung acted like they’d known each other since birth. That was it.
People do that all the time. Talk. Sit. Share space.
It didn’t mean anything.
Except maybe it did. Just a little.
Not because of what he said.
But because of how it felt.
Still. Settled. Real.
You stared at the ceiling.
He hadn’t said much. But what he did say had landed. Soft and steady. Like he meant every word, even the short ones.
And the way he listened…
You noticed that. The way he wasn’t looking for a reaction. Just listening like it mattered. Like it was something rare.
You turned again and stared out the window.
He looked different in that space—Jungkook. Not like he did in the shop doorway or walking past your window. At the café, he looked like a version of himself he didn’t show often. Less guarded. More human.
And when he asked about your mom, he didn’t ask to be polite. He asked like he knew what kind of ache that was.
You sighed again and rolled onto your side.
What did it mean? Probably nothing.
But your brain—always louder at night—kept going back to that quiet.
To him sitting across from you.
To the way he didn’t try to fill the silence.
He was just there.
And maybe that was the part that stayed with you.
Not the words.
Not the tattoos.
Just… him.
There.
The next morning started like any other.
The shutters creaked when you opened them. The basil wall looked vaguely offended at being watered late. The playlist on your phone shuffled into something soft and wordless.
And the city outside felt… the same. Rushed and restless, like it always did.
You tied her apron without thinking about it. Labeled the first few orders. Rearranged the sunflowers by height. It was the kind of quiet morning that usually felt routine. Automatic. No thinking required.
Except today, you couldn’t stop thinking.
The café. Last night. The silence with Jungkook. Not heavy, not tense. Just… quiet in a way that felt shared.
You didn’t know what to make of that.
Didn’t know what it meant, if anything. You were not the type to read too much into moments. But something about the way he’d listened—really listened—had lingered.
Not that you expected to see him again.
You dusted off a shelf and stood back to look at the placement. Something about it felt crooked. you adjusted it again.
The bell over the door chimed.
You didn’t look up at first.
“Be right there,” you called, brushing your hands off on a apron. “Give me two seconds.”
When you turned, you almost didn’t recognize him.
Not because he looked different. He didn’t.
Same all-black hoodie. Same quiet posture. Same unreadable expression.
But he looked… out of place. In your shop. In this space.
You blinked.
Jungkook stood near the entrance, one hand still on the door handle, like he wasn’t sure whether to stay or turn back around.
He looked at you.
You looked back.
Neither of you said anything for a moment.
Then you asked, carefully, “Need something?”
He opened his mouth. Then closed it.
He let go of the door and stepped in a little further. His eyes moved across the shelves—slowly, like he was taking in everything at once.
“I was just… walking,” he said finally. “And I ended up here.”
You watched him. “Okay.”
“I didn’t plan to.”
“Also okay.”
Jungkook looked at a small pot of white daisies near the front table. Picked one up, then set it down again. His hands looked a little unsure, like they weren’t used to being surrounded by things that could bruise or bend too easily.
He looked back at you. “Is this always how it smells in here?”
You raised an eyebrow. “You mean like eucalyptus and wet soil?”
He nodded once.
“Yeah. Why?”
“No reason.”
Another beat passed.
He didn’t leave.
You leaned on the counter. “You want tea or something?”
His eyebrows pulled together slightly, like the question confused him.
‘’I have ginger and mint” you added.
He gave a slow blink. “Mint’s fine.”
You moved behind the small kitchenette, dropping a tea bag into a chipped mug with a leaf painted on the side. Jungkook stayed where he was, still quiet, still glancing at everything like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.
You handed him the mug.
He nodded his thanks.
You leaned against the counter beside him. “So… you ended up here.”
“Yeah.”
He sipped the tea. Didn’t react. “This is good.”
“I stole it from Namjoon’s shelf.”
That got a small exhale of air. Maybe a laugh. Maybe not. You didn’t press it.
Both of you stood like that for a while. Not speaking.
Then he turned slightly. “It’s peaceful here.”
You looked at him. “It usually is. Mornings are calm. Sometimes too calm.”
He nodded.
You watched him for a moment. “You don’t seem like someone who just walks around.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why today?”
He looked down at the tea, like the answer might be floating at the bottom of the cup.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I just… felt like coming.”
You didn’t say anything. Let the quiet settle around them again.
He looked back up. “This shop. It was your mom’s?”
“Yeah.”
“What was she like?”
You hesitated, but just for a second. “Kind. Smart. A little dramatic. She liked doing things with her hands. Hated mess, though. Always had to clean as she worked.”
Jungkook smiled, small and brief. “Opposite of me.”
“I can tell.”
You reached for a nearby watering can and slowly started checking the smaller potted herbs. Jungkook didn’t move to leave. Just stood there, watching you work like he hadn’t been around this kind of stillness in a while.
“You ever wish you’d done something else?” he asked suddenly.
You paused. “You mean besides the shop?”
“Yeah.”
You thought about it for a moment. “Maybe. I used to like writing. Poetry. But after she passed, I couldn’t focus on anything else. The shop needed me.”
He nodded. “I get that.”
You looked up. “What about you?”
He hesitated, then said, “I started tattooing because I didn’t like how quiet my head got when I stopped drawing.”
You didn’t answer, but your hands slowed.
He continued, voice lower now. “It gave me a way to fill the silence. Something about putting something permanent on someone else—it felt like I could leave proof. Even if it was just lines.”
You looked at him. “That’s a good reason.”
“Not always. Sometimes I think I just needed somewhere to put the mess.”
There was a quiet between you then, deeper than the ones before. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy enough to feel real.
You finally said, “I think we all do. That’s why I kept the shop. It gave me something to carry that wasn’t just grief.”
He nodded slowly, like he understood that on a level he didn’t talk about out loud.
Glancing over, you whispered. “You want to see something?”
He looked at you. “Sure.”
You led him toward the back, where the tiny greenhouse window was cracked open, letting in light. A hanging pot of morning glory vines stretched toward the sun, stubborn and wild.
“My mom hated these,” you said. “Said they were too clingy. Always reaching. But I liked them. They don’t know how not to try.”
He didn’t say anything. Just looked at the flowers. Then at again at you.
You turned back around, pulling your hair away from your face with one hand. “You don’t have to explain why you came. Just—if you ever feel like showing up again, it’s fine.”
He watched you for a moment longer.
Then said, “Okay.”
You smiled. Just a little.
He didn’t stay long after that. Didn’t try to. Just finished the tea, set the mug on the counter, and walked out quietly, like he was part of the space now.
But after the door shut and the bell rang out behind him, you stood in the middle of the shop for a minute longer, your hand still curled around the watering can.
He’d come in for no reason.
And for some reason, that meant more than you could say.
⸻
Time didn’t shift all at once. It wasn’t sudden.
It moved the way seasons did. Softly. Slowly. In pieces you didn’t notice until everything felt different, and you couldn’t remember exactly when it changed.
You and Jungkook didn’t become friends overnight.
Not even close.
But you stopped being strangers.
There were days when you glanced up from rearranging a shelf and caught him walking past the shop, a takeaway coffee in one hand, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Sometimes he looked in. Sometimes he didn’t.
And then one day, he did.
He gave you a small nod through the glass. Nothing dramatic. Just a quiet acknowledgment.
You nodded back.
That became the new thing.
Some mornings, when your window was open and the breeze carried in the smell of soil and jasmine, you saw him across the street, unlocking the studio door. If he noticed you, he lifted a hand in a silent wave. You waved back without thinking.
Neither of you mentioned it.
It just became part of the day.
⸻
Sometimes he stopped by the shop without warning.
Once, he leaned against the counter and watched while you trimmed a bundle of delphiniums for a bouquet.
“What do those mean?” he asked, pointing.
You looked up. “Delphiniums?”
He nodded.
“Positivity,” you said. “And dignity.”
“Why dignity?”
“They stand tall.”
Jungkook looked at the flowers again. “Huh.”
You expected him to walk off, but he stayed. That day, you taught him more.
Snapdragons for strength. Sweet peas for goodbye. Camellias for admiration. Yellow roses for friendship, white for new beginnings, red for love.
He didn’t say much. But he listened. Every word.
When you stopped to grab a new bundle of stems, you glanced back and saw him still looking at the flowers like they were trying to tell him something.
⸻
He returned the favor in his own way.
One afternoon, when the sun dipped low and the shop was closed for the day, you locked up and turned to find him across the street, arms folded outside his studio.
“Got something to show you,” he said.
You hesitated. “Right now?”
“Yeah.”
You followed him inside. The shop looked the same as always—quiet, neat, controlled. But in the back, he pulled out a flat drawer from one of the cabinets and set a large sketchbook down.
He opened it.
And you forgot what you were supposed to say.
The drawings weren’t what you expected. Not sharp or aggressive. Not cold.
They were detailed. Intricate. Precise. But full of movement. Like they had breath. Life.
Florals. Wings. Symbols. One snake wrapped around a peony stem. A koi fish with trailing petals in its scales. A human heart, stitched with vines.
You turned one page. Then another. Then another.
“These are all yours?” you asked.
He nodded.
You looked up at him. “You’ve tattooed these?”
“Most of them.”
You went quiet again, flipping to a design of two hands reaching toward each other, one inked in fine lines of roses, the other in thorns.
“I didn’t expect this,” you said softly.
He leaned against the workbench. “What did you expect?”
You thought for a second. “Something colder. Something sharper. I don’t know.”
He didn’t look offended. Just thoughtful.
“People assume that a lot,” he said.
“They’re wrong.”
He gave a short nod. “So were you.”
You didn’t disagree.
He showed you the machine next. Nothing flashy. Just what he worked with. How it ran. He told you about technique. Needle depth. Line work. Shading. Color saturation.
You watched his hands. How careful they were. How steady.
When he handed you the machine—not on, just to hold—you took it like it was something fragile.
“You’re really good,” you said after a while.
Jungkook didn’t respond right away.
But there was something in the way he looked at you then. A quiet kind of acceptance.
“Thanks,” he said finally.
⸻
Another time, it was your turn again.
You had been growing something rare for weeks. A small climbing vine in the back greenhouse window that had only just begun to bloom. The petals were pale blue, nearly translucent, curling at the edges like frost.
You texted him : It bloomed.
He didn’t ask what you meant. Just showed up ten minutes later.
You led him to the back and pointed to the plant without saying a word.
He crouched down to look closer.
“Blue passionflower,” you said. “Almost impossible to get to bloom this time of year.”
He glanced up at you. “How’d you manage it?”
“Patience,” you said.
“Lots of water?”
“No. Patience,” you repeated. “It needs time. Quiet. Not too much attention.”
He looked at the flower again.
You both sat down on the steps just outside the greenhouse. You didn’t talk for a while. The kind of silence that didn’t stretch too far or weigh too heavy.
Eventually, you did talk. About small things. About music. About why you used to write but didn’t anymore. About the first tattoo he ever gave. How he messed it up slightly, and the guy still said it was perfect.
You told him how the shop still didn’t feel fully yours, some days.
He told you he sometimes drew things he’d never ink on anyone, just to keep them for himself.
You asked if he had any regrets.
He didn’t answer.
But he didn’t leave either.
⸻
You never labeled it. Whatever was happening.
You didn’t meet up on purpose.
You didn’t text much.
You didn’t make plans.
But you noticed when he wasn’t around.
And he started pausing outside your window a little longer each day.
Some things didn’t need to be said.
Some things just grew. Quietly. Steadily. Without asking permission.
⸻
It wasn’t a decision, not really.
There was no moment of staring across a candlelit room, no grand realization, no whispered confessions or accidental kisses that tipped everything over.
It just…..happened.
You and Jungkook started seeing more of each other.
Not just by accident or out of convenience. You started showing up on purpose.
Jihyo noticed it first.
She didn’t say anything right away. She just started watching you a little differently when you talked about your day or when you instinctively wiped your hands on your apron before stepping out for a break across the street.
She gave you looks. The kind that said she knew more than she let on.
Taehyung wasn’t any more subtle.
The second time Jungkook stopped by the shop with a coffee for you and didn’t even explain why, Taehyung popped his head in five minutes later with a grin so wide it looked painful.
“Anything blooming in here?” he asked loudly.
You had almost thrown the watering can at him.
⸻
You started going to the café together.
Sometimes you walked in separately and ended up sitting together.
Sometimes he’d already have a drink waiting for you, and you’d pretend not to be flustered.
Sometimes he’d order last, mutter your usual to Namjoon without asking you, and you’d wonder how he’d remembered.
It was easy.
Easier than you expected.
There were still silences, but they weren’t empty anymore. They were full of little things. Shared glances. Amused smirks. The occasional brush of his knee against yours beneath the small café table.
He didn’t pull away.
Neither did you.
⸻
Jihyo was worse now.
She stared at your phone when it buzzed and raised an eyebrow when Jungkook’s name appeared.
She started asking loaded questions like, “You seeing each other again?”
And then, “Do you like him?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Which wasn’t true.
You did know.
You liked the way he listened.
You liked the way he noticed things without needing to say them out loud.
The way he always stood close but never crowded. The way he leaned in when you talked like your words were the only ones in the room.
You liked his hands. His sketches. The quiet focus in his eyes.
You liked him.
That was it.
There were moments.
Little ones.
Like the time you reached across the table to grab a napkin and your fingers grazed his.
Neither of you moved for a second. Then he turned his hand slightly and let your fingers stay.
Or the time you sat outside the shop on the steps after closing and he reached over, casually brushing a smudge of soil from your cheek with the back of his knuckle. He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you, then looked away like he hadn’t just made your pulse skip.
There was flirting, too.
Not the loud, obvious kind. Just something softer. Quieter. A certain tilt to his voice when he said your name.
The way you rolled your eyes when he teased you, only to glance back and find him already watching you.
And when you caught him doing it, he didn’t look away.
⸻
One evening, the four of you ended up at the café together. You, Jungkook, Taehyung, and Jihyo.
It wasn’t planned. Just one of those things that happened.
The sun had dipped low, and the light outside was golden and drowsy.
You were all laughing at something Taehyung had said—something ridiculous and probably untrue—when you turned to Jungkook.
He was already looking at you.
He didn’t smile, not really. Just something smaller. More real. A look that said he was glad to be there, in that moment, with you.
And without thinking, your hand rested lightly over his on the table.
He didn’t flinch.
He turned his hand over and linked your fingers with his.
Just for a second.
Then Jihyo fake-gagged, Taehyung whooped dramatically, and you pulled your hand back while trying not to smile like an idiot.
But the air between you had shifted. You could feel it.
He felt it too.
⸻
You didn’t talk about it.
Not yet.
You didn’t need to.
Because sometimes, it was enough to just sit next to him.
Sometimes, it was enough to walk beside him in silence and know that he’d glance over every now and then.
That he’d wait for you to catch up.
That he’d never rush you to say anything you weren’t ready to.
You didn’t know where it was going, not exactly.
But for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel the need to control it.
It felt like something living.
Something growing.
And you were okay with that.
It was late. Later than either of you planned to stay.
The shop was closed. The café lights had gone out an hour ago. The street had quieted to a hush, and the moon was sitting fat and low above the rooftops.
You were sitting on the steps outside your shop again, the same ones you’d sat on weeks ago when you showed him the blue passionflower. Except this time, he was already there, leaning back with his arms propped behind him, long legs stretched out, gaze half on the sky and half on you.
“You always sit like that?” you asked, nudging his boot with yours.
“Like what?”
“Like the ground personally offended you.”
He tilted his head toward you, deadpan. “It did.”
You laughed—soft, the kind that curled in your chest and didn’t bother hiding.
He looked at you for a second longer, then turned away again, but not before you saw the edge of a smile tugging at his mouth.
There was music playing faintly from someone’s window above. Old jazz, maybe. Soft horns and low piano. It filled the space between you the way your conversations used to. Easy. Slow. Something unspoken that didn’t need to be named.
“You’ve been quieter lately,” he said after a while.
You raised an eyebrow. “That a complaint?”
“No,” he said, and then he looked at you again. Really looked. “I like it. It’s… you. But softer.”
You didn’t say anything to that. Just let it settle somewhere in your chest, warm and slow.
A breeze slipped past, and you shivered slightly.
He noticed.
Without saying a word, he shrugged out of his hoodie and offered it to you.
You took it.
Slipped it on.
It was soft, worn, and it smelled like his studio—ink, clean wood, something like bergamot. It hung off your frame, sleeves way too long, and you tugged them over your hands.
He watched you do it, eyes trailing across your fingers.
“You’re doing that thing again,” you said.
“What thing?”
“Staring like you’re thinking too hard.”
He paused. Then—“I do think too hard.”
You didn’t expect that answer. It made your throat tighten, just slightly.
You shifted, turning toward him.
Your knees touched.
He didn’t move.
So you didn’t either.
“I like that you listen,” you said suddenly.
He looked over.
“You don’t just hear things,” you continued. “You remember them. Even the things I say by accident.”
There was a beat.
Then he spoke. Quiet. Measured.
“You know what I remember most?”
You raised your chin. “What?”
“The first time you smiled at me.”
Your breath caught.
“It was real,” he added, like that mattered. Like that made it.
You blinked once. Twice.
And then, before you could think it through, you reached over—hand grazing his wrist first, then resting gently on top of it.
He looked down at your hand.
Then back at you.
And when he leaned in, it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t sudden.
It was slow.
Measured.
Like he’d waited long enough.
Like you had, too.
His hand came up to your face, fingers brushing along your jaw before slipping behind your neck. His touch was steady. No rush. Like he was giving you time to pull away if you wanted.
You didn’t.
So he kissed you.
It wasn’t perfect. A little tentative. A little breathless.
But it was warm. Honest.
Real.
You exhaled against his mouth. His thumb moved along your cheekbone. You kissed him again, softer. Surer. And this time, he smiled into it.
When you finally pulled back, neither of you said anything for a long time.
He just looked at you.
You looked right back.
Then, almost lazily, he said, “You’re still wearing my hoodie.”
You smirked. “Yeah?”
“Keep it.”
“Why?”
“So you have to come back and return it.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Only about you.”
Your heart thudded. Loud. Loud enough to feel in your throat.
So you kissed him again.
Because finally—
you could.
After the kiss, you didn’t go back to the shop.
You didn’t go anywhere.
You just found yourselves climbing the rusted fire stairs beside his studio, the metal warm beneath your palms, the night air wrapped around your shoulders. Neither of you said anything. Words felt like too much.
The rooftop was quiet. Still. The city buzzing somewhere below, but far enough away to feel like it didn’t belong to either of you.
You stood at the edge, side by side, your fingers brushing now and then.
Then again.
Then again.
Until he took your hand and didn’t let it go.
The sky above was a navy bruise, scattered with faint stars. The kind of summer night that didn’t cool down even after the sun dipped. You could still feel the heat off the pavement, off the metal railing, off the way he looked at you.
“You always bring girls up here?” you asked lightly, trying to breathe normal.
Jungkook glanced at you with that slow, unreadable expression. Then he leaned in just slightly, so close his mouth brushed the edge of your ear.
“Only the ones I want to kiss again.”
You turned to him fully this time. “That so?”
He nodded once. Like it wasn’t even a question.
His other hand came up, fingertips trailing along the inside of your arm. Barely a touch. Barely anything. But your entire body locked onto it, like it meant more than it should.
You looked at him—really looked—and you realized just how close you were.
There was nothing innocent in his eyes now.
That softness was still there, yes. The part of him that listened. That learned flowers. That stood in your shop quietly, watching you with the kind of attention most people didn’t have the patience for.
But there was something else, too.
Something darker. Needier. Less restrained.
It sat right at the corner of his mouth. In the way his gaze dropped slowly to your lips, then lower, then back again.
You said nothing.
But you didn’t move away either.
And that was enough.
His hand slid to your waist, dragging you closer. One step. Then two. Until you were flush against him. Until there was no space left. Until you could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your palms, the slow drag of his breath as he tilted his head and kissed you again.
This one wasn’t sweet.
It was hungry.
Hot.
The kind of kiss that stole the thoughts right out of your head. That pulled a sound from your throat you hadn’t meant to make. That left your hands wandering without permission—across his chest, up his neck, into his hair.
His hands found your hips. Firm. Familiar. Possessive in a way that made your legs feel shaky.
He pulled you even closer.
You let him.
The night felt hotter now.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew this wasn’t going to stop at kissing. Not tonight. Not with the way his mouth moved down your jaw, slow and deliberate, like he was learning you inch by inch.
Not with the way you gasped when his fingers pressed just a little tighter at your waist.
Not with the way your body arched into his without even meaning to.
He paused only once.
Looked at you.
Really looked.
Like he was asking a question without saying it.
You gave him the answer with the way you pulled him down again.
With the way your hands slid under his shirt.
With the way you whispered his name like it was already yours to say like that.
And under the navy sky, on the rooftop that held your laughter and your silences and all the moments in between—
He kissed you like he knew exactly what you needed.
in which Taehyung shows you the perks of flying with him first class.
a/n: his story post was crazyyyy he knew better to put a blurry filter over it because his arm veins in a tank top in HD would have murdered me. this was out of my hands i just had to screenshot his story and turn it into fic fuel immediately, the IG story hasn't even expired yet that's how down bad I am, I wasn't even supposed to write today ݁˖Ი𐑼⋆
pairing: bf taehyung x fem!reader
wc: 2500, 9 mins
themes: smut, fear of being caught, thigh fucking bc taehyung is a slut, creampie, cockwarming, porn with barely any plot, but there's some cute fluff about you joining him on tour ♡
The ding of the seatbelt signal turning off pulled you out of your light slumber, and you slid your headphones off one ear. The cabin lights were off, just the glowing track of the dim blue ambient lights ran across the ceiling, giving you just enough light to see your boyfriend in his seat, reclined next to you.
Taehyung was reading, his wired earbuds dangling from his ears as he turned the page, the tiny booklight overhead illuminating his golden caramel-brown hair. He looked so cute: the contrast between his youthful new hair colour and his muscled, defined arms in his tank top was enough to make you shuffle in your seat.
He noticed the movement from your seat and glanced up at you, his eyes lighting up a little at the realization that you were awake.
"Morning, sleepyhead," he murmured with a smile, his hand coming over the armrest to give your leg a squeeze. "It's still the middle of the night, we don't land for several more hours, baby, go back to sleep."
You fussed with the blanket that was draped over your legs, checking your phone.
3:13 AM.
"Why aren't you sleeping?" You rubbed some residual sleep from your eyes.
"I have to be up early the day after we land, so I'm trying to beat the jet lag by staying up for a bit before we land in Spain in the evening."
The tour has been going on since April, and the shows in Madrid were the first you were able to join him for due to your work schedule. This wasn't the original plan at first, but seeing Taehyung again in Seoul after being on the road away for a little over a month, after being able to see him almost every day since military discharge, had both of you unreasonably clingy to one another again.
"Come, baby," Taehyung pressed the recline button on your armrest, your seat lowering itself underneath you to a more comfortable position. "Head back to sleep."
"Lie with me," you murmured, lifting the glossy, polished armrest that separated you two.
He smiled before tugging his earbuds out, abandoning them and his book on his side table before reclining his seat as well, joining you. He turned to press the button that closed the sliding privacy door, shielding the two of you from the rest of the cabin.
First class was really something.
Taehyung shuffled next to you, the two dropped seats coming together to basically make a bed. You lifted the blanket to throw it over him, his arm snaking around your waist as he pulled you in a little closer.
"This what you want?" Taehyung chuckled softly into your hair. You nodded a little, shuffling your body back into him, his big spoon to your little one. He splayed his large hand across your stomach, holding you against him as he pulled himself a little closer to you, your back and bum pressed innocently against his abdomen and sweatpants. He lifted his head up next to your face, pressing a soft, sweet kiss on your cheek.
"This is a work trip," he murmured into your ear as he trailed his lips across your cheek, lowering himself closer towards your neck. You let out a little sigh as he kissed down your jawline, his grip on your waist getting a little tighter, firmer, the way he did when he wanted to mess around. "And I'm not thinking about work."
You looped your hand behind his neck, encouraging him to kiss you a little harder, and he chuckled into your skin, nipping his teeth gently on your skin by your collarbone.
"The rest of the guys are right across the aisle, and you're here, making me lie next to you like this," he licked a little teasing stripe up your neck and you let out a whine.
"Shh, shh, baby. They may be asleep, but first class can still hear you, hm?" Taehyung was smiling into your neck, kissing and suckling on your skin with increased pressure, trying to coax another pretty sound from your mouth.
"Tae," you whimpered, turning your head to face him a little better. Under the cover of the dark cabin, you could tell the way he looked at you was more than just affection. His eyes had shifted from his typical sweet round stare into the half-lidded gaze that he only ever gave you when he wanted to get his dick wet.
"So pretty, even in your sweatpants," he groaned into your ear, pressing his growing hard-on into your bum. "I've never gotten to creampie you on an airplane yet, hm angel?"
Your stomach twisted at his filthy words, your underwear starting to cling to your growing arousal. Taehyung never hesitated to tell you what he wanted and how, and especially when he was back on tour, it was like his flirting and forwardness increased tenfold.
"Tae," you breathed. "Is that what you want right now?"
Taehyung dipped a lingering hand into the waistband of your sweatpants, his middle and index finger pressing teasingly into your wet fold, covered just barely by the already soaking fabric of your panties. You let out a strangled whimper, his fingertip gently kissing your throbbing clit as he tested your waters.
"Mm, I think that's what you want," he whispered, bringing his hand out of your pants just so he could pull them down and off your hips, your bare skin exposed under the airline-issued blanket.
His other arm gripped your waist firmly in place for him as he returned his hand to your trembling heat, tugging your underwear to one side for immediate access. You whined at the crude motion, the air-conditioned, barely-there breeze of the cabin cool against your wetness.
Taehyung could tell you were fighting to hold yourself together, and his tongue poked in his cheek as he tugged his own sweats down a little, just enough to free himself from his boxers. He pumped himself once or twice, the head of his cock still poking erotically against your bare bum. With a guided hand, he slipped his cock right between the squishy warmth of your bare thighs, nestled between the flesh of your upper thighs and the bare, warm wet slick of your aching pussy. Your arousal coated the top of his cock, and he groaned at the slick, warm sensation.
"My pretty girl," he groaned into your ear before he started to move his hips. His cock fucked gently between the flesh of your thighs, your arousal acting as the perfect slip as he humped his needy cock up against your pussy, the head of his cock knocking gently against your swollen clit. "Like my own little toy, to do whatever I want with, whenever I want."
You whimpered at the sensation of Taehyung using your legs to get himself off, the wetness painted all over your inner thighs. You brought your hand down between your legs, bringing your fingers to meet the tip of his cock as his flushed head peeked in and out from between your legs with every roll of his hips.
"Fuck, even your legs feel so good against me, angel," he groaned into your ear, his hips humping up against your ass like a horny college kid. "I could cum just fucking your thighs like this. But that's not what you want, is it?"
And with his teasing words, Taehyung rounded his hand to your front, pressing a few possessive, addictive circles to your clit, before he pushed the tip of his cock into your pussy, the size of him stretching you out so deliciously, especially with how pressed together your thighs were.
"Holy shit," he moaned into your ear. "Forgot how well your legs and ass squeeze me when I'm too impatient to spread your legs wide open. Your body's so good to me."
You clenched yourself around your boyfriend's cock that threatened to push a few more inches into you, slowly and purposefully as he studied all your reactions. He was grinning at you, tongue poking his cheek cockily as he watched your squirm, desperate to stay quiet as he filled you up with him completely.
"Tae-hyu-" you let out a strangled moan, your hand coming up to desperately silence your string of erotic noises that fell carelessly from your mouth. Taehyung hissed as he began to fuck his hips into you, the sensation of your body sleeving his cock so well making him cuss under his breath.
"Gonna fuck you until I make a mess in you, if that's alright with you," he growled against your skin, the feverous knock of his cock against your cervix squeezing a desperate whine out of you with every thrust.
There was suddenly a shuffling on the other side of your privacy door, and Taehyung froze his movements immediately, adjusting the blanket so that you two were hidden perfectly under the covers. His hand came over the blanket, pulling you into him protectively as he kept his cock sheathed inside of you.
A sleepy Jimin suddenly stood up, his head peeking out from over the wall. He glanced over at the two of you, his headphones still on his ears. Taehyung lifted his head casually, giving his friend a quick nod as you nestled your face into the blanket, hiding your expression from the world.
"I can't sleep, Jungkook keeps knocking my arm off my armrest," Jimin said with a sleepy grumble, his eyes barely open. He looked over the wall at how intimately cuddled up you two were, and he let out a chuckle.
"Get a room, you two. Not all of us have a girlfriend to bring with us to Spain."
Taehyung grinned. "This is our room," he gestured to the privacy wall.
Jimin laughed before shuffling down the aisle towards the bathroom.
As soon as the coast was clear, Taehyung licked a wet stripe right under your ear, his hips moving teasingly against you again. His fingers immediately found their way back to your clit, kneading your sensitive bud gently and with expert precision.
"Oh-," you whined, the feeling of your boyfriend using you, wearing you like a toy on the plane, made your head roll back against his chest. Your build-up resumed, the push of your boyfriend's cock against your fluttering walls bringing you embarrassingly close to a climax already.
"You have to learn how to keep quiet when I want to fuck you in public, sweetheart," he growled into your ear, his fingers still maintaining the torturous firm pressure on your swollen clit as he continued fucking his cock deep and slow into your aching heat. "How can I make the best of your time on tour with me if you're always so needy for attention?"
You struggled to contain your desperate whines and pants.
"I'm sorry, baby," you said through your hums. "Can't help it, you feel so fucking good."
Taehyung grinned at your sweet words, his thrusting getting a little faster.
"Yeah, hm? You like the way I make you feel, angel? You like getting free-used up here in the sky with me?"
You nodded, your knot in your stomach already painfully tight, threatening to snap. Taehyung's fingers on you were relentless, rubbing your clit so perfectly, groaning at the reactions your body gave him.
"You're-so tight around me-fuck," he hissed into your ear. "Already so close for me."
His rhythm grew erratic, a sign that his climax was taking over him soon. His lips were pinched between his teeth, brows furrowed as he chased his high deep inside of you. The pace of his fingers on your clit picked up, every nerve in your body burning as your orgasm took over you.
"I'm cumming, Tae, I'm fucking-"
You interrupted yourself with a definitely a little too loud moan, and Taehyung's large hand came up from your hip to cover your mouth.
"Not too loud, dove, we don't want to have to stop before it's over."
Your cries were silenced into your boyfriend's large hand as your peak shook through your whole body, like a shockwave coursing through your veins from his touch until you were left trembling, twitching, and panting.
Taehyung grinned at your erotic afterglow, his hands returning to your hip as he fucked you through your throes of pleasure.
"Gonna ruin this fucking pussy right here, baby," he groaned. "Wanna feel myself drip out of you with Namjoon-hyung asleep right behind us."
You nodded desperately; the filth of his words was enough to make you clench around him uncontrollably. Taehyung's fingers tightened their grip on your hip as he knocked himself harder into you, sheathing himself all the way down to the bone of his hips until his head dropped forward onto your shoulder.
"Take it, baby."
His warm, desperate spurts filled you up in hot, needy pulses. You bit your lip to muffle your cries as he whimpered into your ear, fucking his own seed deeper into you with every movement.
"Hnng, love breeding this fucking cunt," he hissed into your ear, his slew of dirty talk along with the sensation of being filled up by him sending stars to your eyes, and you dropped your head desperately against your boyfriend's chest.
He dropped his head forward, resting his chin on the top of your head as you two came down from your highs together, quietly and in the secrecy of your little first-class chamber. Taehyung pressed a kiss to your shoulder before readjusting the blanket, draping it over your shoulders now.
His length still remained buried in you, twitching and bouncing with the flex of his abdomen, like a little reminder of how much he craved you. Taehyung nudged himself into you a little further, a sleepy stir of remaining arousal and love swirling in your chest.
"Let's get at least another hour or two of sleep in," he murmured, his hand coming up to pet your hair, soothing you to sleep. "And we'll deal with our mess later."
Jimin appeared again in the aisle, the view of you and Taehyung snuggled up so closely, making him let out a little sigh.
"Taehyung-ah, you act like you're in a hotel room already," he whispered as he sat back down in his seat.
Taehyung just looked up at him and gave him a little nod and a wink, his arm tightening around your waist.
"Get some sleep, Jimin."
Jimin nodded with half-open eyes before disappearing behind the other side of the wall again.
Taehyung reached forward into the seat pocket and fished out his eye mask, slipping it sweetly onto your head.
"Sleep tight, angel," he cooed, pulling you into his chest again. "Thanks for coming to Madrid."
"Always," you murmured, the sleep already taking over your body.
Only the two of you knew the warm, loving mess between you under the blanket, and you were going to keep it that way.
────୨ৎ────
my nervousness around flying has suddenly evaporated
peter parker’s never kissed anyone, and pretending to do it in a closet was just to spare him the humiliation. teaching him the basics? innocent enough. until he starts learning how to touch, how to beg, and how to make you forget it was ever pretend (completed)
genres: college au, fake-dating, friends w. benefits
notes: contains smut! block the tag below to not get it on ur feed! but whew. tony stark and the avengers are alive i say as they drag me back into the white room… set around christmas time bc i like the vibes lol
Jungkook is the studio’s most desired male star, arrogant enough to believe no one can direct him better than himself. But when a calm assistant director in training starts seeing through his performances, he becomes obsessed with the woman behind the monitor — never knowing she is also his top anonymous contributor behind the black screen.
Pairing: Pornstar!Jungkook x Assistant Director!Reader
Warnings: 18+ only, MDNI, explicit sexual content, adult film industry setting, performer/director dynamics, workplace romance, workplace tension, professional power dynamics, private VIP/video call, masturbation on call, adult performer work with co-stars, crude sexual language, dirty talk, rough sex, unprotected sex/raw sex, creampie , fingering, semi-public sex, sex on the floor, sex on furniture/desks, vanity sex, possessive behaviour, jealousy, D/s undertones, praise/degradation, overstimulation, aftercare, sexual harassment comment from a side character, and dangerous levels of banana milk propaganda.
⤷﹒Love You to Death: The Obsession Files: jjk - pout for the picture
The first time you cut Jungkook mid-scene, the whole studio went quiet. Not because no one had ever stopped a scene before. Scenes stopped all the time. Lights failed. Cameras needed changing. Someone missed a mark. Someone forgot a cue. Someone needed water, air, a minute to remember their body belonged to them after all. The studio was built on interruption. But people rarely stopped Jungkook. Not when he looked the way he looked beneath the lights. Not when the camera loved him with embarrassing devotion. Not when his body knew exactly where to stand, where to turn, how to catch the glow along his shoulders and the ink on his arms. Not when he could take something flat on paper and make it dangerous by lowering his chin, letting his mouth curve, and looking like he knew something filthy about the world that he had decided not to share yet. Jungkook was beautiful in the way that made people forgive laziness, and that was the problem.
You had been watching him for weeks before you said anything. That was the part nobody understood. They thought correction arrived the moment a mistake appeared, sharp and immediate, like a blade striking bone. They did not see the quiet work before it. The watching. The pattern. The difference between one tired take and a habit. The difference between a performer protecting himself and a performer hiding behind the fact that nobody in the room wanted to ask more of him. As assistant director, your job was not only to keep the day moving. It was not only call sheets, timing, notes, performer safety, angles, blocking, and keeping the room from slipping into chaos. Your job was to notice what the camera caught and what everyone else pretended it did not.
Jungkook knew how to fill a frame. He knew how to make people lean closer to a monitor without realizing they had moved. He knew how to hold still in ways that felt like threat. He knew exactly how much of his mouth to show when he smiled, exactly when to look down, exactly when to look back up through his lashes like he had already ruined someone and was only waiting for them to admit it. He knew bodies. He knew angles. He knew the language of being watched. But his eyes kept leaving, and that was what bothered you. Not because it ruined the fantasy. You did not care about fantasy in the way other people did. You cared about truth, even inside the machinery of desire. Especially there. A scene could be staged, lit, blocked, sold, watched, and still carry a living pulse if the people inside it were present. If their reactions were alive. If their silence meant something. If their eyes did not go empty the moment their bodies did what everyone expected. Jungkook’s body was flawless, but his eyes were waiting for the day to end.
“Cut,” you said.
The word left your mouth before Namjoon could say it. One of the camera assistants looked at you. The boom operator shifted. The performer opposite Jungkook blinked, relief and irritation passing over her face so quickly you almost missed it. Namjoon, sitting just behind you, lifted his eyes from the monitor. Jungkook stopped moving. Slowly. He turned his head toward you with the controlled disbelief of a man deciding whether to laugh at someone or ruin their day. You kept your eyes on the monitor for one second longer, because the monitor never lied. People did. Bodies did. Beautiful faces did. A performer could fill a room with heat and still show nothing real in the eyes. Jungkook’s eyes had been empty. Again.
“Problem?” he asked.
His voice carried across the set, rough and bored and already half-amused. He stood beneath the warm studio lights in black, skin gleaming faintly under the heat, hair pushed back from his face, mouth swollen into something obscene even at rest. He looked like exactly what everyone expected him to look like. That was not enough for you.
“You are not really here,” you said.
The room went even quieter.
Jungkook’s brows lifted. “Sorry?”
“You heard me.”
Namjoon’s hand hovered near the talkback like he was deciding whether to save you from yourself. You did not look at him. Jungkook’s stare sharpened.
“You want to say that again?”
“You moved correctly,” you said, still looking at the monitor. “Your body hit every mark. The angle works. The lighting works. Technically, everything is there.”
His mouth curled. “That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”
“It was not.”
A few people forgot how to breathe. You finally looked at him.
“Your eyes are not in the scene.”
Something changed in his face. Not much. Nothing dramatic. A tightening around the mouth. A flicker of annoyance behind the eyes. Not because you had insulted him, you thought, but because you had found the right place to press.
Jungkook leaned back slightly. “My eyes?”
“Yes.”
“You are directing my eyes now?”
“I am correcting the thing that makes the scene false.”
The silence that followed was loud. Jungkook stared at you for another second, then laughed once. It was humourless and low.
“Brave.”
“No,” you said. “Observant.”
Namjoon made a small sound behind you. Warning, maybe. Amusement, maybe. You were not sure. Jungkook’s gaze dropped to the monitor, then back to you.
“And what do my eyes need to do, boss?”
The word boss landed like a threat dressed as a joke. You did not flinch.
“Follow your body.”
His expression went still.
“Right now, your body is doing the work and your eyes are waiting for the scene to be over. You look bored.”
His jaw flexed.
“You look like you know everyone will accept it because you are pretty enough to make them forget you are not present.”
The entire set disappeared for half a second. There was only Jungkook looking at you, and you looking back, and something sharp passing between you that neither of you had language for yet. Then he smiled. It was not nice.
“Pretty enough?” he repeated.
You held his stare. “Was that the only part you heard?”
The performer beside him covered a laugh badly with a cough. Jungkook did not look away from you.
“Run it again,” Namjoon said finally, his voice careful. “From the last mark.”
Jungkook turned back to his position. His shoulders were loose, but the back of his neck had gone tight. You watched the monitor. This time, when the scene began, his body moved the same way. Perfectly. But his eyes were different. Angry, yes. Irritated, absolutely. Slightly murderous, probably. But present. There was a pulse behind them now, a dangerous attention that had not been there before. He looked into the scene like he was looking at something he wanted to fight. Or someone.
You leaned forward slightly.
“There,” you said quietly, mostly to yourself.
Jungkook’s gaze flicked toward the monitor for the smallest second. He had heard you. That was the first mistake.
The second mistake was that you praised him again two days later. Not warmly. Not generously. You were not foolish enough to feed a man like Jungkook praise with your hands open. You gave it sparingly, professionally, like medicine measured in drops.
“You were present today,” you said after a difficult take.
He had been waiting near the monitors as if he was only passing by. He did that often now. Drifted close enough to hear your notes, far enough to pretend he did not care whether you gave them. Jungkook looked at you.
“You say that like I was previously dead.”
“You were professionally absent.”
“Professionally absent,” he repeated. “That sounds like an expensive insult.”
“It is free.”
His mouth twitched. You looked down at your notes.
“Your eyes followed your body today. The scene worked because you let the reaction arrive before the movement.”
“You always talk like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you are diagnosing ghosts.”
You glanced up. “Only when I see one.”
For once, Jungkook did not have an immediate answer.
That was when it started. Not love. Not even desire, not exactly. Desire had been there from the beginning, inconvenient and irritating, coiled beneath every argument and correction and look across the monitor. Desire was easy. Boring, almost. The studio ran on desire the way cities ran on electricity. What started then was worse. Jungkook began asking for you.
Not directly at first. Men like him rarely handed over evidence that cleanly. He asked Namjoon whether you were covering a scene. He complained if someone else gave him notes. He pretended your corrections annoyed him and then did them exactly. He fought harder when you were watching and listened more carefully when you were the one speaking. He became addicted to being caught. You knew because his laziness changed shape. Before, it had been beautiful and casual, the laziness of someone who knew the room would forgive him. After, when he missed something, it felt deliberate. Like a dare. Like he wanted you to notice. So you noticed.
“Again,” you said one afternoon.
Jungkook looked at you from the set, sweat at his temple, mouth parted around a breath that would have looked convincing to anyone who did not know better.
“You have got to be joking.”
“Again.”
Namjoon glanced between you both, then lifted his hands in surrender. “Again from the top.”
Jungkook’s eyes narrowed. “What was wrong this time?”
“You anticipated the reaction.”
“I anticipated the reaction,” he repeated slowly, as if tasting the words and finding them stupid. “God forbid I understand timing.”
“You did not understand it. You jumped it.”
“I jumped it?”
“Yes.”
He stepped off his mark with a laugh that did not reach his eyes. “You want to come here and do it better?”
“No. I want you to do it better.”
That shut him up. The room felt it. The little shift. The difference between criticism and belief. Jungkook felt it too, though he would rather have choked than admit it. He did the scene again. Better. Afterward, he came to stand near the monitors, too close to be casual, too far to be honest.
“You enjoy this?” he asked.
“Doing my job?”
“Making me repeat myself.”
“When it improves the work, yes.”
His mouth curved. “That sounded like a yes to me.”
“Then your hearing is selective.”
“It has to be. You talk too much.”
“You listen more than you pretend to.”
His smile thinned. There it was again. That pressure point. The quiet place where all his performance thinned into something real. You should have been more careful with it.
Jungkook was not a cruel man, not in the simple way people liked to call men cruel when they wanted to avoid understanding them. He was defensive. Proud. Vain in the places he had been taught to survive through. He had a mouth that reached for blood before it reached for truth. He was used to being wanted and unused to being known, which made knowing him feel like trespassing even when he had invited you to the door. For months, you built something strange with him through the monitor. You corrected his hands, his pauses, his false notes. He corrected your patience by testing it every chance he got. You watched him become sharper, more present, more difficult in interesting ways. He watched you watch him and hated how much it mattered.
Then one afternoon, in front of everyone, he used the wrong weapon.
It had been a long day. Too many takes. Too much heat. A scene that refused to settle no matter how many times you shaped it. Jungkook was already irritated, his body restless, jaw hard, eyes bright with the kind of anger that meant he felt exposed. He had given you a good take fifteen minutes ago, and then he had lost it. Slipped back into the old ease, the old surface, the old beautiful emptiness that made your teeth clench. You cut again.
“Your reaction is late,” you said.
“It is not late.”
“It is.”
“It is a scene, not a fucking court hearing.”
“You are missing the emotional turn.”
Jungkook laughed, sharp and ugly. “The emotional turn.”
The crew went quiet in that way people did when they sensed entertainment becoming danger. You kept your voice calm.
“Yes.”
“Maybe if you stopped staring at my face like you are waiting for divine revelation, you would see the scene is fine.”
Namjoon said his name once. Low. Jungkook ignored him. You stood by the monitors, clipboard pressed to your chest, every eye in the room suddenly aware of you as a body and not a professional. That was his gift in that moment, and he knew it. He knew exactly where to strike.
“You want me present?” he asked, mouth curling. “Or do you just like telling yourself you are the only one in the room who can see me properly?”
The words hit harder than they should have. Not because they were true. Because they touched the private place your job lived inside you. The place that needed to be taken seriously. The place that had worked too hard to sit at those monitors and have a man in front of everyone reduce your attention to some embarrassing personal hunger. The silence after was worse than the sentence. You could feel everyone pretending not to have heard. You could feel the performer on set looking away. The camera assistant lowering his eyes to a piece of equipment that did not need adjusting. Namjoon going very, very still behind you. The studio lights burned Jungkook’s skin gold, but he was not the exposed one anymore. You were.
And for one second, you saw the exact moment he realized it. His mouth remained shaped around the cruelty, but his eyes changed. Regret arrived late and useless, like a man running toward a door after it had already locked. You stared at him. Then you set the clipboard down carefully. If your hands shook, nobody saw.
“That is enough for today,” you said.
Your voice did not shake. That was what saved you. You walked out before anyone could see what his words had done.
Outside, the air felt too cold against your face. You found the side alley behind the studio where people went to smoke, cry, argue on the phone, or become human again between scenes. You stood with your back to the brick wall and pressed the heel of your hand against your sternum once, hard, as if your body had become something that needed holding in place. You were not angry. You wished you were. Anger would have been cleaner. Anger would have given you something useful to do with your hands. Hurt was worse because it asked for honesty. You took out a cigarette from the emergency pack you kept in your bag and lit it with fingers that were steady only because you forced them to be. The first drag hurt your throat. Good. Pain with an obvious source felt kinder than the other kind.
The back door opened behind you. You did not turn. The door shut. Silence. Then Jungkook’s voice, lower than usual.
“You smoke?”
You stared at the wall opposite you. “Sometimes.”
He stepped closer. Not too close. For once.
“I did not know that.”
“There are many things you do not know.”
He said nothing. You took another drag, then lowered the cigarette. Your throat burned. You stared at the ash trembling at the tip because looking at him felt too much like giving him the privilege of seeing where he had hit. Jungkook stood beside you, close enough that you could see his black shirt from the corner of your eye, the silver of his rings, the tension in his hand. He smelled like studio heat and soap and something sharp beneath it.
“You were out of line,” you said.
His jaw moved. “I know.”
You looked at him then. He looked like the words had cost him something. Good.
“You did not just insult me,” you said. “You made my work look like a joke in front of everyone.”
His eyes flicked down.
“You made it seem like my direction was personal. Like my attention was something embarrassing. Like I was not doing my job.”
“I know,” he said again, rougher.
“You do not get to do that because you feel cornered.”
“I said I know.”
“No,” you said. “You heard me. That is not the same thing.”
Jungkook looked at you then. Really looked. His mouth opened, but no apology came out. You could see it fighting somewhere behind his teeth, too unfamiliar to arrive cleanly. He had probably learned how to say sorry in the worst possible places. After being caught. After being forced. After being made to mean it for someone else’s comfort rather than his own remorse. He looked furious with himself.
You almost looked away.
Then his gaze dropped to the cigarette between your fingers.
“Can I?”
You frowned slightly. “Can you what?”
He nodded toward the cigarette. “Have some.”
For some reason, that almost made you laugh. Not because it was funny. Because it was ridiculous, standing there with all that hurt between you, and Jungkook still somehow asking for a piece of the thing in your hand like it might give him something to do besides fail at apologising.
You held it out.
His fingers brushed yours when he took it. Less than a second, but your whole body registered it like a bad decision. He drew from the cigarette, eyes not leaving yours, then looked at the faint stain your mouth had left on the filter.
“This was an indirect kiss, you know,” he said.
You stared at him.
“You asked for my cigarette.”
“I did.”
“So technically, you kissed me first.”
His mouth curved, softer this time. Still wrong. Still him.
“Fine,” he said, handing it back. “Then I kissed you back.”
You should not have wanted to laugh. You almost did. Instead, you looked away because the wall was safer than his face.
“Do not make this charming,” you said.
“I am not doing it on purpose.”
“That is worse.”
“I know.”
You took the cigarette back and held it between your fingers without smoking. The filter was warm from his mouth now. You hated that you noticed.
“You hurt me,” you said.
The words changed him more than anger had. Jungkook’s face went still.
“I know,” he said.
This time, it sounded different. Nothing was fixed that day. But something changed.
After that, Jungkook began apologising in the only language he trusted: action. Coffee appeared near your monitor one morning, exactly how you drank it. He said nothing about it. You said nothing either. Another day, he followed a note without arguing. The day after that, when a camera assistant spoke over you twice, Jungkook looked at him and said, “She is talking,” in a tone mild enough to be professional and sharp enough to make the man shut up immediately. You did not thank him. He did not ask you to. But you noticed. He noticed that you noticed.
For a while, that was the language. He behaved better. You gave less. Not because you were punishing him, exactly. Because hurt made you precise. Before, your corrections had carried heat, investment, a private edge of belief. After, they became clean and professional. You gave him what the work required and nothing extra. Jungkook hated it. You could tell by the way he lingered. By the way he waited for notes that did not come. By the way he made one almost lazy choice in an otherwise perfect take, glanced toward the monitors, and looked furious when you only said, “Reset from mark three.”
Two weeks later, after a clean scene, he came to stand near you while the crew began moving equipment.
“That is all?” he asked.
You looked down at your notes. “Yes.”
“You got nothing else?”
“No.”
His jaw tightened. “You always have something else.”
“I gave you the note during the scene.”
“That was technical.”
“It was the note.”
He leaned closer, voice lowered because the crew was still around. “Why are you being like that?”
You looked at him then. He looked irritated, but his eyes were not. His eyes looked almost lost.
“Like what?”
“Like I am a stranger you are being paid to tolerate.”
You breathed in slowly. “I am doing my job.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“No,” you said quietly. “It is what I can answer here.”
For once, he followed the line you drew.
Later, by the monitors when most of the crew had cleared, he came back. He did not swagger this time. Did not grin. Did not put his hands in his pockets like he was pretending nothing mattered.
“I fucked up,” he said.
The words landed awkwardly between you. You looked at him. He swallowed.
“I know you are not angry.”
Your heart gave a small, painful twist. “That took you two weeks?”
His mouth twitched, then fell. “I know you are hurt.”
You did not answer. Jungkook looked down at the monitor. It reflected the overhead lights in black glass.
“I know the difference now,” he said.
That did something to you. Something you did not let show.
“You cannot fix hurt by trying to make me fight you,” you said.
His mouth pressed tight.
“You cannot bait me back into caring.”
His eyes lifted to yours.
“I did care,” you said. “That is why it hurt.”
The room fell very quiet around him. Jungkook nodded once. It looked like it cost him more than any apology.
After that, his trying changed. He stopped making mistakes to get your attention. He started working like he wanted your respect more than your reaction. He still complained, of course. Jungkook without complaint would have been a medical emergency. But the complaints shifted from defence into habit. Noise around effort. After one scene, he came to the monitor and asked, low, almost awkward, “Was everything okay today?” You looked up. There was no smugness in him. No “was that good for you?” No filthy little tilt to his mouth. Just a man trying not to look like he cared.
“Yes,” you said. “You were present today.”
His face went still.
“Your eyes followed your body.”
For a second, he looked almost young. Then he ruined it by nodding at the monitor.
“About time my eyes got their shit together.”
You smiled before you could stop yourself. He saw it. That was the beginning of the next problem.
Jungkook did not know what to do with warmth except turn it into heat.
There was another thing you had never said out loud.
Before you worked directly with him, before you sat behind the monitor with a headset and a clipboard and the authority to call cut, you had known Jungkook through a screen. Not in the way you knew him now. Not as a man who went quiet when a note hit too close, or smiled badly when praised, or hid exhaustion behind arrogance. Back then, he had been safer because he had been distant. A fantasy with a payment button. A beautiful mouth, a cruel voice, a body that knew how to be wanted.
You had been one of his top contributors under a username he had no reason to connect to your face.
It had not felt complicated at first. You never treated him like he owed you anything. You never filled his chat with demands or tried to buy pieces of him that were not on offer. You watched quietly, gave generously, and left before the illusion could ask anything from you. He was a fantasy, and fantasy was easiest when it stayed where it belonged: behind glass.
Then the studio put him in front of you.
The first time you corrected him, the fantasy cracked. The first time you saw his eyes go empty while his body kept performing, something in you stopped being a viewer and became a witness. After that, contributing felt wrong. He was no longer only the man on your screen. He was someone you worked with. Someone whose false notes bothered you. Someone you could hurt if you forgot the difference between wanting and consuming.
So you stopped.
Jungkook noticed.
Of course he did. A man like him survived by noticing who wanted him and what shape that want took. He noticed the generous account that went quiet. He noticed the absence more than the money. Later, he noticed the way you watched him from behind the monitor — not hungry in the usual way, not careless, not impressed by the parts of him everyone else forgave. You watched like you were trying to find the person underneath the performance.
He did not confront you.
At first, because he did not know for certain. A username was not a face. A pattern was not proof. And later, when suspicion began to feel less like coincidence, he still said nothing because naming it would have made it real. It would have exposed your private wanting and his own awareness of it. It would have forced him to ask why you had stopped watching him that way, why you could look at him through a monitor now and seem more interested in the truth than the fantasy he knew how to sell.
Jungkook did not know what to do with that.
So when the private message came through that night, sent to the username you had abandoned, you understood exactly what he was offering. Not only a call. Not only heat. He was reaching for the safest version of himself, the one you had paid to watch before you knew enough to ask for more.
Live. Private. If you want it.
You stared at the message for a long time.
It should have been simple. Once, it would have been. Once, the distance would have made it easy to press accept and let the fantasy stay a fantasy.
But now you knew the difference between his camera voice and his real one.
Now you knew what his eyes looked like when they left the room.
Now you wanted the one thing he did not know how to sell.
The screen glowed in your dark room. He looked at you like distance was an insult.
“Comfortable?” he asked.
“Should I be worried?”
“Always.”
There was that smile. That terrible little curve. The one that had made hundreds of people mistake confidence for intimacy. But then he looked at you too closely. Not at the screen. At you. And something in the room shifted. The call was seductive. Of course it was. Jungkook knew how to be wanted. He knew how to create a private room out of light and voice and attention. He knew how to make the person watching feel chosen, singled out, dragged closer through glass. He spoke like sin was a language he had learned young and perfected out of spite. But underneath it, you saw the ache. That was what hurt. He thought this was what you wanted from him. He thought the hunger in your eyes meant he needed to offer the performance harder, closer, more directly. He thought he could bridge the distance between you by becoming the fantasy before you had the chance to ask for the man.
You watched him and felt your chest ache with want and sadness at once. Not because you did not desire him. God help you, you did. Your body reacted before your pride could negotiate. But your heart kept reaching past the performance and finding him hidden behind it, watching you watch him, waiting to see if this was enough. At some point, his voice dropped lower.
“You are quiet.”
“I am watching.”
“That all?”
No. It was never all.
His mouth curved like he knew exactly what watching meant, but his eyes gave him away before his body did. Jungkook leaned back against the pillows, phone angled carelessly in one hand, the other sliding down his stomach with a slowness that felt practised at first. Too practised. Too camera-aware. He watched your face on the screen as his hand disappeared lower, his breath changing before he let the sound reach you. When his fingers wrapped around his hard cock, his jaw tightened, the smugness in his mouth flickering under the first rough pull. He tried to make it look easy. He tried to make it look like another performance, another private show, another thing he knew how to sell without giving anything real away. But then your name left his mouth, low and almost unwilling, and the rhythm of his hand faltered. Once. Twice. Like imagining you there had ruined the timing he usually controlled. His thumb dragged over the sensitive head with a sharp inhale, his hips lifting into his own fist before he caught himself and laughed under his breath, rough and embarrassed by how quickly you had gotten under his skin.
“See?” he murmured, voice lower now, less polished around the edges. “This is what you do. You sit there looking at me like you are not eating me alive through the screen, and I am supposed to act normal?”
"I need you to see what you do to me."
He tightened his hand around his hard cock, worked himself slower, rougher, letting you see the way his body reacted even when his mouth kept trying to turn it into arrogance. His eyes stayed on yours. That was the dangerous part. Not the movement, not the exposed heat of him, not the filth of his voice when he told you he had thought about your hands on him more than once. It was the fact that, for a second, he forgot to perform. His face shifted open with need before he could hide it, brows drawing together, breath catching hard in his throat as his hand moved faster. He looked beautiful, yes. Obscene, yes. But beneath that, he looked almost angry with himself for wanting you in a way the camera could not make clean.
“You wanted to watch me, honey?” he said, but the words shook at the end. “Then watch properly.”
You looked at him through the screen, at the beautiful face, the vulgar mouth, the eyes that kept searching yours for proof.
“You are good at this,” you said softly.
His smile flickered.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
Something about the answer disappointed him. Or maybe it disappointed you. Because good at this was not what you wanted to say. You wanted to say: I see you trying to offer me the thing everyone else wants because you do not know what else you are allowed to give. You wanted to say: I want the part of you that does not know what to do when I praise your eyes. You wanted to say: stop performing for me and come here. But you did not.
You pulled back without meaning to. Jungkook noticed. He misunderstood. The next week, he became worse. More jokes. More innuendos. More accidental glances. More filthy comments dropped under his breath when he walked past the monitors. He performed harder because he thought the performance was what had worked before. You wanted to shake him. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted him to stop offering you the mask when all you wanted was the man.
Then Jimin arrived.
Jimin was beautiful in a way that looked manufactured. Smooth where Jungkook was rough. Polished where Jungkook was instinct. He had the sort of face that had learned early how much attention it could earn and never developed anything interesting enough to keep it. He lowered his voice when he spoke to you, as if roughness could be borrowed by dropping an octave. The first time he did it, Jungkook looked up from across the set. You caught the look. Jimin did too. That was the beginning of his mistake.
Jimin asked for your notes too often. Not because he wanted the work better. Because he wanted the thing Jungkook had. Your attention.
“What do you think?” Jimin asked after a take, coming to stand too close to the monitors.
“You hit the marks,” you said. “The reaction is clean. Keep your left shoulder open on the turn.”
He smiled. “That is it?”
“That is it.”
His eyes moved briefly to Jungkook, who stood near the edge of the set with a towel around his neck and murder in his eyes.
“You give him more.”
You looked at Jimin. “He needs more.”
Jungkook laughed once from across the room. Jimin’s jaw flexed. Another day, Jimin stayed after his own scene to watch Jungkook work. He leaned beside the door, arms folded, gaze moving over Jungkook with too much calculation. Jungkook noticed immediately. He always did. Jungkook’s next take was brutal in its precision. Not louder. Not showier. Better. Present. Every movement threaded to reaction. Every pause alive. His eyes found the camera and then, through the monitor, found you. You stopped breathing for half a second. Jimin saw that too.
After the take, Jimin approached you while Jungkook was still on set.
“So that is what you like,” he said.
You did not look up from the notes. “I like performers who understand the scene.”
He lowered his voice. “Maybe you should teach me like that.”
Jungkook’s head turned. You looked at Jimin then.
“I am teaching you.”
His smile sharpened. “Feels different.”
“That is because you are not listening.”
Jungkook made a sound suspiciously close to a laugh.
Jimin looked over. “Something funny?”
“You,” Jungkook said. “Standing there begging for notes like a dog that learned one trick and wants a biscuit.”
“Jungkook,” you said.
He looked at you. You gave him one warning glance. He shut his mouth. That, more than the insult, made Jimin’s face change.
Later, you heard Jungkook in Namjoon’s office.
“Move him to someone else.”
Namjoon sounded tired. “No.”
“She does not need to deal with him.”
“She is being trained for more responsibility. That includes performers who annoy you.”
“He does not annoy me.”
Namjoon laughed. Jungkook did not.
“He is trying to get under her skin,” Jungkook said.
“And you think storming in here proves what exactly?”
Silence. Then Jungkook, low and furious, “He looks at her wrong.”
“You used to look at everyone wrong.”
“Not like that.”
Namjoon’s voice softened by a fraction. “Then trust her to handle it.”
Jungkook came out of the office a minute later, saw you standing by the hallway with a stack of schedules in your hand, and stopped. You lifted a brow.
He looked away. “Do not.”
“I did not say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“My face is very professional.”
“Your face is a menace.”
You almost smiled. He saw that too.
Jimin’s first real mistake happened at the studio dinner. Namjoon had arranged it as a crew-bonding thing, which meant too many people in one room pretending not to be exhausted. The table was long, the lighting too warm, the conversation too loud. You sat with your back straight and your drink untouched, feeling the weight of people around you in that quiet way you hated. You were good at rooms when you had a role in them. Give you a monitor, a schedule, a crisis, a performer missing a mark, and you could stand in the centre of chaos with a steady voice and a pen in your hand. But social dinners were worse. No clear purpose. No clean edges. Too much noise and too many eyes. Too many people letting professionalism loosen around alcohol and pretending the loosening did not still have consequences.
Jungkook sat beside you. He did not ask. He just took the seat, leaned back like he owned the air, and placed his hand on your thigh beneath the table. You went still. Not because you wanted him to move. Because you did not. His palm was warm through the edge of your stockings, fingers heavy but careful. He did not squeeze. Did not make it a show. He simply kept his hand there as if he had noticed something in your shoulders that you had been trying to hide from everyone else. Your breathing settled before your pride could object.
Jungkook looked ahead, bored expression firmly in place, as if he was not currently holding you together under a table full of people. You turned your glass a little with your fingertips. His thumb moved once against your thigh. Barely there. A question. You did not move away. His hand stayed. Jimin sat across from you. Haeun, another performer with a sharp mouth and sharper eyeliner, was beside him, swirling wine in her glass. The conversation wandered through work, schedules, shoots, complaints, gossip. Jungkook contributed mostly insults. Haeun laughed too loudly at half of them, either because she found him funny or because she wanted you to notice she found him funny. You did not give her the satisfaction of checking. Jimin watched the hand you were not supposed to know he could not see. Then he smiled at you. It was too smooth.
“So,” he said, “with all the scenes you watch, I have to ask. What would your favourite toy be?”
The table shifted. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But enough. Jungkook’s hand went still on your thigh. You held Jimin’s gaze.
“Excuse me?”
He lifted both hands. “Relax. We are all adults here. It is just a question.”
“She does not need to answer that,” Jungkook said.
His voice was not loud. It did not have to be.
Jimin’s eyes flicked to him. “I was not asking you.”
“I did not ask if you were.”
Haeun gave a small laugh. “It is not exactly shocking dinner conversation in this industry.”
Jungkook looked at her. “There is a difference between work and being a rude prick over pasta.”
Her mouth closed.
Jimin smiled wider. “I thought we were getting to know each other as a crew.”
“Then ask her what music she likes,” Jungkook said. “Not what she would use in private.”
Your heart hit your ribs once. Jungkook’s hand remained on your thigh. Steady. Grounding. You placed your hand over his under the table and drew a small circle with your thumb. He went very still. You leaned closer, your lips brushing his ear. His inhale broke halfway through, only you would have noticed.
“If I were to use a toy,” you whispered, “it would be your hands.”
Jungkook’s fingers tightened once on your thigh. A warning to himself, not to you. You pulled back and reached for your glass as if nothing had happened. But everything had happened. You could feel it in the way Jungkook stopped breathing properly for three full seconds. In the way his face remained bored through sheer violence of will. In the way his hand became warmer against your skin.
Jimin saw enough. Of course he did.
“What was that?” he asked.
You looked at him. “Private.”
“Oh?” His smile sharpened. “Are we not allowed to know what you two are discussing? I thought this was a crew conversation.”
Jungkook’s head turned slowly.
Jimin leaned back. “Come on. I am curious now. What is your favourite toy?”
You looked at him for a long second. Then you smiled. Not kindly.
“Do you often repeat yourself when women do not answer you the first time?”
The table went silent. Jimin’s smile twitched. You stood before Jungkook could. Everyone looked at you. Your voice came out calm.
“I prefer to keep my personal life separate from professional conversation.”
Jimin opened his mouth. You did not let him have it.
“And I also prefer not to confuse invasive questions with maturity.”
You took your bag from the back of your chair.
“Enjoy dinner.”
You walked out with your spine straight. You made it to the hallway before the restaurant noise dropped behind you. Then the door opened again almost immediately. Jungkook. Of course. He did not touch you at first. That was what almost broke you. He stood close enough that you knew he was there, far enough that the choice remained yours.
“I told him to keep your name out of his mouth,” he said.
You closed your eyes briefly. “Did you?”
“And told Haeun to shut up.”
Despite everything, a laugh tried to rise in your throat.
Jungkook stepped closer. “He crossed a line.”
“I know.”
“You did nothing wrong.”
“I know.”
He was quiet. When you opened your eyes, he was watching you like he wanted to do violence and did not trust himself to speak around it. You reached for his hand. He gave it to you immediately. His fingers closed around yours, warm and careful. For a while, neither of you said anything. The hallway was dim and empty, the restaurant noise muffled behind the door. Jungkook’s shoulders were still tense, but his hand in yours was patient. He did not demand that you talk. Did not ask you to reassure him that his anger was justified. Did not turn your discomfort into his performance. He stood there with you and let the silence belong to you.
That was the first time you thought Jungkook might be safe. Not harmless. Never harmless. Safe.
Jimin made the mistake of thinking Jungkook’s silence had been restraint without consequence. The set was busy that morning. Too busy. People moving equipment. Namjoon answering questions. You by the monitors, clipboard in hand, already tired despite the day barely starting. Jimin’s scene was simple. Too simple to justify how much attention he kept trying to draw. He missed a mark twice. Lowered his voice unnecessarily. Smirked in your direction after a line that was not written to land that way. You corrected him once.
He smiled. “Anything else?”
“No.”
It should have been a normal shoot. It should have been another scene with too much lighting adjustment and not enough coffee, another day of Namjoon pretending he had control over performers with egos bigger than the set. Jungkook and Jimin were both present for a scenario that required rougher tension, and Jimin had spent the entire morning trying to outdo Jungkook. It was painful to watch. He made his voice too low. His movements too sharp. His dirty talk too rehearsed. Everything he did felt like a copy of a copy, all shadow and no heat.
You corrected him twice.
“Find your own rhythm.”
Then again, more firmly, “You are performing intensity instead of feeling it.”
Jungkook heard. Jungkook enjoyed it. Jungkook did not hide that he enjoyed it. Jimin did not take it well. The scene paused for a lighting reset. You were by the monitors, checking playback, when Jimin looked toward you with a smile that made your skin tighten before he even spoke.
“Maybe your assistant director should come show me how she wants it done,” he said. “I bet she gives better notes with her mouth full.”
The set froze. Not loudly. Not dramatically. It was worse than that. It went still in the way rooms do when everyone hears something cross a line and waits to see who will pretend it did not. Jungkook stepped away from his mark. His face changed completely. Not rage first. Control. That was somehow scarier.
“We are done,” he said.
Jimin laughed once. “Come on, mate. It was improv.”
Jungkook turned his head slowly. “No. It was sexual harassment dressed up as improv because you are too stupid to know the difference.”
Nobody moved.
Then Namjoon stood from behind the monitors, his expression flat in a way that made the whole room feel colder.
“Call legal.”
Jimin’s face changed.
That was when the joke left him. That was when he understood this was not Jungkook being dramatic, or jealous, or difficult, or possessive over something that did not belong to him. This was official. This was witnessed. This was a line being named by the room instead of swallowed by it.
Namjoon looked at Jungkook. “Jungkook—”
“No.” Jungkook did not raise his voice. “Handle him.”
Jimin’s expression hardened. “You are serious?”
Jungkook took one step toward him. “You treat work like a playground because you think being explicit means there are no lines. There are lines. There is professionalism. There are people here doing jobs. She is not a prop for you to aim your little ego at because you cannot make a scene work.”
Your hands tightened around the clipboard. Jimin’s face reddened. Jungkook’s voice dropped.
“And do not ever imply you are going to fuck her because she gave you a note. You are not that interesting, and she is not available for your insecurity.”
Namjoon said Jungkook’s name again, quieter this time. Jungkook looked at him.
“You want the scene done today? Get someone else. I am not working with him.”
Jimin scoffed. Jungkook smiled without humour.
“I am whatever she lets me be. You are nothing.”
Nobody spoke. Then Jungkook turned and walked off set. Not toward you. Not dragging you into it. Not making your humiliation part of his performance. He left you standing upright, professional, protected without being handled.
That was what broke you. Not the jealousy. Not the dirty talk. Not the way he looked at you like he wanted to devour every calm thought in your head. It was that he protected your dignity without making you smaller.
You found him fourty minutes later in the back corridor near his dressing room, freshly showered and still angry. He had changed into black sweats and a plain shirt, his hair damp, his expression hard enough to cut glass.
“Are you okay?” he asked before you could speak.
“I am fine.”
His eyes narrowed. “Not that answer.”
You exhaled. “I am angry.”
“Good.”
“And embarrassed.”
His jaw flexed. “You did nothing wrong.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He watched your face. You stepped closer.
“Thank you.”
His expression closed. “Do not.”
“Jungkook.”
“I did not do it for thanks.”
“I know.”
The silence stretched. Then you said the thing you had been trying not to say all day.
“I need you.”
He went very still. You saw him understand. Not the words. The meaning beneath them. Last night had been restraint. His hand on your thigh under the dinner table. His voice in the hallway. The way he had stood close enough to protect you without turning your discomfort into his claim. Today was different because you chose it to be.
“No,” he said first.
Your heart dropped. Then he stepped closer, eyes dark.
“Not if this is because of him. Not if you are angry. Not if you feel grateful. Not if you want to prove something.”
Your throat tightened. “It is not.”
“I need you clear on that.”
“I am.”
His hand flexed at his side. “You want me because you want me?”
“Yes.”
His eyes moved over your face like he was looking for the lie and hating that he could not find one. “Say it without thanking me.”
“I want you, Jungkook.”
He inhaled through his nose. “Fuck.”
The kiss was rough enough to erase the corridor. He caught your face in both hands and kissed you like something in him had finally snapped clean in half. Not polished. Not practised. Not a kiss designed for a camera or a co-star or a fantasy package. His mouth was hot, impatient, almost clumsy with need, and that made it better than anything you had watched him do. He walked you backward into the empty set because the corridor was too exposed, because the dressing room was too far, because neither of you had any patience left.
The set bed stood beneath the warm lights, dressed and useless. Jungkook looked at it. Then his face hardened.
“Not that bed.”
Your breath shook. He looked back at you.
“Not where I fuck for everyone else.”
That should not have made your eyes burn. He lowered his mouth to your ear.
“The floor will do for you and me.”
You kissed him first this time. He made a rough sound against your mouth, and then you were on the studio floor near the monitors, not graceful, not staged, not pretty enough for a scene. The floor was hard beneath your back. The lights were half-dead above you. The monitor desk sat nearby like a witness to every version of you that had pretended to be professional.
Jungkook touched you like he had been starving badly and hiding it worse. He was crude, filthy, impatient. His mouth moved against your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, muttering things that would have sounded obscene from anyone else and somehow sounded like confession from him. He called you his clever little menace, his nightmare behind the monitor, the woman who had ruined his scenes because now he knew what real attention felt like. His hands were everywhere and still careful where they needed to be, tugging fabric aside, checking your face, following the way your body opened for him. You needed him biblically. You needed him in a way that was concerning to feminism.
When he realised you were bare enough for him and he was bare enough for you, he stopped so suddenly you almost cursed at him.
“I do not have protection.”
You stared up at him, breathless. “I know.”
His jaw clenched. “I am tested. Clean. I had the panel last week. But I do not have anything here.”
“I know.”
His eyes went blacker. “Do not say it like that if you have not thought it through.”
“I have thought it through.”
“I will pull out if you want.”
“No.”
Jungkook’s breath left him. “No?”
“No..”
His forehead lowered briefly against yours. “You are going to kill me.”
“I want you raw.”
His hand gripped the floor beside your head. “I am giving you one last chance to change that sentence.”
“I want you raw,” you repeated, softer, clearer. “No barrier. No camera version. No performance. You. I want to feel you.”
Something animalistic moved through his face. Then he kissed you like he hated how much he loved hearing it, one hand catching the side of your face while the other dragged down your body with desperate purpose, over your ribs, your waist, your hip, like he needed to feel every part of you before he believed this was real. His mouth was not polished now. It was hot, impatient, a little unsteady, his teeth catching your lower lip before he soothed it with his tongue, his breath rough against your mouth when your hands slid under his shirt and found warm skin. He made a sound into the kiss that did not belong to any performance you had ever seen from him. It was too low. Too real. Too close to need. He did not rush the first push. That almost made it worse. He held himself above you, one forearm braced near your head, the other hand gripping your thigh to open you for him, jaw tight, eyes fixed on yours as he guided himself in slowly enough for both of you to feel every second of it. The first stretch made your whole body go still, and Jungkook stopped immediately, forehead dropping to yours, every muscle in his body trembling with restraint.
“Talk to me,” he said, voice wrecked already.
“Too much?”
You shook your head, nails digging into his shoulders.
“No.” His eyes sharpened.
“No is not enough.”
Your legs tightened around his hips before your mouth found the words.
“Keep going.”
The words broke something in him. His mouth covered yours again as he pushed deeper, controlled but only barely, his body shaking with the effort not to take the moment too fast. He was hot, heavy, real in a way the screen had never prepared you for, and when your thighs wrapped higher around his waist to keep him close, his composure cracked into a curse against your mouth. He gave you another slow inch, then another, his hand sliding beneath your lower back to tilt you up into him, to make the angle easier, to make sure he was not only taking what you offered but meeting your body exactly where it needed him.
“You feel—” He stopped, teeth clenched, his eyes shutting for half a second like he had to survive you before he could speak again.
“Fuck. No camera in the world deserves this.”
You laughed breathlessly, and the sound turned into a moan when he moved. Not a full rhythm yet. Just one slow drag out, one careful push back in, deep enough to make your spine lift from the floor and your hands clutch at his shirt like you were trying to keep him from ever pulling away. Jungkook lost his timing the second he heard you. His hips stuttered, and the hand on your thigh tightened as if your sound had gone through him harder than touch.
“That is the sound I wanted,” he muttered, rough and almost angry with himself. “Fuck, make it again.”
He moved again, deeper this time, and your legs locked around him properly, heels pressing into his back to pull him closer. The motion dragged a broken groan out of him. His mouth dropped to your throat, kissing, biting, then kissing again like he could not decide whether to ruin you or worship you. His hands were everywhere but careless: one beneath your back, one on your thigh, one moment gripping your hip to keep you steady, the next spreading wide over your ribs like he needed to feel you breathe under him. He found a rhythm that was not performance. It was messy, hungry, too intimate for a room built to manufacture intimacy. His mouth stayed close to yours, catching every sound before it could fill the empty set. His hard cock drove into you with growing desperation, but every time your face changed too sharply, his gaze caught it. Not stopping unless you asked. Not softening into someone else. Just seeing you. Adjusting. Learning you in real time with his body shaking above yours.
“Good?” he rasped.
“Yes.”
“More?”
“Yes.” His eyes darkened.
“Baby..” Your breath broke.
“Rougher.”
Jungkook went still for a fraction of a second, his face changing like the word had done something violent to him.
“Do not say that unless you mean it.”
“I mean it.” His mouth brushed yours, not quite a kiss, more like restraint dying between you.
“How rough?” You pulled him closer with your legs, your hands sliding from his shoulders to the back of his neck.
“Enough that I feel you tomorrow.” A laugh broke out of him, ruined and filthy.
“Jesus Christ. You are going to kill me.”
“Jungkook..”
“I know.” He kissed you hard.
Then he gave you what you asked for. Not careless. Never careless. He shifted your thigh higher against his side, opened the angle until the next thrust hit deeper, and the sound that tore out of you made him lose his rhythm completely. His hips faltered once, twice, his mouth falling open against your cheek as if your pleasure had reached into his body and pulled him apart from the inside.
“There,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction and disbelief.
“That is where it is, is it?”
You could not answer properly. Your nails dragged down his back, and he cursed like that hurt him in exactly the right way. He drove into you again, deeper, rougher, then stopped himself just enough to look at your face.
“Say it,” he demanded, breath ragged.
“Tell me.”
“Right there.” His control cracked wider.
“Fuck.”
He kept that angle, one hand braced by your head, the other gripping your thigh as he pushed into you with a desperation that made the whole room feel too small. The floor was hard beneath your back, the lights too bright above you, the set bed standing useless beside you, but none of it felt staged. None of it felt like something that could be watched. His body covered yours too completely for that. His hands kept finding you, holding you, lifting you into him, making the rawness feel less like recklessness and more like dangerous trust.
You wrapped both legs tighter around his waist, refusing to let him retreat even an inch. Jungkook noticed. Of course he noticed. His eyes dropped to where you held him, then lifted back to your face with something feral and almost tender in them.
“You keeping me there?” he asked, voice low and dirty.
“You want me deeper than this?”
Your answer came out as a moan when he moved again. His jaw clenched.
“Deeper.” That did it.
Jungkook’s mouth crashed into yours, and the next thrust shoved the breath out of you so completely he had to catch the back of your head in his palm, cradling you even while his body went rough. He kissed the sound out of your mouth, then dragged his lips to your jaw, your throat, the sensitive place beneath your ear.
“Like that?” he asked.
“That deep?”
“Yes.. Please..”
The please ruined him. You felt it in the way his rhythm broke, in the way his hand slid under your back and pulled you up harder against him, in the way his mouth went slack against your skin for one breath before he buried a curse there. He was not smooth anymore. He was not controlled in the pretty way people paid for. He was desperate, breathing hard, trying to keep enough of himself intact to watch you while the rest of him wanted to take, take, take.
“Do you have any idea what you sound like?” he muttered against your throat.
“Do you have any fuckin’ idea what you do to me when you moan like that?”
You turned your face toward his, mouth brushing his cheek.
“Show me.” His whole body shuddered.
“You are dangerous,” he said.
“You like it.”
“I fuckin’ love it.”
Then he moved harder, the rhythm rougher now, less careful in shape but still careful in instinct. His hand stayed between your head and the floor when your body slid back. His palm protected your hip from the ground when he changed the angle. His mouth kept returning to yours, not because it was soft, but because he seemed to need the kiss as much as the sex, like he could not stand being inside you without being close enough to breathe the same air.
“Look at the desk,” he rasped. Your eyes opened. The monitor desk blurred at the edge of your vision.
“That is where you sit and ruin my life.”
You laughed, broken. He thrust deeper. “I am serious,” he said, voice rough against your lips.
“All calm, all notes, all that pretty little face while I am out there working. Do you know what it does to a man?”
“You seem to be managing.”
He gave you a look so filthy it should have been illegal.
“Badly.”
He moved you after that, because Jungkook was never going to be satisfied with only one angle of anything. He pulled out with a groan that sounded almost furious, caught your hips before you could feel the loss too sharply, and lifted you like your weight was nothing but the consequence of his own bad choices. Your legs locked around him instinctively. His hands tightened under your thighs, and he kissed you as he carried you the few steps to the monitor desk, messy and blind and breathing hard against your mouth. The symbolism of it nearly undid you before his body did. The desk where you had watched him. Corrected him. Controlled him. The desk where his eyes had found you over and over again. Now he had you perched on the edge of it, your back lowering toward the surface while he shoved papers and a headset aside with one impatient hand. Even half gone with hunger, he was careful. He checked the edge with his palm before your spine touched it. He slid his hand behind your head so you did not hit the desk too hard. He kept one hand braced near your hip and the other at the side of your face, making sure the hard wood did not hurt you even while his body looked ready to ruin you.
“This desk is fucked,” he said. You were too breathless to laugh properly.
“Jungkook.”
“No, I mean it. Ruined.” He pushed back inside you in one slow, devastating stroke, watching your face fall open as you took him again.
“Every time you sit here, you are going to remember this.” You gripped his shirt. “So will you.” His eyes flared. “I remember everything with you.”
Then he stopped talking because the rhythm turned too deep for language. The desk shifted under you with each thrust, the monitors trembling slightly beside your shoulder, cables pulling taut somewhere beneath the surface. Jungkook braced one hand flat beside your head and used the other to hold your hip, not letting you slide too far back, not letting the edge bite into you. He fucked you harder now, rougher than he had let himself be on the floor, because you were holding him tighter and your hips meeting him like you wanted every careful piece of restraint to snap.
“Still okay?” he forced out. Your answer came out as a moan. His hand tightened on your hip.
“Yes. Jungkook, yes.”
“Fuck, honey,” he breathed, and the praise sounded like it hurt him.
“Fuck, you are so good for me like this. So good taking me like you were made to make me lose my mind.”
The words went through you. So did the next thrust. You arched into him, and he caught you immediately, arm sliding behind your back to hold you up against him. For a few frantic seconds, you were not lying back anymore. You were pressed chest to chest, seated on the desk with him buried deep inside you and his mouth at your throat, both of you moving in short, desperate motions because there was not enough room and too much need. The lack of space made it worse. Better. Your legs locked around his waist again, heels digging into him, refusing to let him pull back too far. Jungkook groaned into your throat.
“You keep doing that.”
“What?”
“Pulling me back in.”
“I need you close.”
His rhythm faltered again. Completely. One moan from you, one confession, and the man who made a living out of control forgot how to move. He dropped his forehead to yours, breathing hard, his cock buried deep inside you and still as if he needed one second not to come apart too soon.
“You cannot say things like that when I am inside you,” he said, voice nearly ruined.
“Why?” His laugh was breathless and obscene.
“Because I am trying very hard not to embarrass myself.”
You kissed him, slow and filthy, then whispered against his mouth, “Then stop trying.”
The sound he made was not human.
After that, he gave up on pretending he could be composed. He fucked you like the room had disappeared, like the desk beneath you was not a work surface but a confession, like every note you had ever given him had led to this exact moment. His mouth kept finding yours, then your neck, then your shoulder. His hands kept shifting, one gripping your hip, one holding your back, one sliding to your thigh to keep you open for him. He cursed when your pussy tightened around him. He cursed when you moaned his name. He cursed when your nails dragged into his hair and pulled his mouth back to yours.
“This is what you wanted?” he muttered.
“Me like this? No camera. No distance. No pretty version you can pause when it gets too real?”
“Yes.”
“Say it again.”
“I want you like this.”
“Fuck.” His hips stuttered.
You pulled his face back to yours.
“I want you to cum inside me.”
Jungkook went still for half a second like his body had forgotten how to survive the sentence. Then his face changed.
“Do not say that because it sounds hot.”
“I want it.” His throat worked.
“Look at me when you choose it.” You did.
His control died in pieces after that. He fucked you harder, still watching you, still careful with the edge of the desk, gone and almost furious with the pleasure of being allowed.
“I am going to fill you because you asked me to,” he said against your mouth, voice ruined and filthy. “Because you wanted me this deep. Because my calm little menace behind the monitors is not so calm now, is she? Look at you. Wrapping your legs around me like you are scared I will pull away. I am not pulling away, baby. Not when you are taking me like this. Not when you are looking at me like you want every inch of my cock inside you. You want it? You want my cum that deep? Then keep your eyes on me and take it.”
Your climax hit hard enough to tear sound from your throat. Jungkook lost his rhythm the second he felt it, his hips stuttering rough and uneven, his mouth falling open against yours as if your pleasure had dragged him with it before he was ready.
“That is it,” he rasped against your lips. “That is it, baby. Let me feel it. Fuck, you feel too good. You feel too good when you cum for me.”
His followed almost immediately. His mouth opened against your shoulder, body shuddering hard as he came inside you with a curse that sounded like it had been dragged from somewhere private. He held you so tightly through it that you could feel the tremor in his arms, the loss of rhythm, the final helpless push of his hips as he buried himself deep and stayed there.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Jungkook stayed there, forehead pressed to your shoulder, one hand still cupping the back of your head, the other spread wide over your hip like he was afraid the desk might take something from you if he stopped paying attention. His breathing was ruined. So was yours. Then Jungkook lifted his head. His eyes went to your face first.
“You okay?”
You nodded, too dazed to speak. His brows pulled together.
“Say it for me.”
“I am okay.”
He exhaled, then looked down at the monitor desk. “Desk is still fucked.”
You laughed weakly, and that seemed to settle something in him. He helped you down carefully, muttering about your legs like the problem was gravity and not him. When your knees trembled, he caught your waist immediately.
“Yeah, no. You are not walking out looking like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I just fucked you on the monitor desk.”
“You did.”
“Exactly. That is the issue.”
In his dressing room, he cleaned you up with a level of focus that made your chest ache. He gave you water. His hoodie. Space when your hands shook. His mouth stayed crude because he was Jungkook, but his hands were careful enough to hurt.
“Put this on,” he said, pushing the hoodie toward you. “I am preventing a crime scene.”
“A crime scene?”
“You walking out with my cum between your thighs and that face.”
Your face burned. He looked proud for half a second, then serious.
“Still okay with it?”
You looked at him. “With what?”
“All of it. Raw. The desk. Me finishing inside. Do not pretend with me if that changes.”
Your throat tightened. “I am still okay.”
His shoulders loosened. “Good.”
For a few minutes, the room held the quiet of something that had been split open and survived. Jungkook stood close, not touching too much, not crowding, but staying near enough that you knew he was there. He kept pretending to be busy with water, tissues, your clothes, the hoodie, anything that allowed him to care for you without standing still under the weight of it. You watched him because you could not help it. He moved like a man who had just crossed a line and was checking every inch of the ground behind him to make sure he had not hurt you on the way.
When he finally looked at you properly, the crude mask came back crooked and late.
“What?” he asked.
“You are hovering.”
“I am supervising the aftermath of your terrible choices.”
“My choices?”
“You asked to be fucked hard and raw on a monitor desk.”
“You agreed.”
“I am a weak man.”
“You are many things.”
He huffed, but his eyes were soft. You reached for his hand, and he gave it to you immediately, like the motion had become instinct. Your thumb moved over his knuckles once. He watched it, breathing a little easier with every circle.
“What are we doing?” he asked eventually.
The question sat between you, heavier than the heat had been.
You brushed damp hair back from his forehead. “What do you want us to be?”
Jungkook looked like he hated you for asking so gently.
“I do not know how to say it without sounding like an idiot.”
“That has never stopped you before.”
His mouth twitched. Then fell.
“I want it named,” he said.
Your heart softened.
“I want you to be mine in a way people understand when I stand next to you. I want to be yours in a way that does not make me sound like a fucking teenager with a playlist and a personality disorder.”
You bit back a smile.
He glared. “Do not.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I am listening.”
His throat moved. “I want to be your boyfriend.”
The last word came out like he was waiting for it to be mocked. You did not mock it. You touched his face.
“Then be my boyfriend,” you said.
Jungkook went quiet. Too quiet. For a moment, the crude man, the performer, the menace, the man who could make a whole room bend around his mouth, simply stared at you. You let the yes settle there, let him understand he had asked for something soft and had been allowed to keep it.
“You are more than a pretty face,” you said. “I will help you understand that.”
Panic crossed his face in the form of a terrible smile.
“Is my dick game so good you are muttering nonsense?”
You looked at him. He looked back. The smile faltered.
“You are more than a pretty face,” you repeated.
His eyes changed.
“I mean it.”
He swallowed.
“I know,” he said, so softly you almost did not hear it.
By the end of the week, Jimin was removed from the schedule entirely. No reassignment. No polite reshuffle. He was gone from the set, and nobody said his name again unless they had to.
A few days later, it rained all day, and the studio heating had become temperamental enough that everyone complained. Jungkook had finished a late shoot, showered in his dressing room, and told you he would take you home after he changed. You were cold, tired, and wearing his hoodie because he had thrown it at you earlier with a grunt and no explanation. You waited on his vanity because the chair had clothes on it, the sofa had towels on it, and the vanity was closest to the heater.
Jungkook came out of the bathroom with damp hair, black joggers low on his hips, towel in his hand. Then he stopped. You looked up from your phone.
“What?”
His eyes moved over you. His hoodie. His vanity. Your bare legs tucked carefully to the side. Your tired face soft in the dressing room lights. The domestic wrongness of it. The fact that you looked like you belonged there, waiting for him after work as if this ugly little room had become part of your life together. His mouth parted.
“Jungkook?”
“I feel a sin coming on,” he said.
Your lips parted around a smile. “Hmm?”
“The hoodie stays on.”
“Come again?”
His mouth curved. “Oh, I will. Trust me.”
Then he dropped the towel. That was the only warning. He crossed the room and kissed you so hard you had to grip the edge of the vanity. His hands went to your thighs, pushing them apart as he stepped between them, breathing already ruined.
“My hoodie,” he muttered against your mouth. “My vanity. My girl sitting here like this and expecting me to drive safely.”
You made a small sound. He pulled back just enough to look at you.
“You are cold?”
“A little.”
“Keep it on.”
His hand moved to the drawer where you knew he kept condoms now, because Jungkook had become practical in the least romantic way possible. But before he could open it, you caught his wrist. He looked at you.
“Can I have you raw again?”
For one full second, Jungkook stopped functioning. Then he shut the drawer without taking anything out.
“Baby,” he said, and this time the word was a warning to himself.
You touched his stomach. “I want it.”
“You cannot sit on my vanity in my hoodie and ask me that like you want me sane.”
“I do not need you sane.”
His eyes went almost black.
“No, baby. After, I am going to be perfect. Water. Cleaning you up. Driving you home. All of it.” His hands tightened on your thighs. “Right now, hold onto me.”
The dressing room was different from the floor. The floor had been desperate and symbolic, chosen because it was not the set bed, not a scene, not something anyone else could watch. The vanity was private in a way that felt almost worse. His name on the door. His clothes in the corner. His shower steam still on the mirror. His hoodie on your body. The room smelled like soap, clean skin, and Jungkook losing the last of his common sense.
He kept the hoodie on you.
Of course he did.
The second his hands found the hem and dragged it higher, he made a sound like the sight had personally wronged him. Not because he wanted it off. Because he wanted it ruined by the fact that it was his. His hoodie bunched around your waist, soft fabric pushed up beneath his hands while his mouth found your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, kissing you too hard to be gentle and too carefully to be careless.
“My hoodie,” he muttered against your skin. “My vanity. My girl asking for me raw like she wants me to stay normal.”
You laughed, but it broke into a moan when he hooked one hand under your thigh and pulled you closer to the edge of the vanity. The mirror was cold behind you, and Jungkook noticed before you could. His palm slid behind your back immediately, fingers spreading wide between your spine and the glass, keeping the hard surface from pressing too sharply into you even while his mouth stayed filthy at your neck.
“I am not going to be normal about you tonight,” he said.
“You ever are?”
He bit your shoulder lightly through the hoodie, just enough to make you gasp. “Smart mouth.”
His other hand gripped your hip, rough and possessive, but the roughness never went blind. He kept adjusting you in small, careful movements: your thigh higher against his waist, your back angled away from the mirror, your hand guided to his shoulder when your balance shifted. He looked half feral, hair damp, eyes dark, mouth swollen from kissing you, but every instinct in him still knew where the edge of the vanity was. Where your body needed support. Where the mirror might bruise. Where his hand had to go before the rest of him lost control.
“Hold onto me,” he said, voice low.
“I am.”
“No.” His hand tightened on your thigh. “Properly. If your legs go, I catch you, but I want your hands on me.”
So you put your arms around his shoulders, fingers sliding into the damp hair at the nape of his neck, and the way his eyes changed almost made you feel powerful enough to be cruel. Jungkook kissed you again, messy and open-mouthed, his hands gripping you like he was trying to keep the whole room from stealing the moment. When he pushed inside you, it was not slow the way the floor had been. It was desperate, a little rougher, his body remembering what it felt like to be wanted by you and losing patience with the memory. Still, he watched your face. Still, he stopped halfway with a curse trapped behind his teeth.
“Okay?”
Your fingers tightened in his hair. “Yes.”
His jaw flexed. “Do not give me the polite answer.”
“I want you.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“I am okay,” you said, softer. “And I want you.”
That did something to him. His forehead dropped to yours for one breath, like he needed to gather the last thread of himself, and then he pushed deeper, filling the space between you with a rough sound that made your stomach twist. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, heels pressing into his back to keep him close, and Jungkook lost the rhythm before he even found it properly.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You keep doing that.”
“What?”
“Pulling me in like you cannot stand me leaving.” His mouth brushed yours, almost angry with tenderness. “You are going to make me useless.”
“You already said that once.”
“I am worse now.”
He moved then, and the vanity became something else. Not furniture. Not a place where he checked his face before stepping back into the version of himself everyone watched. It became yours. His hands, your thighs, the hoodie caught between you, the mirror fogged behind your shoulder, the little bottles on the surface trembling every time his hips drove into yours. He fucked you with the hoodie bunched around your waist and his mouth pressed against your throat, filthy and half out of his mind, saying things that sounded like complaints and devotion at the same time.
“Look at you,” he muttered. “Sitting on my vanity in my clothes, asking for me like this. Do you know what you do to me?”
You moaned instead of answering.
His rhythm faltered.
There it was again. That break in him. That proof that your pleasure did not flatter him; it undid him. His hand slammed down beside your hip to steady himself, not you, and he laughed once, rough and breathless, like he hated that you had caught him losing control.
“No,” he said, eyes lifting to yours. “Make that sound again.”
“Jungkook.”
“Do it.” His mouth dragged over your jaw. “Let me hear what my girl sounds like when she stops pretending she is calm.”
The words went through you. So did the next thrust. Your head tipped back against the mirror, but his hand was already there, cushioning you before glass could meet bone. He was feral, but not gone from you. Never gone where it mattered. One hand behind your back. One glance at your face every time he moved deeper. One low command to hold his shoulders when your balance slipped. His care stayed hidden in the roughness like a secret he did not know how to say nicely.
“More,” you whispered.
His eyes darkened. “More what?”
“Deeper.”
Jungkook’s mouth parted. For a second, he looked ruined by the word. Then he gripped your thigh higher, opened the angle, and gave you exactly what you asked for. The next push made the vanity knock softly against the wall, and he caught your mouth with his, his cock pushing deeper with every thrust.
“Like that?”
“Yes.”
“Say it properly.”
“Like that. Please..”
The please nearly ended him again. You felt it in the way his rhythm stumbled, in the rough exhale against your mouth, in the hand that gripped your hip harder before immediately easing like he had remembered to be careful. He kissed you again, slower for half a second, almost helpless, then buried his face in your neck and started moving with a hunger that made your pussy clench around his cock with want.
“This is what you wanted?” he said against your throat. “Me in my dressing room, my hoodie on you, my hands all over you, no one watching, no one calling cut?”
“Yes.”
“You wanted me to fuck you here?”
“Yes.”
“Raw again?”
Your legs tightened around him. “Yes.”
He groaned like the answer had hurt him. “Jesus Christ. You say yes like that and expect me to survive?”
“You are doing fine.”
“I am absolutely not doing fine.” He dragged his mouth back to yours. “I am going to think about this every time I walk in here. Every time I see that mirror. Every time I put that hoodie on and remember you wearing it while taking me like you were trying to ruin my career.”
“You are dramatic.”
“I am fucking you on my vanity. I am allowed to be dramatic.”
You laughed, and the laugh broke apart when he changed the angle again, deeper and rougher, his hand sliding between you to find your clit. The mirror fogged more behind you. His breathing turned ragged. Yours was worse. He kept his eyes on your face like he could not bear to miss a second of what he was doing to you, and every time you moaned, every time your fingers tightened in his hair or your legs pulled him closer, his rhythm went uneven.
“That is it,” he rasped. “That is what I wanted. Fuck, baby, you have no idea how pretty you look like this.”
“Jungkook..”
“I know.” His voice broke around the words. “I know. I have you.”
He did. That was the dangerous part. He had you against the vanity, in his hoodie, wrapped around him like you were trying to keep him there, and still he was the one checking the mirror behind you, the edge beneath you, the placement of your hands. Still he was the one catching you every time pleasure made your body slip. Still he was the one kissing your temple between filthy words, as if the tenderness had nowhere else to go.
When you came, it hit you hard enough that your hands tightened in his hair and your legs locked around his waist. Jungkook lost his rhythm completely. His hips stuttered, mouth falling open against your shoulder, the rough confidence breaking into something almost helpless.
“That is it,” he said, voice wrecked. “Let me feel it. Fuck, let me feel what I do to you.”
He followed you over the edge almost immediately, burying his face against your neck and swearing like the pleasure had offended him. His body shuddered hard against yours, one hand still behind your back, the other gripping your thigh, holding you close as he finished inside you with a final broken sound he could not turn into a joke.
Afterward, he did not move right away. He stayed pressed to you, breathing hard into your neck, the hoodie still bunched between you, his hand still protecting your spine from the mirror. Then, slowly, he lifted his head and looked at your face first.
“Okay?”
You nodded, still trying to remember how language worked.
His eyes narrowed. “Words, menace.”
“I am okay.”
“Still okay with raw?”
“Yes.”
“Still okay with me finishing inside?”
Your face warmed. “Yes.”
His expression softened in a way he would probably deny under oath. “Good.”
Afterward, he was exactly what he had promised. Perfect, in the worst Jungkook way. He cleaned you up. Gave you water. Made you sit until your legs settled. Fixed the hoodie over your thighs and glared at the door as if anyone might dare enter his dressing room and see you soft.
“You are going home fed, warm, and full of me,” he said. “That is the plan now.”
You looked at him, dazed and warm and still sitting on his vanity like your body had forgotten how to belong to gravity. Jungkook looked back at you. His face shifted then, hunger giving way to panic, panic giving way to something almost tender.
“What?” you asked.
He looked away first.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “We need to go on a date.”
That was how Jungkook asked you properly. Not with flowers. Not with poetry. With rain against the window, his hoodie on your body, and his panic badly disguised as a practical decision.
The date was arranged for the next evening. Jungkook arrived dressed like a threat who had been forced into elegance under protest. Dark suit. Black shirt. Rings. Earrings. Tattoos disappearing beneath expensive fabric. Hair styled but still touchable, which felt unfair to everyone with a pulse. When he saw you, he stopped dead on the pavement. You were in black too, legs in sheer tights, coat soft over your shoulders, silver bag catching the light. You watched his mouth part slightly.
“Jesus Christ, baby,” he said. “Are you the dinner itself?”
You choked on a laugh. “Thank you, I guess?”
He looked offended. “That was a compliment.”
“That was a medical emergency.”
“You look good enough to make a man religious.”
“You?”
“I said a man. I am a separate problem.”
The restaurant was quiet and expensive enough to make Jungkook look suspicious of the cutlery. He pulled your chair out with the stiff concentration of someone trying very hard not to mess up a normal thing. All through dinner, he looked at you with a question he refused to say out loud. Am I doing it right? You answered by staying. By laughing when his commentary got too strange. By touching his hand when he started doubting himself. By rubbing circles with your thumb across his knuckles the way he once had on your thigh under that terrible studio dinner table. His gaze dropped to your thumb. Then softened.
“You do that on purpose,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Manipulative.”
“Grounding.”
“Same thing if you are good at it.”
You smiled. “You do not need to keep asking if I like it.”
“I have not asked in at least seven minutes.”
“Jungkook.”
He looked up.
“If something is wrong, I will tell you. You do not need to search my face every few minutes like I am about to hand you a performance review.”
“You love performance reviews.”
“I love communication.”
“Filthy word.”
“If this is going to work,” you said, “we need it.”
His expression sobered. You kept your thumb moving over his hand.
“I do not need you to be the perfect boyfriend.”
He looked away first.
“I need you to be there.”
For a while, Jungkook said nothing. Then he cleared his throat and ruined the feeling badly enough to save himself.
“I can be there. I am very hard to miss.”
You laughed. He looked relieved. The rest of dinner became easier. He told you about food he loved, food he hated, the gym equipment in his place, the fact that he exercised at home because public gyms made people too confident with their eyes. He talked about music, about vinyl, about the way certain songs sounded better in the rain. He admitted he owned more books than people expected and glared when you looked too pleased. But he asked about you too. Not all at once. Not smoothly. Jungkook asked questions like he was trying to break into a house without leaving fingerprints.
“What do you do when you are alone?” he asked eventually.
You looked up from your plate. “That sounds ominous.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Read. Sometimes. Watch terrible shows when my brain is dead. Clean when I am stressed.”
His eyes narrowed. “You clean when stressed?”
“Yes.”
“Terrifying.”
“I also rearrange bookshelves.”
“You are worse than me.”
“You have an emotional support fridge full of food.”
His mouth parted. “You do not know that yet.”
“I know enough.”
He looked almost pleased that you had guessed there was something ridiculous waiting in his private life.
“I bought this book ages ago,” he told you later, “and I have not had the chance to read. If it is good, I will give it to you so we can share thoughts.”
You blinked. “You can read?”
“Oh, fuck you, that is not funny.”
He looked down, suddenly shy, and smiled. Not his usual smile. Not the crooked one, not the dangerous one, not the one he used to make people feel chosen and stupid. A real one. Warm. Bright. Almost boyish. Your heart skipped so hard it felt embarrassing. He noticed you staring and immediately scowled.
“Do not.”
“I did not say anything.”
“Your face is loud.”
“You have a beautiful smile.”
Jungkook stared at you like you had slapped him with kindness. Then he reached for his drink.
“That was unnecessary.”
“It was true.”
“Worse.”
After dinner, he asked you back to his place like he was asking whether you wanted to step into a weather system.
“You can say no,” he said immediately.
“I know.”
“I am not asking only because I want you in my bed.”
“I know.”
“I just—” He stopped, jaw working. “I want you to see it.”
His home. His real life. The place with no cameras, no monitors, no crew, no Namjoon calling for another take. The place Jungkook existed when no one was being paid to watch him. You said yes.
His apartment was private in a way that felt intentional. Stylish, clean, controlled. Dark furniture. Warm lighting. A security system so expensive-looking you stopped in the entryway and stared. Jungkook followed your gaze.
“Super fans,” he said.
Your expression changed.
He shrugged too casually. “People are weird.”
“People tried to get in?”
“Once.”
“Jungkook.”
“Twice if you count the one who sent locksmith tools in a gift box.”
Your stomach turned. He looked away.
“It is fine. The system works.”
You understood then that his privacy was not decoration. It was armour. But then he kept talking. That was the surprising part. Jungkook, who guarded softness like state secrets, began showing you pieces of himself as if he had been waiting for someone to ask without making him feel foolish. Pictures came first, though he pretended they were nothing. Best friends in frames near the shelf, all of them younger and louder in frozen moments. He rolled his eyes as he explained one photo, but his voice softened at the edges. Then books with worn spines. CDs stacked with more care than he wanted to admit. Vinyls arranged in a way that looked casual until he corrected the angle of one sleeve with two fingers. He showed you the record player and touched the lid like it mattered. The gym equipment was in another room, neat and disciplined, not vanity exactly. Routine. Control. A place to put the restlessness people assumed was arrogance. Then the kitchen. A huge fridge that looked like it belonged to a family of six or a man with a deeply emotional relationship to food.
He showed you things too quickly at first. Almost nervously. Like he was laying cards on a table and hoping one of them made sense to you.
“This is stupid,” he muttered after explaining the order of his vinyls.
“No.”
“You look like you are taking notes.”
“I am.”
“On my apartment?”
“On you.”
That shut him up. His face changed, just a little. Then he opened the fridge like the appliance could save him. You stared.
“Banana milk?” you asked. “Really?”
Jungkook looked offended. “Would whiskey be more mature? It fuckin’ tastes great.”
“I believe you.”
“No, no.” He reached in and pulled one out. “You will drink one now. Do not underestimate the power of banana milk.”
“I did not know you felt so strongly about it. My apologies.”
“I can take criticism about my performance skills but not about banana milk.”
“Oh, is this where you draw the line?”
“Yes, it is.”
He shoved the banana milk toward your face. You took it, laughing, and looked into the fridge again. Banana milk. Soju. Beer. More banana milk.
“I hope to God you never mixed those to figure out if they taste good together.”
Jungkook’s eyes went bigger. Your mouth fell open.
“Jungkook. I cannot believe you.”
“I do not care,” he said. “It tasted good.”
“You are a menace.”
“You are drinking it.”
You drank it. It was good. You refused to say so immediately because he looked far too ready to be unbearable. The banana milk broke something open in the apartment. Not dramatically. Softly. Suddenly the guarded place felt lived-in. Warm. Ridiculous. His.
He showed you the vinyls next.
“I like listening to music to relax,” he said.
“With a nice banana milk in one hand?”
His eyes narrowed. “That is low even for you, you little demon.”
You smiled. He played a record. The room changed around it. Sound filled the corners gently. Rain had started somewhere beyond the glass, tapping faintly against the windows. Jungkook stood near the window, arms folded, looking out.
“When it is raining,” he said, “I sit by the window and look at the street. It is calming.”
You stepped beside him.
“So do I.”
He looked at you then. Not surprised exactly. Relieved. The two of you stood there while rain moved down the glass and the music turned his apartment into something softer than either of you knew what to do with. Later, you sat close on the sofa. Then closer. Talking quietly about nothing and everything until tiredness settled over the room. Jungkook became awkwardly careful the longer the night stretched on, as if touching you was easier than asking whether you wanted to sleep there.
You saved him eventually by leaning into him. His arm came around you immediately. The rain continued. The music lowered. At some point, without ceremony, without hunger needing to prove itself, without either of you making a grand decision, you fell asleep in his arms, in his bed. It was the first time you slept beside each other. Not the way the world would have meant it. The real way. Safe. Held. Unperformed.
When Jungkook woke, he did not move. You were still in his arms, warm and heavy with sleep, one hand curled near his chest. Morning light softened the room. The rain had stopped. The city beyond his window looked washed clean. He stared at you with the softest look his face had ever carried. He had woken beside people before. One-night stands. Mistakes. Bodies he wanted out of his bed before the air became awkward. He knew the morning-after impatience, the silence, the need for distance. This was different. You were not someone to rush out. You were his lover. His girlfriend. The person he wanted closest in the rawest, most truthful way he knew how to survive.
You shifted slightly. Jungkook stayed still. His thumb moved carefully over your hand, barely there. Like he was testing the reality of you without disturbing it. Your eyes opened slowly. For a moment, you simply looked at him. Then your mouth curved.
“Good morning, sugar.”
Jungkook’s expression panicked around the edges.
“Do not call me that if you want me to function.”
“You were staring.”
“I was monitoring a situation.”
“What situation?”
“You in my bed looking stupidly pretty. It is annoying.”
Your heart turned soft. “That was almost sweet.”
“Take it or leave it.”
“I will take it.”
He looked pleased, then annoyed that he looked pleased, and pulled you closer like he was not ready for morning to take you from him.
Later, in the kitchen, he made breakfast badly. Eggs too dry. Toast too dark. Coffee too strong. He presented everything with the pride of a man who had built a cathedral.
“You cooked,” you said.
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“No. For the wall. You can have some.”
You smiled into your coffee. He watched you eat like it mattered. That morning changed him. You could see it happening. Jungkook kept looking around his own apartment as if it had become unfamiliar because you were in it. Your cup near his sink. Your bare feet on his kitchen floor. His shirt on your body. Your hair still marked by sleep. His home no longer looked only private. It looked shared.
“Can you please stay with me?” he asked.
The words came out soft. Exposed. Not possessive. Not teasing. Not disguised as filth. Please. You crossed the kitchen and kissed him softly.
“Just one day?”
“As long as you wish.”
His face changed. Before he could drown in it, you tilted your head.
“Is banana milk going to be involved?”
He stared. “I told you about all of my favourite things and this is all you remember?”
You grinned. Jungkook tried to look offended and failed. That was how your first ordinary day together began.
“We can go to the library,” he offered later, as if listing options from a boyfriend manual he had found in a panic. “Have a walk. Go to the movies. Anything you want.”
“The library and a walk,” you said.
His brows lifted. “You are letting me into a library?”
“You offered.”
“I am regretting it already.”
He was fascinated in the library. He tried very hard to behave. That was obvious. He kept his voice low, hands in his pockets, following you between shelves with the quiet concentration of a dangerous man trying not to offend books. You picked up a novel and read the back. Jungkook watched you like the act of choosing a book was somehow intimate.
Then you glanced at him and asked, very softly, “Have you ever had sex in a library?”
Jungkook froze. His head turned slowly.
“Who are you and what have you done to my girlfriend?”
You pressed your lips together. He looked delighted. Horrified, but delighted.
“You are a lot worse than you pretend.”
“You are a bad influence.”
“I am a public service.”
After the library, you walked until the afternoon turned gold. His hand found yours naturally. No dramatic gesture. No announcement. Just fingers threading together as if your bodies had learned the rhythm before either of you did. He kept stealing looks at you.
“What?” you asked eventually.
“Nothing.”
“You have a face.”
“Everyone has a face.”
“Yours is doing something.”
“It is resting.”
“It is not.”
He squeezed your hand once. “I am thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
“About another book. Another walk. Maybe a movie.”
Your chest warmed.
“Maybe cooking,” you said.
He gave you a look. “Ambitious, considering breakfast.”
“You need practice.”
“I need supervision.”
“You respond well to direction.”
His mouth curved. “Only from very annoying women.”
That day taught Jungkook something quietly devastating. Love could be calm. It did not always have to be hunger, jealousy, protection, or intensity. It could be books. Walking. A stupid joke in a library. Your hand in his. Plans that did not need to be dramatic to feel important. Being a boyfriend was something he could learn. Not by being perfect. By showing up. Jungkook had never been good in the clean, polished way people liked to praise. He was not gentle by nature. He was not sweet in public. He was not easy. But walking beside you, hand warm around yours, he started to understand there was another kind of good. Being good to someone. Trying. Returning. Staying.
You learned something too. The ordinary Jungkook was dangerous in a different way. The rough version had made you want. The protective version had made you trust. The vulnerable version had made your heart ache. But the ordinary version — the man buying banana milk, smiling shyly over books, holding your hand on a walk, asking whether you wanted movies or music or another day — that version made love feel irreversible. Falling for him was like falling from grace. Not into ruin. Into truth.
That night, you went back to his place. It no longer felt like crossing a threshold. It felt like returning. The softness of the day followed you inside: the library, the walk, the handholding, the jokes, the little future-shaped plans. It settled around the room with the low light and the sound of Jungkook moving behind you, quieter than usual. In the bedroom, he kissed you like he still wanted you desperately, but something in him had changed. He did not rush as quickly. Did not reach first for the version of himself he knew how to offer.
You touched his face. He looked at you, and for once, he stayed.
“Let me love you,” you said.
Jungkook went quiet.
The line hit him harder than any filthy thing you could have said. You watched him struggle with it. Watched the crude comeback rise and die behind his eyes. Watched him realize that being loved without performing was more exposing than being wanted. Then he nodded. Barely. But he nodded.
So you loved him carefully. Not coldly. Not timidly. Carefully. You kissed him until his shoulders lowered. Until the hard, defensive line of his mouth softened against yours. Until the hands that had grabbed and steadied and protected you all day began to tremble because there was nothing left for them to fight. He tried to rush when the softness became too much. You felt it. The old instinct. The need to make intensity cover vulnerability. The moment his body wanted to turn tenderness into something he knew how to survive.
You slowed him with a hand on his chest.
“Slow down,” you whispered. “Breathe, baby.”
His breath shook.
“I am breathing.”
“No, you are arguing with oxygen.”
A startled laugh broke out of him. There. You smiled against his mouth. He closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them again, something in him had given way. You guided his hands.
“Touch me here.”
His eyes darkened, but he listened. Not performatively. Not like he was following a cue. Like he trusted you to bring him somewhere he had never been. When he looked away, overwhelmed by how gentle it felt, you caught his jaw softly.
“Keep your eyes on me, please.”
Jungkook closed his eyes for half a second, then opened them. You could see him clearly now. Not the performance. Not the fantasy. Not the man everyone watched and praised for knowing how to look like he belonged in desire. Him. Exposed. Safe. Loved.
He had never made love before. Not like this. He had been close to bodies. He had been wanted, watched, used as a fantasy, praised for intimacy performed beneath lights. But he had never felt this close to someone. Never felt softness hold so much want. Never felt care move through desire without making either smaller.
“Come closer,” he said.
His voice was rough. The words were not only physical. You understood. You came closer. Something in him broke open with relief. The bedroom became slower than the studio had ever allowed. No one telling him when to start. No one asking him to look good. No one waiting for a finished scene. He did not have to angle his face or make his body beautiful. He did not have to become the fantasy. Every time he tried, you brought him back with your hands, your mouth, his name. Jungkook. Not the performer. Not the body. Not the bad boy people watched and wanted and misunderstood. Jungkook.
He let himself need you then. Not desperately. Honestly. He stopped trying to impress you. Stopped proving. Let your touch, your voice, your patience teach him that love could be felt in the body as warmth, calm, safety, being held. He loved how it felt. It was hypnotic. He pressed closer, breathing your name like it was the only clean thing left in him. His mouth was still vulgar when he lost control of it, still broken around curses and praise and helpless little sounds he seemed embarrassed by until you kissed them out of him. But the filth was different here. It did not hide him. It revealed him.
“You are doing so well,” you whispered, holding him close. “My baby. My sweet Kookie.”
Jungkook stilled.
The name moved through him like light hitting a locked room. Kookie. No one had ever made him sound that soft before. His face changed in a way that made your own chest hurt. Exposed, cherished, embarrassed, loved. Like you had found the softest version of him and decided to keep it. He pulled you into a kiss. Not because he had words. Because he did not. The kiss was his answer to the tenderness. Instinctive. Overwhelmed. Full of something he had never felt before and did not know how to hold except by bringing you closer.
Afterward, he was quiet for a long time. Not asleep. Not gone. Just full. His arms held you with a care that made silence feel like speech. Love had reached a place performance never could, and he seemed almost afraid to disturb it with his mouth. When words finally came back, they came rough.
“You are unreal,” he said.
You smiled faintly. “That sounds like performance praise.”
His eyes sharpened. “No.”
The single word stopped you. He touched your cheek with the backs of his fingers.
“Not that.”
You looked at him. He swallowed.
“I mean I do not understand how anyone ever got near you and did not see it.”
Your throat tightened. He looked almost angry at the thought. Softly angry. Protective.
“You have been sitting there seeing everything in me,” he said. “Dragging truth out of me like it owed you money. And I—” He stopped, frustrated with the size of feeling. “I do not think anyone has looked at you properly.”
You let yourself receive it. That was important too. You did not dismiss him. Did not joke too quickly. You touched his hair, pressed your lips to his temple, and let his softness stay in the room with you.
“I hear you,” you said.
His eyes closed.
“You are safe with me like this too.”
Jungkook forgot how to breathe. He hid his face against your shoulder.
“Dangerous thing to say to a man in recovery from emotional stability,” he muttered.
You laughed softly. There he was again. Yours.
That night changed the shape of his filth. It did not make him cleaner, gentler, or less impossible. If anything, it made him worse, because now every crude thing he said came with the knowledge that he would hold you afterward, feed you afterward, kiss your temple afterward like tenderness was no longer something he needed to hide.
After that, love followed you back into work. Not loudly at first. Jungkook was still vulgar, rude, allergic to behaving like a normal man, and deeply committed to saying things that made you want to throw office supplies at him. But the rhythm changed. He stood closer. Looked softer when he thought no one useful was watching. Respected your notes without turning them into combat. When you were serious, your word became final.
The work did not magically become easy just because you loved each other. Jungkook was still a performer. Bodies still moved under lights. Scenes still needed blocking, notes, resets, professionalism. The difference was that he no longer used the work to hide from you, and you no longer confused the performance with the man who came home to you afterward.
On set, you watched with a director’s eye. You corrected angles, rhythm, eyelines, false notes. You did not mistake choreography for intimacy, and Jungkook never made you pay for understanding the difference. He did not look at you to provoke jealousy. He did not turn co-stars into weapons. When you were serious, he listened. When the cameras rolled, he worked. When they stopped, his eyes found yours with a quietness that belonged to no one else.
One afternoon, after his scene wrapped and he had showered, he came up behind you near the monitors and wrapped both arms around your waist without thinking. The room went quiet. Jungkook looked up. Three crew members were staring.
“The fuck are you looking at?” he snapped. “Like you lot did not figure it out a month ago.”
The room immediately found other business.
You turned in his arms, laughing. “You are impossible.”
“I am efficient.”
“You just announced us by insulting the crew.”
“They looked nosy.”
“They were nosy because you hugged me at work.”
“You looked huggable at work.”
You stared at him. He frowned.
“Do not make that face.”
“What face?”
“The one that means you think I am cute.”
“You are cute.”
“I am going to walk into traffic.”
But he kissed your forehead before letting go. The private jokes became worse after that. One day, while he stood too close to you by the monitors, you tilted your head.
“Does anyone here know about your banana milk obsession?”
Jungkook’s face changed immediately.
“Don’t,” he said softly.
Your eyes widened. “Oh. So nobody knows.”
His mouth lowered to your ear. “Say anything and the desk will be my martyr.”
You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing. He narrowed his eyes.
“You are a lot more like me than you would like to admit.”
“Well, nobody is perfect.”
“That is harsh.”
“Enough flirting from you today, honey.”
“Absolutely not.”
He still flirted. Still teased. Still found ways to be inappropriate in a room with expensive equipment. But he no longer undermined you. Never again. The thing he had once challenged in you — your authority, your professionalism, your standards — became something he protected. And he learned when to stop. That mattered most. A hand at your waist when the room was light. A dirty whisper when no one could hear. A look across set that promised too much and gave away nothing. But when you were directing, when your voice shifted, when your attention went back to the work, Jungkook let you go. Not emotionally. Never that. But physically. Publicly. Professionally. He gave you space because he loved you, not because he wanted credit for respecting you.
Then, gradually and all at once, you became the director.
It happened through work first. A schedule changed and Namjoon asked what you thought before approving it. A performer requested you specifically because your notes made scenes easier to understand. A difficult shoot almost collapsed under tension, and you fixed it with three calm instructions and a look that made the room remember who was in charge. Your name started appearing higher on documents. Then at the top. Then people stopped asking whether Namjoon approved before they listened to you.
One afternoon, a performer tried to argue around your note instead of with it. Not rudely enough for a confrontation. Just enough to test whether your authority had weight when Namjoon was not standing close. You let him finish. Then you stepped to the monitor, rewound the take, and showed him exactly where the scene broke.
“Here,” you said. “You are trying to look dominant instead of being present. The line does not need more force. It needs control. Do less with your face. Let the silence do the work.”
The performer blinked. Namjoon, behind you, did not add anything. He did not need to. The performer went back to his mark and did exactly what you said. The scene worked. Across the room, Jungkook watched you with a stillness that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with pride. The title caught up with the work.
Jungkook was unbearable about it. Not at work. At work, he respected you. That was the thing people never understood about him. Jungkook was allergic to behaving like a normal man, but when it mattered, he knew where the line was. On set, you were the director. His boss. The person whose call shaped the room. He argued when the work needed argument. He listened when the note was right. He did not undermine you. He did not turn your relationship into a joke for the crew.
If anyone tried to talk over you, he did not take your voice. He cleared space for it.
“She is directing,” he said once, mild enough that nobody could call it possessive and cold enough that nobody tested it again.
Across the set, you met his eyes. He looked proud. No joke. No performance for a second. Just quiet pride that you had become who you were always becoming. Then, when the scene wrapped and you walked past him, he leaned close enough to murmur, “Director looks good on you.”
You did not look at him. “Behave.”
“Absolutely not.”
At home, however, he complained like it was his civic duty.
“If I had known making you director would get me overworked and underfucked,” he said one night, watching you collapse face-first onto his sofa, “I would have filed a formal complaint.”
You groaned into the cushion. “You did not make me director.”
“I contributed morally.”
“You contributed stress.”
“And inspiration.”
“You are a disease.”
He came over and sat on the edge of the sofa. You were too tired to move. His hand touched your back, warm and careful.
“Too tired?”
You turned your face enough to look at him. “Yes.”
Something softened in him immediately.
“Bath, then.”
“Jungkook—”
“No sex. Bath.”
Your heart squeezed. He stood, already heading toward the bathroom.
“You get to be boss at work. I get to be boss of making sure you do not die on my sofa.”
“That is not sexy.”
“I am very sexy when I am preventing collapse.”
He ran the bath. Lit candles badly and too many of them. Made dinner that was only slightly better than his early attempts. Fed you on the sofa because you were too tired to sit at the table. Put you in his shirt. Got you into bed. Did not touch you for anything more than warmth. Jungkook wanted your desire, not your obligation. That was how you knew he had changed.
Not because he became good in the way people meant when they said good. Jungkook would never be clean enough for that word. He was still crude. Still jealous sometimes. Still complained when you scheduled him for early call times. Still told you the new male performers needed “less hair gel and more personality.” Still kissed you in corridors when he thought no one useful was watching. But he came home. He stayed. He learned the shape of care and wore it badly but sincerely. And when you did want him, he still loved you with the same rude mouth and careful hands, sometimes soft enough to make you cry, sometimes rough enough to leave you breathless and laughing into his shoulder afterward. The difference was that nothing felt performed anymore. Not with him. Not at home. Not in the bed that had become yours as much as his.
The almost-confession happened three times before the real one. Once in the kitchen, when you were wearing his shirt and trying to fix his coffee because his version tasted like punishment. He looked at you, hair messy, face soft, and said, “I love—” before turning it into, “I love when you act like my coffee is a human rights violation.”
“It is.”
“You wound me.”
“You need wounding.”
Once at work, after you corrected a difficult scene so perfectly that the whole room shifted around your direction, he stared at you afterward and said, “I love—” then panicked and added, “I love when Namjoon pretends he understands camera language.”
Namjoon, from across the room, said, “I heard that.”
“Good,” Jungkook said. “Grow from it.”
And once during a quiet film night, when you wore a ridiculous shirt you had bought as a joke. It said:
DON’T GET HORNY AROUND ME. I’M AN EMPATH.
Jungkook stared at it for ten full seconds.
“I hate that.”
“You love it.”
“I hate that I love it.”
You curled into his side on the sofa. Halfway through the film, he looked down at you with that same overwhelmed irritation he got whenever softness ambushed him.
“I love—”
You went still. He froze. Then his eyes dropped to your shirt.
“Your stupid shirt.”
You slowly turned your face up to him. Jungkook looked away.
“Do not look at me like you heard the first draft.”
Your chest ached. “Jungkook.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Fine.”
You sat up. He looked physically pained.
“I love you,” he said. “I am saying it badly because I do not know how to say it nicely without sounding like a man I would bully. But I do. I love you.”
Your eyes burned. He looked horrified by what he had done. You rescued him with a smile.
“That was terrible.”
His head snapped toward you. “Excuse me?”
“Awful delivery.”
“I just confessed my feelings, and you are giving me notes?”
“You usually respond well to direction.”
His mouth parted, then closed. Then he laughed once, helplessly. You touched his face.
“I understood you.”
His expression shifted. “And?”
“I love you too.”
Jungkook froze. Completely. You watched the words hit him harder than his own had. Saying it had cost him pride. Hearing it back cost him the last defensive thing he had. He swallowed.
“Well,” he said, voice rough. “That is inconvenient.”
You laughed through the emotion in your throat. He looked at your mouth. Then the joke left him. He kissed you softly. No audience. No set. No filth to hide behind. Just Jungkook giving in to being loved.
One late night, after a long week of directing, you stood in his kitchen wearing one of his shirts while he leaned against the counter and watched you drink water like it was somehow the most important thing happening in the city.
“You are staring again,” you said.
“I live here.”
“That does not explain your eyes.”
“My eyes can do what they want in my kitchen.”
You smiled. He looked at you with that familiar mix of hunger, annoyance, and love he still did not know how to carry elegantly. You set the glass down.
“You ruined me for anyone else — and you know it.”
Jungkook’s mouth curved. “Good. I worked hard.”
You rolled your eyes, but before you could answer, his expression softened. He reached for you and pulled you close.
“You ruined me too.”
Your throat tightened. His hands settled at your waist, thumbs moving slowly over the fabric of his shirt on your body.
Jungkook had never been a good boy. He had been vulgar, impossible, filthy, arrogant, and too proud of the damage his mouth could do. He had made a career out of being watched, desired, used as fantasy, and praised for the performance of intimacy. But you had found the man behind the performance. You had seen his false notes, corrected his lazy ones, dragged truth out of his body through a monitor before he ever knew your name in daylight. You had watched him become real. He had watched you stop hiding. Somewhere between the monitor glow, the empty set floor, the vanity, the real bed, and the quiet kitchen light, he had become more than the bad boy who brought heaven to other people.
He became yours.
Your impossible standard.
Your rude-mouthed caretaker.
Your bad decision with careful hands.
Your little piece of paradise.
Jungkook embodied the saying perfectly: good boys go to heaven, but bad boys bring heaven to you — and somehow, that unholy perfection was yours for the rest of your life.
Summary: Your car breaks down in a rural town during a solo road trip and you barely manage to make it to the nearest repair shop. Jungkook, trusty mechanic and sweetheart, takes a look at your car and brings you to a - very icky - motel, where he can't bring himself to let you stay the night on your own...
Warnings: MDNI, explicit sexual content, mechanic JK, manly JK while still being a cutie and a gentleman, this is pretty much a damsel in distress situation, there's a cuck chair again lmao but no cuck in sight this time, lots of sweat bc it's hot there!! they're both soaked in multiple ways, alcohol and weed, making out a little high, fingering, oral (both receiving), PiV, multiple positions, JK gets a bit unhinged and pussy drunk during the deed and pulls a few surprising moves, bit of dirty talk (good girl mentioned)
A/n: There's a lot of yapping and story building for a oneshot. We love a good build up in this house.
Wordcount: 10.4k
Masterlist
”No, no, no…,“ you plead with your car, stroking the plastic covering behind the steering wheel with one hand. “Please don’t do this to me, we’re almost there!”
The engine light had already lit up some miles back, but you decided to ignore it and just pray you’d make it to your destination. But now, after driving along empty country roads, seemingly endless, with only a few small towns in between breaking the monotony of the scenery, the lights on your dashboard start to flicker and the radio keeps cutting out.
“Shit,” you curse out loud before asking your phone for the directions to the nearest auto repair shop.
Your already shitty air con has totally given up. Beads of sweat are starting to collect on your upper lip as you follow google maps through the scorching heat. Thank god it’s only a few more miles until you pull into a small town off the desert road. This little hick town seems to just be made up of one main road, with a few homes off to the side.
“In 0,2 miles your destination will be on the left,” your navigation lets you know. A minute later you pull up in front of the repair shop with your Buick Century and turn off the ignition. You exhale in relief, at least you made it to the garage. You don’t want to imagine being stranded at the side of the road in the desert, not in this weather.
You let your head fall on the steering wheel that you are gripping with both hands, already worried about how much money you’re going to have to throw at your rust bucket. You step out of your vehicle finally, looking around. There’s what seems to be a small convenience store across the street, a man in denim dungarees and cowboy boots sitting in front of it, smoking. You snort - all that’s missing is a damn banjo.
What comes to your mind immediately is the horror movie cliché of a car breaking down in some rural backwater town and what happens after. You’ve watched countless of them - Wrong Turn, House of Wax, The Hills have Eyes. You don’t have any plans to end up as a final girl to a clan of inbred hillbilly psychos. Hopefully, whatever is wrong with your Buick is fixed quickly so you can be on your way.
You walk into the repair shop through a glass door next to a bigger gate for cars to enter and look around for an employee, unsuccessfully.
“Hello?” you ask into the empty space. There’s a front desk, but it’s unoccupied. Please, don’t let this place be actually closed down already for the day.
“Back here,” you suddenly hear a voice sounding from further back. Relieved, you scan the perimeters to find the source, peeking around a corner.
You find the actual workshop of the garage, multiple cars with open hoods standing around, but you don’t see anyone. Reluctantly, you walk between vehicles, not sure if you are even allowed in here, until you almost stumble over legs sticking out from under some Toyota sedan.
“Um, hi?” you address the jeans-clad legs.
“One sec,” a voice replies and a moment later you hear tools clanking to the floor before a man emerges from under the car.
And, well, he’s really not someone you expected to find in a rural backwater town. It’s not the outfit either, he’s just wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, both smeared with motor oil and grease. What surprises you is the fact that one of his arms is covered in tattoos, down to his fingers, and his ears are decked out in multiple silver hoops. He smiles at you, a piercing through the side of his lower lip, while he wipes his hands on the bandana tied to his pants.
Usually, when you have to bring in your rust bucket, the mechanics crack some sort of unfunny misogynistic joke at your expense before trying to rip you off with unnecessary repairs you didn’t ask for. So that is what you steel yourself for when you tell the dude that your Buick started breaking down as he walks you to the front of the shop.
He clicks open the automatic garage door and tells you to drive your car inside for him to inspect it.
But, shit. When you try to switch on the ignition, it’s dead.
The mechanic comes up to your rolled-down window. “Doesn’t start huh?”, he correctly assesses. “Put it in neutral, I can just push it inside.”
“Sorry,” you mumble, trying to move the shift stick to neutral, without success. It doesn’t budge without the engine being on.
You shrug your shoulders at him in a helpless manner, making him laugh. “Ah, automatic,” he hums before opening the driver door and pulling a screwdriver from the back pocket of his jeans.
Without warning, he’s suddenly in your lap, leaning over you to access the middle console. You would’ve moved out of the way had he warned you. But now this, admittedly very attractive, guy is brushing his tattooed arm against your thighs all non-chalant as he wriggles his screwdriver around the plastic by the gear stick. With one last satisfied hum, he finally moves the stick to the neutral position.
You just dumbly stare at him with hot cheeks when he retreats from your space again and he tells you about some manual switch he pushed. “Oh, sorry,” he apologizes when he sees your startled expression. “I didn’t get dirt on you, did I?” He wipes at the fabric of your pants with his hands, grimacing at himself as in the process, as he actually does brush some grease on it, making him panic slightly. “Shit,” he mutters but you stop him before he can apologize again or spread even more black gunk on you.
“Don’t worry about it,” you laugh, his display of sudden clumsiness making you relax again. He stands up straight, scratching at his neck before collecting himself and moving to the back of your Buick.
“It’s good to go now. Just let go of the brake and steer, alright?” he yells from the back and then the car is slowly rolling. You can’t help stealing a glance at him through your rearview mirror.
His brows are furrowed and the muscles in his shoulders are tensed as he’s pushing the car by its bumper. You can even make out the vein on his forehead popping out a little. The fact that you’ve always had a thing for feats of strength is almost making you forget to steer until his voice forces your eyes to snap back to the garage in front of you.
“Little to the left,” he yells and you comply, maneuvering your car into the workspace.
You pull the handbrake and get out of the driver's seat once you’re in a good spot.
“I’ll pay to get your jeans cleaned,” he tells you with a lopsided smile as he eyes your soiled pants before he walks to the front of your Buick.
“Let’s take a look at your baby,” he says as he yanks open the hood. “I already have a suspicion.”
While he’s checking out the engine compartment, you take a stroll around the shop, trying to pass the time and ignore the dread blooming in your chest about how much this repair is going to cost you.
On the wall behind the counter you spot the usual sexy calendars of women in pin up clothing posing on the hoods of old-timers. Maybe he’s just like all the other mechanics you encountered after all. You quietly chuckle just as you spot another poster among the sexy ladies though. This one has a half-naked man propped against some motorcycle, probably a Harley Davidson. Oh, a man of varied tastes apparently. Feels a little out of place for this small town, once again.
When you hear the hood of your vehicle being slammed shut, you hurry back to the mechanic.
“Yup, I was right,” he tells you, trying to wipe some of his dark hair out of his face with the back of his hand, smearing grease on his forehead in the process. “Alternator’s shot.”
“That sounds … bad?” you reluctantly more so ask than state.
“It just needs to be replaced. Good news first, it’s not a lot of work so I’ll be done in like an hour,” he lets you know. “Bad news - I need to order it in.”
You groan, but you are relieved to learn that at least it’s not as expensive as you feared. The fact that this part will only come in tomorrow though - Shit.
He types your information into his computer and places the order for the new alternator.
“Are there any hotels or something close by?” you ask him once he’s done and comes back around the counter to lean on it.
He shakes his head with an apologetic look on his face. “The closest motel is like two towns over. And it’s a bit of a shit hole.”
That doesn’t sound too inviting, but given your choices, what else are you supposed to do?
“Can you give me the address? I’ll get an Uber to drive me there I guess.”
“Good luck on finding any Ubers out here. We’re basically out of their operating zone.”
Your shoulders slump in defeat as you let your hand holding your phone drop to your side again.
“I’ll take you,” he offers, already on his way to your Buick. “Get your bag.”
You would usually not consider getting into a car with a stranger, but your options are kind of limited here. He can probably sense your hesitation, because he cocks his head to the side and smiles. “Wouldn’t advise accepting rides from strangers, but I can’t have you stay on the street,” he speaks up. “I’m Jungkook, by the way. I’ll give you my ID and everything, you can send it to a friend with your location.”
This won’t help you if he decides to murder you, but you are tired and in need of a shower, so you just sigh and open your car, quickly packing some things you need for an overnight stay into your backpack before shouldering it.
Apparently it’s time to close shop, or maybe he can just decide since he’s the only one in here, but he leads you out the back and locks the door behind him. You won’t question it, you are just glad that you will be able to rest soon. The long drive was becoming torturous anyway.
“Where’s your car?” you ask, looking around the street behind the garage.
Jungkook grins and points towards - oh please - a motorcycle. No way. Well, maybe that explains the leather jacket that he put on just before. You were wondering why he needed it in this scorching heat.
“Pretty, huh?” he muses when you look at him with wide eyes. “It’s a Fat Bob 114.”
Oh sure, whatever that string of random words means. He can’t seriously expect you to get on the back of this. For a moment, you reconsider just walking the streets tonight.
“I don’t even have a helmet,” you try to weasel your way out.
To no avail, since he produces one from behind his back and hands it to you. “Good thing I keep a spare around.”
He’s already stuffing his own backpack into the satchel on the side of the bike, while you fiddle with the helmet. You’ve never even put one on before and when you plop it down over your head, your hair gets caught in front of your eyes.
You hear Jungkook’s muffled laugh and then he steps in front of you, pulling the helmet back off.
“Lemme help,” he mutters while pushing your hair behind your ears while he clamps the headgear between his thighs to free his hands.
The intimate gesture brings heat up your neck and all you muster is a quiet “Thank you.” Then he gently pulls the helmet down and closes the plastic visor with a grin.
“All set,” he pats the top of the protective headwear before putting on his own. He swings his leg over the bike and motions for you to get on behind him.
“Just hold on to me,” he tells you.
You somewhat clumsily climb on and consider just gripping the side of the machine, but as soon as he turns his keys and the bike roars to life, your survival instinct kicks in and you sling your arms around his waist.
He pulls off into the street and soon you’re leaving behind the small town and with it your broken-down car.
Jungkook, thankfully, seems to be considerate of his passenger, because you are pretty sure he’s not even going the speed limit. You still cling on to him for dear life, probably choking him out, but he does not complain. You’re not particularly fond of not being encased in metal while on the road is what you’re learning right now.
After a few miles and your body starting to cramp from clutching on to Jungkook and the bike, you pull up in front of a motel. The parking lot is full of trucks, rarely any regular cars. Jungkook helps you off the motorcycle and takes off his helmet. He seems to be wondering about the amount of trucks, as he raises his eyebrow. Carefully, he removes your helmet for you as well before you can even try to do it yourself. Your hair feels damp and matted, making you cringe slightly as you run your fingers through it.
Jungkook retrieves his backpack from the satchel and pockets the keys.
“This must be a regular stop for truckers to rest, huh?” you wonder out loud to which Jungkook shakes his head.
“Not usually.”
Picking through the small compartment of your backpack, you finally find some tissues.
“Can I just..?” you ask Jungkook, gesturing towards his face with the towelette.
He seems to be confused but doesn’t stop you from wiping at his forehead. You clean the smear of grease off his skin and pocket the tissue.
“That’s better,” you smile at him and when he locks his big soft eyes with you, the corners of his mouth upturned, it makes you gulp. His gaze flickers down to your lips for just a fleeting moment.
With both helmets in hand, he walks you to the check-in counter, where you find the most unenthusiastic-looking clerk you’ve seen in your life.
“Hello,” you address him. “I need a room, please.”
“Really?” he responds in a mocking tone. “Who would’ve guessed that?”
Jungkook slams one of the helmets on the counter, startling the guy.
“Mind checking if you have any available?” he intervenes, a fake smile plastered on his face. One could mistake it for a snarl if it wasn’t for his politeness. With his hand planted firmly on the counter and the muscles in his arm tensed, the clerk seems to have taken the hint.
Woah. Apparently he’s not one to mess around with. It’s kind of hot.
“Alright, alright,” the clerk gives in, suddenly very meek and sheepish, and checks his computer.
“Seems like you’re out of luck, everything’s booked,” he shrugs his shoulders. “There’s some trucker meet-up happening close by, they basically overran the motel.”
Jungkook and you sigh simultaneously. What the hell are you supposed to do now? You really don’t want to go on another road trip if you can avoid it. He pulls out his phone, scrolling furiously, probably trying to figure out an alternative as well.
“Ah, wait,” the clerk suddenly perks up. “There’s someone checking out in a bit. Once we’ve cleaned up the room, it’s yours.”
Oh, thank god. You couldn’t care less that the place is run-down and the employee is a shithead. You’ll just shower and head to bed anyway, maybe scroll a bit on your phone. The aesthetic or lack thereof doesn’t really matter, unless you’ll find suspicious stains on the pillows. Which, to be fair, is not that unlikely, now that you think about it.
“We have a bar,” the employee tells you with an exasperated sigh, as if this was the hardest he’s ever had to work. “You can wait there. It’s gonna be like 2 hours max.”
You nod and turn to Jungkook, who looks a little disgruntled.
“Uhm, will you come pick me up again tomorrow? I kinda don’t have a ride.” The fact that he has to drive you again is gnawing at your pride, but he said it himself, no Ubers around.
He looks at you, quizzically.
“I’m not gonna let you wait around here by yourself,” he shakes his head. “I’ll stay with you until the room’s ready.”
Before you can even start arguing that you don’t need an escort, he’s already placed his hand on the small of your back to guide you towards the bar. For whatever reason you just let it happen. You’re a grown woman, you don’t need a white knight to look out for you. But also, some company would be nice instead of sitting around all alone, just waiting for time to pass. Since he’s also nice to look at, why shouldn’t you indulge a bit longer.
The bar is just as dingy as the rest of the place. All the seats are worn, tears across the old leather. The room reeks of stale smoke and cigars so bad that you scrunch your nose as you step in.
There’s two guys sitting at the bar drinking beer. By the looks of it it’s not the first one of the day either. Probably some of the truckers the clerk mentioned.
Jungkook pushes you into the booth of a table, sliding in next to you without taking his eyes off the dudes at the bar, and shrugs off his leather jacket. Sitting next to each other when you’re only two people has always been weird to you, makes it kind of awkward to chat.
“What do you want to drink?” he asks from beside you.
You take out your phone, checking the time. It’s 7 pm. You could do with a beer as well, so you tell him and he moves out of the seat to get your drinks.
You watch him from your table, only to realize that the two men are staring you down, one even cocks his eyebrows at you. Disgusting. You pull a face at him, but that doesn’t seem to deter him at all, grabbing at his junk while his mate laughs along.
Jungkook is watching this play out, you can tell when his back stiffens. He’s coming back with two beers in hand, immediately sitting down next to you on the bench again, so close this time that your thighs are touching.
“What are you doing?” you ask him, surprised when he puts his arm on the backrest behind you.
“Sorry, but I’m not gonna let those two sleazebags get the impression that you’re here by yourself, no chance,” he grumbles before picking up his glass and taking a big gulp.
The fact that he’s doing this only for show makes you feel a tinge of disappointment, which is just dumb. He’s just being nice, you tell yourself, also reaching for your beer, trying to relax with him being so close to you. It’s not because he’s making you uncomfortable, rather the opposite. You just seriously need to chill.
“How much was it?” you ask him, pointing to your drink, to which he just waves you off.
“Take it as compensation for me putting grease all over your jeans,” he smiles at you.
For a while you two just sit there, his arm around you, sipping away on your beer quietly. Jungkook shoots the gross dudes death glares every now and then. To which you are thankful because the thought of being in here alone with them makes you shiver. Maybe you were in need of a white knight actually. Just this once.
“So,” Jungkook breaks the surprisingly comfortable silence. “Judging by your plates, you’ve been on the road for a while, huh?”
You hum in agreement. “Just a road trip to visit an old friend of mine. Never been to this part of the country.”
“I can tell,” he laughs.
“And you?” you proceed to ask. “Have you ever been out of these parts?”
Jungkook’s fingers tapping away softly on your shoulder while he talks makes blood rush to your cheeks.
“Not really, I grew up around here. Only gone as far as the surrounding cities.”
“So you like living here then?”
He shrugs his shoulders as if he doesn’t really have an opinion on it.
“It’s just, you don’t seem like a small town kinda guy,” you continue when he stays silent.
“Now, why’s that?” he looks at you with a smirk, visibly amused now.
You just motion at his tattooed arm and the piercings, trying not to say anything he might take offense to. It’s his home after all.
Luckily, he doesn’t seem to be offended at all, because he chuckles at your assessment.
“You know, the next city is just like an hour’s drive away,” he lets you know between laughs. “We’re not cut off from civilization. Not totally.”
You chat away for a while, mostly just small talk. He never takes his arm off your shoulder while you learn that he owns and runs the repair shop by himself and you tell him that you’re in between jobs right now.
You’re laughing at a funny remark Jungkook dropped when the clerk pops his head in.
“Room’s ready,” he lets you know before he trudges away again.
“Before you try to argue - I’m walking you to the room.”
You figured.
So after picking up the key from the front desk, you make your way outside and up some stairs to find your assigned room with Jungkook close behind. On your way there, you can hear some loud bellowing laughter from behind doors as well as a smashing sound, as if a vase or something broke. This really doesn’t feel that welcoming after all, you think as you yank open the dilapidated door. It’s not even hanging straight in its hinges, so you have to lift it up slightly so it doesn’t catch on the floor. Yikes.
Both of you walk inside and Jungkook looks around the room after putting the helmets on a wobbly sideboard.
“What a nice view,” you joke, having walked up behind him to the window, looking down at the parking lot. The laughter gets caught in your throat when you can hear someone loudly fighting outside. When you peek out the window again, you see that it’s two big guys shoving each other and yelling, beer bottles in hand. Please let this night go by fast, you plead silently. You brought your earphones so hopefully you can drown out anything that might go on outside, be it murder or an orgy. You thank whoever invented noise cancelling in advance.
Jungkook turns to you. “Look,” he starts with a serious expression. You have a feeling you know where this is going, so you walk up to the sideboard and push his helmet towards him.
“Thank you for everything, I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Jungkook shakes his head and doesn’t move even an inch.
“I can’t let you stay here,” he says, decidedly. “Not by yourself. You’ve seen the kind of guys that hang around here!”
You liked his savior antics earlier, but you still have some pride left.
“I’m not some damsel in distress in need of saving,” you scoff and walk to the door. “I’ll just lock up and sleep by myself like a big girl.” You jokingly wiggle the lock around before realizing it’s almost falling apart at your touch. Oh. This actually doesn’t bode well with you.
Jungkook looks at your wide eyes with a quirked brow, waiting for you to reconsider what you just told him. And you do. Damn.
Then there’s suddenly more clamor seemingly right outside your door. As if someone was crashing into the wall. The look in your eyes turns to pleading. Now you’re actually hoping Jungkook’s offer, whatever exactly it entails, still stands.
“I’ll stay. Don’t worry,” he reassures you as if he just read your mind. Probably not that hard, considering the situation.
“Thanks,” you mumble while looking around the room. There’s exactly one bed, a dresser with a tiny TV on it and what you assume to be the door to the bathroom. And a worn-out leather arm chair.
Jungkook follows your gaze and takes the words out of your mouth when he speaks up.
“I’ll just stay in the cuck chair, you can go ahead and go to sleep.”
The good old cuck chair, a must-have of any rented room that’s worth anything. What would people do without it? Although this one actually seems like it’s been in heavy use. Ew. At least you’re not the one having to sit in it.
To your horror, this stuffy room has no air conditioning, only a ceiling fan above the bed that barely does its job. Opening the window is no use at this time of night either, as it’s still hot out.
“I could never get used to this heat,” you huff and sit down at the edge of the mattress, causing the bedframe to squeak. “Don’t think I can even sleep while it’s this hot,” you add, groaning.
Jungkook brings his stuff over to his designated spot for the night to keep watch of the door or whatever his plan actually is. Your knight in shining armor, you scoff to yourself. The fact that you’re sharing a motel room with some stranger is outrageous and very much out of scope of what you had planned for this trip. Even if said stranger is nice to look at. You watch him from the corner of your eyes as you kick off your sneakers and pull your legs up on the bed into a criss-cross position. His white shirt has gone see-through in the back from sweat and it’s sticking to him. No wonder - he’s been wearing a leather jacket and also you clung to his back earlier like a koala while driving here.
It's only around 9 pm when you check your phone and start scrolling through various social media apps, quickly getting bored. Beads of sweat are forming on your forehead, you feel like you’re being boiled alive sitting here in jeans, but you’re not about to strip in front of Jungkook, who’s also taken his spot in the chair with his phone in hand.
“Hey, you want to get some more beer?” you ask him, sure that you’ll be up for quite a while and beer always makes you sleepy, so that might help.
“Sure,” he nods, walking over to you and holding his hand out. “We can get some from the bar.”
You let him help you off the bed and slip back into your shoes. It’s a quick trip, Jungkook never taking his arm off your waist as he walks you through the premises.
Equipped with 4 cold bottles of beer you return to your room where Jungkook immediately opens one for you with a lighter from his back pocket.
The cool liquid goes down smoothly, making you sigh in content as you sit down on the end of the bed so you can actually face him in his spot where he is currently holding the bottle against his neck in an effort to cool off.
Striking up a conversation while you down the first drink, you inquire further about his repair shop.
“It’s been in the family for a few generations,” he lets you know. “I’ve been around cars since I was little, back when it was my grandfather’s still.”
“Did you ever consider doing anything else? College or something?” you wonder.
Jungkook laughs at the idea. “I’m way too dumb for a degree. And I like getting my hands dirty. Manual labor takes my mind off of things. I enjoy it.”
You get it, the road trip was supposed to serve the same purpose - taking your mind off what’s been troubling you. Could’ve figured that driving by yourself for hours makes your thoughts race instead. Maybe you’re dumb too.
Jungkook asks about you being in between jobs then, since you mentioned it to him earlier.
“I quit so I could leave my place for a while. Wasn’t that great of a job anyway, so no loss there.”
You put the now empty bottle on the ground and flop back on the mattress with your eyes closed, letting the ceiling fan blow hot air around you for a bit.
“You alright?” Jungkook’s voice chimes up.
“Yeah,” you hum out from your horizontal position. Mostly thanks to him, you ponder and find yourself glad your car started going to shit in his vicinity and not some place else. You just chill for a moment, trying to drown out the ruckus outside of your room. You’re in here, safe, protected. Jungkook is pretty beefy, so you’re not too worried about any truckers trying to bust their way into here. The ones that crossed your way so far looked out of shape. Not that you’re judging, you probably wouldn’t opt for a gym session after driving for hours on end either.
“Thank you again,” you sit back up, feeling like you're admitting defeat. “For staying with me. I’m sorry for all the troubles.”
Jungkook only replies with a smile and hands you the second bottle of beer. “I didn’t have any plans for tonight anyway. Your company beats watching TV alone by miles.”
He’d probably have air conditioning though and wouldn’t have to swelter in this dump. His face is shiny from the sheen of sweat, making his dark hair stick to his forehead, which he brushes away with his fingers continuously. Actually, maybe you got lucky having him stuck here with you, cause the fabric sticking to his chest is … really something. You reluctantly peel your eyes away from his muscles, not trying to be a creep after all he’s done for you. Can’t be ogling him like one of those sleazy truckers did to you earlier. Maybe it’s the beer finding its way to your brain or you’re just really not better than a man.
Your body doesn’t feel much drier than him, though you are sure the sweat doesn’t look even half as attractive on you.
While sipping on your third beer, you talk about more benign things, discovering that Jungkook and you share a lot of favorite bands and musicians. During your conversation, he keeps putting the glass bottle up to his face like he did earlier, obviously uncomfortable from being hot.
The ceiling fan only swirls the hot air around, but on the bed and directly under it, it provides at least some relief from the unrelenting heat while he’s suffering in the cuck chair.
“You know you could just come sit on the bed, right?” you interrupt him waving his hand in front of his face like a makeshift fan.
He pauses, considering your offer, and then sighs. “Nah, I’m stinky from working, don’t want to make it all gross.”
“Please, I don’t want to find you melted into a puddle in that fucking chair tomorrow morning,” you joke. “Sounds like one hell of a clean-up. Also, who’s gonna fix my car if you perish from overheating?”
“I might not be the first dead body in that chair, now that I look at it,” he wrinkles his nose as he gets up and eyes the worn-out leather.
“But I’ll take a shower first, if that’s alright with you,” he finally gives in.
“Sure,” you nod. “Go ahead. Haven’t checked out the bathroom - hope you won’t come out dirtier than before.”
Jungkook chuckles as he makes his way into the little side-room.
While you hear the shower run, you empty your beer and shoot your friend a message that your arrival will be delayed because of your shitty car.
Shortly after the water turns off, Jungkook sheepishly peeks around the corner.
“My shirt is soaked,” he tells you with an apologetic smile. “I’ll air it out and put it back on, yeah?”
His coyness makes you burst into laughter. How cute.
“Jungkook, your shirt has been see-through for the last 2 hours, I’ve seen it all. Now don’t be stupid and come sit with me.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh and throws his moist t-shirt on the sideboard, hoping it will dry down, before putting his shoes and socks next to yours by the door.
“Which side are you gonna sleep on?” he asks you, making you raise an eyebrow.
“I’m not going to put my greasy ass down where you have to sleep,” he explains and gestures at the smears on his pants. “This bed is probably already gross enough.”
You take a tentative whiff of the pillowcase on your side. “It’s actually not so bad,” you shrug your shoulders before patting the mattress on the unoccupied half of the bed, urging him to finally come and sit.
So, in this incredible turn of events, you’re now sitting shoulder to shoulder with a shirtless small-town mechanic, watching TV in a decrepit motel.
Switching through countless porn channels, you finally happen upon re-runs of The X-Files, which makes both of you perk up in excitement.
“I love Gillian Anderson,” you gush as her glorious red hair appears on screen.
“I love David Duchovny,” Jungkook replies with a sigh. “Gillian’s not bad either.”
His remark doesn’t surprise you as you recall the very bisexual collection of raunchy calendars displayed in his shop.
You both settle against the headboard, getting comfortable, and dive into the episode, following along as Scully and Mulder track down a mutant man that’s hiding in vents to eat people’s livers. Mulder has just foiled the abomination’s attempt to murder some family when Jungkook’s head suddenly drops onto your shoulder.
You can tell he’s asleep by the way his body is slumped against yours. So much for watching the door, huh?
His soft, slow breathing is fanning over your neck and you decide to just let him nap, watching the intro to the next episode roll. That is, until your back starts to hurt from your current position, so you shift slightly, which startles Jungkook awake.
“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry,” he looks at you horrified when the initial post-nap confusion has worn off. “Did I drool on you?”
You assure him it’s fine and that he did not. Jungkook stands up and stretches his arms over his head, your eyes following the movement of his bared muscles as he does. He yawns and shuffles over to the window, cracking it open and sticking his head outside.
The clamor has calmed down it seems, no more yelling and fighting audible, you realize in relief.
“I think we can keep this open now,” Jungkook decides. “It has cooled down like… at least 1 degree.”
You agree, even if it won’t help with the warmth, some fresh air won’t hurt.
“You should try and get some sleep,” he proposes. “I’m guessing you still have some miles to drive tomorrow.”
He’s probably right and you can feel the beer you had swimming around in your head, relaxing your body.
Jungkook goes to switch off the big light and settles back into the cuck chair. Apparently he’s not planning on resuming his little nap but is back on duty.
You pull off your socks, leaving you in jeans and a shirt still, which is not your preferred way of going to bed. Since you’re still hot, you just lie down on top of the duvet, turning to your side and pulling up your legs.
“Good girl,” Jungkook coos at you from across the room and you can feel his smirk without even looking at him.
The minutes pass by and you just toss and turn, not able to wind down at all.
“Can’t sleep, huh?” Jungkook asks when you reach for the phone on your nightstand after the futile 30-minute attempt to drift off has gone nowhere. You’re uncomfortable in your clothes, sweating, and your mind keeps straying to exactly the places you’ve tried to outrun with your road trip.
Before you swing your legs off the bed you reach to turn on the lamp on the bedside table as you don’t dig sitting around in complete darkness. You’re in the process of stretching your neck and shoulders while Jungkook rummages through his backpack. It seems like he found what he was looking for because he perks up.
“Wanna smoke?” he asks you, holding up a pre-rolled joint with a bright smile on his face.
You laugh and go through your own bag, producing a ready-to-go spliff as well.
“I’m taking this as a Yes,” Jungkook chuckles and moves to the opened window where you join him. You squeeze past him so you can hop up on the windowsill, sitting with your legs dangling in the air and your side leaning against the window frame.
Jungkook rests his upper body against the other side before he fishes the lighter out of his pocket and ignites the joint between his lips.
Passing the doobie between each other, you pick up the topic of his shop again, still curious.
“You plan on staying in your town forever?” you ask him. “Like, just keep the garage going until you’re too old to work anymore?”
He takes a drag and huffs out some smoke while he thinks about it.
“I like the mechanic work,” he starts. “But I’m not really keen on living the rural town life for the rest of eternity.”
“I knew you weren’t the type.”
“Yeah. But I just can’t let go of the shop. I thought about selling it before, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It would probably kill my dad if I did.”
“He’d want you to be happy, no?”
He hums pensively, takes another hit and hands you the joint. Jungkook lets his fingers linger on yours for a moment when he does. His side is pressing into your thigh since there’s not much space in the window. The way his eyes are locked on yours is making your breath hitch and you almost choke on the smoke you inhaled. You cough, which makes him reach behind you to stroke your back. Your free hand grabs his naked shoulder while you recover from the coughing fit.
Once you catch your breath and sit back up straight, Jungkook doesn’t return to his spot next to you, but instead remains in front of you, basically between your legs.
His hand slides away from your back though, holding on to the windowsill next to your leg instead.
“I didn’t really quit my job for the trip,” you sigh, looking down at your dangling feet. The weed really seems to loosen up your tongue tonight. “Just couldn’t do it anymore, it kept burning me out to a pathetic pile of ash.”
“I’m sorry,” Jungkook earnestly tells you, squeezing your arm lightly in a comforting manner.
Apparently your weed-riddled brain decides to just lay out all your business to him, because before you can stop yourself, you are already dropping the rest of your recent lore.
“’M driving through the whole country to my friend’s place because I found out I got cheated on. The breakup hit me quite hard after such a long time together. Needed to get far, far away.”
“Must be a fucking idiot,” Jungkook shakes his head and tries to catch your gaze, which makes you lift your head when he starts to crouch to look up at you.
He moves closer to you then, making your knees spread further to accommodate his frame. After flicking the butt of the joint out of the window, he places his palm on your thigh while his other hand comes up and brushes some of your hair behind your ear. His head is cocked to the side and you’re locking eyes, with his fingers still resting softly against your cheek.
It’s like time freezes and then you’re suddenly leaning forward and your lips collide, slotting together effortlessly, like they were never meant to be apart to begin with. You sigh against him as if you’re letting go of a breath you didn’t know you were holding and he uses the moment to slip his tongue between your parted lips. His hand has wandered to your neck while yours found their way to his shoulders, pulling him closer, as your tongues dance against each other. All the stress of today just falls off you, like a lizard shedding his skin. The kiss is all-encompassing, leaving no room for any thoughts in your head other than taking away every inch of space between your bodies. As you make out, the palm on your thigh slowly caresses from your leg to your side and then back down to your ass, where it rests and squeezes ever so lightly. Even this soft touch makes your hips hitch towards Jungkook and you feel him smile against your mouth and exhale a laugh through his nose. You would be embarrassed if he wasn’t pressing himself into your crotch, holding you in place, obviously just as excited to feel you against his body. He nibbles on your lower lip before licking across it and then his face is suddenly gone from yours. You just stare at him all dumb and breathless, still entangled with him. His thumb brushes over your lip, wiping away the moisture left behind from the kiss and continues to put it in his mouth. You stifle a whine at the sight, trying to collect yourself at least a little bit, so you slide off the windowsill. Not taking into account Jungkook’s close proximity to you, the movement makes you rub yourself against his groin by accident. He’s not shy about the groan that leaves him at the contact, but he steps back a bit to give you space anyway.
“Want to give sleep another shot?” he asks you, brushing over your cheek one last time before removing his hand.
“Mhm,” you nod. “I’m gonna take a shower first though.”
“Good idea,” Jungkook sends you off with a pat to your ass, making your face heat up even more.
Oh, you really need a cold shower for more than one reason.
You finally step out of your sweaty clothes, dropping them in a pile on the bathroom floor. When the spray of water hits you, you sigh. It feels so good to finally wash away the grime. What you can’t rinse off is the tight feeling between your legs as you think about Jungkook, shirtless and sweaty, pressed to your body. You take a few minutes to just stand under the water raining down on you, fighting the urge to touch yourself, that’s how riled up the kiss has gotten you.
When you turn off the water and get out of the shower, you realize that there is only a small towel, nothing that could actually cover your body in any decent way. You only brought panties to the bathroom with you. The only thing you find attached to the door is a questionable bathrobe. Better than nothing, you think after inspecting and smelling it, deciding it’s clean. You quickly towel-dry your wet hair with the small cloth so you don’t look like a dog that got caught in the rain before slipping on your panties and the robe, closing it around you with its belt.
Jungkook has returned to the cuck chair when you come back out. He’s reclined back into it, leisurely stretching his spread legs out as he eyes you with heavy lids. He’s so fucking sexy lounging there in just his jeans, his upper body glazed by sweat, making his tattoo glisten in the dim light of the bedside lamp. You nibble on your lower lip absentmindedly, slowly stepping closer.
And he’s looking right back at you like he wants to ravish you. The slight tent in the front of his pants is reassuring proof that the kissing didn’t leave him unaffected either.
“Are you not hot in this?” he gestures at your robe while looking you up and down before sitting up straight.
“Are you not hot in your jeans?” you tease in response, making him chuckle.
“C’mere,” he curls his fingers at you to beckon you closer and your feet move before your brain even catches up.
Once you’re in reach, he grabs the belt of the bathrobe and pulls you into him, hands snaking to your backside when there’s no more room between you. He massages your ass cheeks through the soft fabric at an agonizingly slow pace and you’re already becoming impatient, so you take initiative and climb into his lap, your knees around his thighs. There’s just enough room in the chair for you to fit. With your arms locked around his neck, you immediately go in for another kiss, licking into him. Spurred on by your eagerness, his hands slip under your robe, making the belt slowly unravel with each movement of his palms against your naked skin underneath. You didn’t think it was possible in this heat, but you erupt in goosebumps when his fingers slide over your waist, up to the side of your breasts where he lets them linger before splaying them out to cup your tits.
“Your skin is so soft,” he mutters against your lips just as one of his digits brushes over a pert nipple, which makes you inhale a sharp breath. His mouth moves to the side of your neck, where he sucks on your skin, surely leaving behind bruises. The sensation makes you grind your hips down against his growing cock, craving friction. He groans into the crook of your neck, so you keep swiveling your lower body in his lap, both of your breathing increasing in speed as your arousal is escalating to new levels.
Finally, he’s had enough of the bathrobe covering his view of your body and when you let go of him, he slides it off your shoulders, dropping it to pool on the floor by his feet.
With your bare tits in front of his face, he hums in approval, his hands roaming the skin of your nude torso.
“Wow,” he sighs in appreciation, licking over his lips once before latching on to a nipple. The flicking of his tongue elicits a whimper from you and makes your back arch, pressing your chest closer to him.
You can feel the rough denim covering his dick though the thin fabric of your underwear, which is already going damp as you rub yourself over him again and again.
You lift yourself off his crotch, your hand finding his belt, undoing the buckle. When you struggle to open the fly of his pants one-handed, he removes his hand from your tit and looks up at you.
“You sure?” he asks you softly and when you nod, he helps you out by popping the button himself, so you just have to pull down the zipper. He lifts himself off the seat just enough to wriggle the jeans down to his thighs. His hard dick twitches excitedly when you palm him through his Calvin Klein boxers.
Jungkook reaches between you, his fingers finding your still clothed pussy, just ghosting over your core, tentatively. You instinctively press down into his touch, sighing, which impels him to run his digits over the moistened fabric harder. Feeling your arousal through the panties already, he pulls them to the side, giving him access to run his finger between your labia. “Like silk,” he muses quietly, before dipping in further, gathering your wetness.
“Dripping for me already,” he groans, his breath fanning over your neck now. “So fucking hot.”
His middle finger finds your entrance then and pushes in slowly before curling it once inside. You writhe in his hold, impatient to be filled by him. After pumping a few times, he slides in a second finger, the pads dragging across your walls which each movement of his wrist, making you whine.
When the thirst for his cock takes over you, you reach down to the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down just far enough to free his hard dick. He moans lowly when you wrap your fingers around him, squeezing before giving him a determined tug, your thumb spreading precum across his tip.
His fingers slip out of you then, leaving you clenching around air. His hand comes up on top of yours on him, engulfing your smaller one completely, guiding your pumps. Your juices on his fingers add to the glide, every stroke along his length now producing a nasty squelching sound.
With his free hand, he fishes out his wallet from his jeans, producing a single condom. You basically rip it out of his fingers, tearing the package open with your teeth. After slapping his own hand away from his dick with the back of yours, you roll on the rubber.
He takes hold of your wrist and gently twists you palm up under his face, then lets a drop of spit fall into it. You spread the drool around his shaft before lining yourself up to the tip of his cock.
Jungkook grips on to your waist as you lower yourself down on him until you’re flush to his crotch. The stretch makes you whimper as he slides into you, his own head falling back on to the chair with his eyes closed.
“Shit,” he mutters, voice strained. “You feel amazing.”
That’s enough encouragement for you to start moving, your hips going in circles as you bounce up and down. His cock curves just the right way to rub over your g-spot each time you slam your ass down into him.
His fingers have wandered to your ass cheeks, kneading at the supple flesh. He’s not guiding your movement, he lets you take the reigns as you ride him like your life depends on it.
The damn cuck chair is restricting you though, your knees confined by the armrests, you can’t get into it the way you know would blow his fucking mind. When you lift yourself off his cock, his head shoots back up, looking at you quizzically as you move off his lap and lower yourself on the floor between his legs. He spreads them immediately, accommodating you kneeling before him.
You peel off the condom, throwing it aside, before bracing yourself on his thigh with one hand. His palm comes down to land on top of your fingers running over the muscle of his upper leg. He caresses your hand as you close in on his cock, poking out your tongue to give it tiny kitten licks all over. His gaze never leaves you when your lips finally close around his leaking tip and he immediately twitches in your mouth with a whimper. Your lips are wet from precum and you let them run over his tip and down his shaft before taking him in properly. While you work your way down his length, your tongue flat against it, small whine-like sounds keep escaping him, contrasting the low groans he huffed out before and it’s making your head swim with need.
You hollow out your cheeks, sucking him down as far as you can go, your tongue swirling over his frenulum and through his slit on every upwards move. He’s too big to get all of him into your mouth, so you wrap your fingers around the remaining length, aiding with flicks of your wrist.
The groans from earlier begin to mix in between the higher-pitched whimpering, his fingers gripping on to yours harder as you keep going.
Jungkook is staring at you through the whole blowjob, mouth slightly agape, his chest heaving.
“So damn pretty with my cock in your mouth,” he muses between huffs, his free hand tangling into the back of your hair.
The praise goes straight to your pussy, throbbing and feeling neglected. You’re sure though it’s not going to be for long while you keep bobbing your head. And you were right, because soon after he peels you off himself gently by your hair, his other hand helping you up. He pulls you closer to him, slotting his lips against yours for a lazy kiss with his fingers grazing your jaw.
After breaking the kiss, he gets up, his sweaty back sticking to the leather producing a moist squelch, taking you with him and walking you over to the bed while stepping out of his jeans and boxers on the way. He lays you down on your back with an arm around you.
This time it’s him getting on his knees at the end of the bed. Jungkook grabs you by your waist and pulls you towards him, your legs spread around his head. He removes the panties still bunched up next to your pussy, taking a deep whiff of them before tossing them aside. He dips his head between your thighs immediately, mumbling against your core.
“You smell like heaven,” you can barely make out, his voice muffled by your skin, but it’s enough to make you moan at the dirty compliment. Maybe you have a praise kink that you weren’t aware of before, because he’s driving you insane.
The last thing you see before your head falls on the mattress is his twinkling eyes looking at you with hunger-blown pupils. Then his mouth is on you, his tongue running along your slit, lapping up the gathered arousal. Each pass of his tongue is pulling you further into oblivion and when he finally sucks your clit between his lips, all you can do is gasp and grip the bedsheets. His nose is pressed to your pubic mound as he lavishes at your pussy, relentlessly flicking over your most sensitive spot. He’s really not wasting any time, already having you right on the edge.
He alternates between his tongue and his lips in a mind-numbing rhythm and then two of his fingers push into you as well. Feeling him press his fingertips into your walls and working your clit at the same time has you arching off the bed.
“Don’t stop,” you plead, your orgasm approaching in a rapid pace.
With one last curl of his fingers inside you, you clench around them and come on his face. Your thighs close around his head, caging him in as your hips lift off the mattress accompanied by a strangled whimper. Your body twitches helplessly as he keeps lapping at your clit, bordering on overstimulation as your orgasm slowly ebbs down and you finally have to push his face away from between your thighs.
“Fuck, I could eat you out forever,” he groans, his lips and chin dripping in spit and your wetness as he reluctantly detaches from you. “I can’t get enough of your pussy. So sweet.”
You laugh breathlessly, slumping back on to your elbows. “Yeah, I could tell.”
He comes up from the floor, his palm wrapped around his rock-hard cock, stroking himself. When he looks down on you with hooded eyes, you grab his arm and pull him down. Jungkook chuckles as he lands on top of you, holding himself up with one arm so he doesn’t crush you.
His leg slots between yours and his cock drags along your hip, smearing precum on your skin when he crashes your lips together. After feverishly letting your tongues tangle and bodies rub against each other, giving you time to recover, he pulls away and rolls onto his back. Using the moment, you grab a condom from your backpack next to the bed before you follow along, swinging your leg over his thighs to straddle him. You put the protection on him with gentle hands, only tugging lightly a single time when you’re done. Hovering just above his twitching cock then, you start exploring his torso, fingers running across his abs up to his chest, feeling the taut muscle contract under your hands. You trace the tattoo that goes from his arm, over his shoulder down to his pecks. His nipples are hardened and you can’t resist brushing over them, small, dark and stiff, contrasting his pale skin. His hips hitch up at the teasing touch, making his cock glide between your labia. He whimpers and curses under his breath as he keeps sliding along your pussy, still puffy from the orgasm. The tip of his dick catches on your clit with every hump, your body now moving in sync to his motions, increasing the delicious friction.
On your last slide downwards, you angle your hips and with you still being soaked and spit-slick, his cock enters you without resistance. His hands on your ass tighten their grip as he sucks in a harsh breath. You can’t hold back your own drawn-out moan as your pussy is finally being filled out again. With your fingers splayed on his abdomen for support, you lift up slightly just to slam back down. There’s no slow start, you’re not playing around, immediately gyrating your hips with every bounce, your pussy gripping his cock tightly like it’s trying to rip it off.
The room is filled with the sound of skin slapping on skin, wet squelching every time you move back down on his cock and a symphony of both your moans echoing off the walls.
Jungkook lets you lead again, but after a while, he can’t help but thrust up into you, matching your rhythm and speed. You straighten out your back so you can reach behind you, cradling his balls, massaging them while you rock in his lap, before dipping down further to press into his taint firmly, pulling another whimper from him.
“Damn,” he presses out, his dick pumping into you. “You’re the best fucking ride of my life.”
With his cock dragging along your walls, you let yourself fall forward and his arms close around your lower back, holding you close. You rest your head against his shoulder, your ass still drawing circles on him, your cheeks ricocheting every time your hips meet. At this angle, your clit is now rubbing against him, making you gasp at the much-needed friction while he shoves into you from beneath. It doesn’t take long for you to get close again, so you grind down harder, chasing your high.
When your moans increase in volume, Jungkook digs his hands back into your ass.
“That’s it,” he breathes against your ear. “Come on my cock like a good girl.”
His words unravel you immediately, the coil in your stomach snapping and you come for a second time with a cry, the intensity almost overwhelming. Your pussy clenches around him tightly, making him groan through gritted teeth under you. You sob into his shoulder while you try to keep riding out your orgasm with trembling thighs and your whole body convulsing.
Jungkook doesn’t give you a chance to calm down this time. With strong arms, he lifts you off him and on your back. He stares down at you with dark eyes as he positions himself between your legs before he grabs the back of your knees and basically folds you in half. Jungkook rams his cock back into you without warning, the bed creaking loudly under the pistoning of his hips. You can do nothing but take his delicious slams into your sensitive pussy, too fucked out to contribute, your breathing coming out in shallow huffs between moans.
With a particularly harsh thrust, you hear a bed slat crash into the floor. Jungkook doesn’t seem to care that he’s not only taking you apart, but also the bedframe, rapidly approaching his orgasm judging by the stuttered grunts that reverberate around you. You feel like you’re getting vertigo from Jungkook all over and inside you, the effects of you coming so hard still lingering, having you blissed out and your brain comfortably empty.
It doesn’t take long for his movements to go choppy.
“Fuck, how are you still so tight… so… perfect,” he struggles to grit out between heavy breaths before his hips still and he releases his load inside you accompanied by stuttered moans. The fingers on the back of your thighs dig into your skin, probably leaving marks, as he continues pumping into you sloppily until your pussy has milked every last drop of cum out of him and he can’t hold himself up any longer. His body gives out, trembling, and he lets go of your legs before collapsing on top of you.
With his face in the crook of your neck, he exhales a shaky, incredulous laugh. Your fingers tangle into the back of his hair, caressing his scalp while he comes down. You are close to drifting off with Jungkook’s weight pressing into you, a calming feeling washing over you, when his voice startles you awake again.
“Are you okay?” he asks you with a hoarse voice, lifting himself off you, taking off the condom and settling against your side instead. His arm finds your middle and he pulls you closer.
“Better than the bed,” you giggle sleepily.
Reluctantly, you move out of his embrace, not willing to risk having to continue your road trip with a bladder infection.
“I’ll be right back,” you let him know.
You traipse to the bathroom to pee and when you come back, Jungkook is on his back, snoring lightly. You quickly pull on a baggy t-shirt and some panties and climb back into bed, careful not to wake him. When you snuggle into his side, his mouth curls into a smile and he hums.
“I’m taking you to breakfast before we go back tomorrow,” he mumbles with a sleep-tinged voice before drifting back off.
Masterlist
A/N: Thank you so much for reading :] Please consider reblogging or commenting if you enjoyed, or if you're shy, feel free to send us an anonymous ask! <3
Tags: explicit content, hes a pervert 🤷🏻♀️, idk if jk is a sub or dom here.
Mdni 18+
I know one thing abt clingy jungkook is he loves laying between your thighs when watching tv together. Not only cuz he finds comfort there, but he also would be able to smell ur scent and feel how warm and soft your pussy feels under his neck.
He would pretend to adjust his head just so he takes a small whiff.
He’s unfortunately a pervert when it comes to you.
Jungkook was honestly worried you would be mad at him for being too perverted, but one day when you caught him sniffing your panties in your bedroom, eyes closed, a faint blush on his cheeks as he jerked off. it made you feel some type of way. You ended up riding him all night as you rub your panties over his face.
Jungkook was gone that day, he knew you were the one. He stopped hiding his desires and completely let go.
It’s still surprising to you how much of a clingy horny pup he is. especially when you’re chopping vegetables, you feel him snick to his knees, pressing his face between your thighs and breath you in.
You try to be unfazed by his actions, but it turns you on so much knowing you got this big, muscular man so down bad for you and you’re not even trying.
He’s so obsessed with your touch. pls touch him. It doesn’t matter if it’s an innocent touch , jungkook will get a boner from it.
He gets jealous of your clothes. He’ll peel your jeans down just enough to bite the very top curve of your ass, leaving a mark only he knows is there.
Also he would eat your pussy for hours. He doesn’t even care abt his release, just pls sit on his face and let him do all the work.
He also loves creampies, he loves watching his cum dripping out from your ruined pussy. He would pull u by your hips, arching your back just to push his cum back inside with his fingers. Feeling your gooey walls squeeze his fingers making him hard again.
And on other days, After he comes inside you, he refuses to pull out. He’ll stay locked in place for ages, soft but still there, dozing lightly. “I like feeling you keep me,” he slurs, half-asleep.
Cockwoming.
Jungkook wants to be inside your skin if it was physically possible, he wanna feel every inch of your body on him.
His favorite position is always missionary. Cuz that’s the closest he feels to your soul and body, seeing your eyes dizzy and unfocused, your mouth hung open desperately reaching out for his mouth is jungkook’s favorite thing in the entire world.
And you barely get to breath during missionary, cuz jungkook can’t stop kissing your soft lips. His teeth biting your lips, sucking on your tongue. He kisses you so deeply, sharing breath and spit, that you forget to pull away for air. You only remember when he finally breaks for a gasp, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathless and shared.
Also he loves to explore anything that got to do with your pussy. One time he made you drink a whole bottle of pineapple juice just to see if the taste would actually change.
he’ll push you against the counter, hook your leg over his arm, and lick between your folds with a soft hum. “Just wanted to see if the juice changed your taste,” he’ll say after he made you cum twice, then kiss you so you can taste yourself on his tongue.
He loves giving you hickeys where no one can see—the inside of your thigh, under your breast, the small of your back. A map only he can read. He traces them with his tongue later, proud of his work.
You wake up in the middle of the night to him fingering you gently, his face buried in your hair, breathing evenly as if he’s asleep. He’s not trying to wake you or make you come. He’s just touching you because he can.
If you wear a skirt, his hand is always on the bare skin of your thigh under the table. He draws patterns with his fingertips, high up, near the edge of your underwear. A silent, public claim.
Jungkook’s worst nightmare is being away for a tour or a really busy schedule. His texts never stop even though hes very busy and barely can hold a conversation, but he will ask for a pic every time just so he could touch himself to your pretty cute face.
After a fight, his clinginess turns desperate. He’ll fuck you with a heartbreaking tenderness, kissing every inch of your skin, whispering “I’m sorry” against your lips, your collarbones, between your legs. He needs to be inside you to feel forgiven. ♡ྀི
A/N: i hope this was to ur expectations!! I tried making it less freaky but what can i say… iam freaky.
*Pairing: idol!Jimin x f!hair stylist!reader
*Word Count: 5k
*Posted: may 27, 2026
*Genre: SMUT, tiny bit of fluff, mainly pwp, idol au
*Summary: You always make Jimin feel good about himself when you do his hair for every performance. Tonight, he's extra confident. So, he finally goes for what he wants. And what he wants, is you.
*Warnings: EXPLICIT SMUT, MINORS DNI. bit of a power imbalance considering reader's job, tiny bit of alcohol consumption, oral (f. receiving), piv sex, unprotected sex (be smart, ya perverts), jimin likes his hair pulled, jimin = consent king, switch!jimin (you'll see), getting caught (ish?), bit of angst/anxiety at the end, reader's brain is mush, some pet names, jimin calls reader noona (just go with it, it's for the vibes), uhhh yeah
*A/N: welp. braided-hair jimin has had me in a chokehold since i saw him like this with my own eyeballs on saturday night. and it just got me thinking.. maybe he likes his hair pulled. i dunno. here's the product of my brainrot. enjoy it.
Main Masterlist
“Braids.”
Jimin looks at you like you have two heads.
“Why braids, noona?” he asks curiously.
You pull out your hair styling tools and arrange everything on the tabletop in front of him, threading your fingers through his hair as you think about your vision.
“Your hair’s the perfect length for them. We have time. Can you just trust me for now, and if you hate them, I’ll take them out?” you ask.
Jimin huffs out a small laugh, his eyes sparkling as he smiles.
“Alright. Go for it,” he concedes, settling into the chair more comfortably.
With that, you get to work. Your fingers work nimbly, sectioning and crossing strand over strand, tying each braid with small rubber bands as you go.
At the end of twenty minutes, Jimin’s hair is styled into four small french braids across the top and sides of his head, the bottom layers of his hair loose around his shoulders. You tap his shoulder, signaling to him that you’re finished.
“What do you think?” you ask him, meeting his eyes in the mirror.
He turns his head left and right to look at his hair, nibbling on his bottom lip, as if gathering his thoughts before he gives you an answer.
“Damn, okay. When you said ‘braids,’ this isn’t what I thought you meant. I love it, noona,” he says, giving you that signature, eye-crinkling smile.
“Yeah?” you ask, exhaling a breath of relief at his approval.
Jimin nods excitedly. “Yeah.”
You release him from your work station then, cleaning up your hair tools now that your job is done.
During each outfit change of the concert, you check on Jimin’s hair, securing and restyling braids as they come loose, ensuring his hair stays as neat as possible.
He sits perfectly still, always the cooperative client, as you redo a single braid that’s now falling into his face.
“Pretty hyped tonight, huh?” you ask with a soft laugh.
He starts to nod, his head tipping forward, causing him to let out a quiet hiss as he accidentally tugs at the braid in your hand, a sharp sting coursing through his scalp.
“Sorry–”
“Shit–”
You both speak at the same time, your hand instinctively releasing the braid.
“You okay?” you ask him then.
Jimin can’t help but chuckle then.
“All good, noona. Can you fix my hair now?”
You just smile, going back to redoing the braid you were working on.
There’s a minute of silence between you two, the chaos of backstage fading as everyone starts to take their places to go back on stage for the last part of the concert.
“I am hyped tonight,” Jimin says then, answering your question that was so rudely interrupted by you pulling his hair, “I’m really feeling myself tonight.”
You smile at him in the mirror as you finish fixing his hair.
“Good. See you after,” you say with a gentle squeeze to his shoulders, stepping back to let him go.
Jimin stands from your chair, glancing around before he leans in, his breath ghosting your ear.
“I’d rather be feeling you, though,” he murmurs, and he turns to go back on stage without so much as another glance your way.
-
The absolute whirlwind that is backstage post-concert is nothing you aren’t used to. Even as a hair stylist, you, and everyone else, are expected to help with the cleanup to make sure the dressing and styling rooms are left impeccably clean. That is BTS’ reputation, after all: the perfect guests at every stadium or venue they perform at, leaving nothing dirty or disorganized when they leave for the night. It’s something the whole staff has always prided themselves on, ensuring the group maintains their perfect image, ever the respectable idols.
As you pack your things and head toward the staff buses with everyone else, Jimin falls into step beside you at the back of the group.
“Come celebrate with me,” he murmurs quietly.
You glance at him, eyes narrowing slightly.
“Celebrate what?” you ask him.
He shrugs.
“Told you. I’m really feeling myself tonight. Come have a drink with me.”
Your voice lowers, not wanting anyone to hear the conversation.
“Jimin.. you sure that’s a good idea?”
He shrugs again, his hands in his jeans pocket.
“No one has to find out, noona. C’mon, it’s just me. I’ll have some champagne delivered to my room and we can hang there. No pressure.”
You can’t help but sigh slightly then.
“Yeah– okay. But if anyone finds out…”
Jimin holds out his pinky finger then, automatically moving to intertwine his finger with yours.
“They won’t. It’s perfectly safe.”
He falls out of step with you then, disappearing down the long hallway to your right, catching up with the other members while you continue walking toward the staff buses.
-
Back at the hotel, you change out of your staff clothes, then rummage through the casual clothes you brought with you for this leg of the tour. You aren’t sure if Jimin’s actually going to follow through with inviting you to hang out, and you really don’t know how casual to dress if he does.
Your phone vibrates, pulling you out of your thoughts.
Jimin: room 3903.
That’s it? you think, expecting more in his message than just telling you where to go.
Jimin: i’m in sweats. don’t worry about how to dress, noona.
Typical, you think, always knows.
You pull on a pair of leggings and a t-shirt, an oversized hoodie over it, and slip on your sneakers. Grabbing your phone and room key, you slip out of your room and move quickly down the hall.
The members and staff have this entire floor booked, the tour having so many people working to keep it flowing flawlessly that you always take up a whole floor in every city you go to. You really hope no one leaves their room while you’re out here, because you don’t have a clue what your excuse would be at this point.
Your eyes track each room as you pass, wandering down the hall until you reach Jimin’s room. Your knuckles tap softly on the door, shifting from one foot to the other as you wait.
“Get inside before someone sees you,” Jimin says with a chuckle as the door opens, his fingers wrapping around your wrist as he tugs you into his room.
Inside his room, you can’t help but glance around and let out a small laugh as you take in his massive suite compared to your standard room.
“Damn. Really feeling that tax bracket difference,” you say then.
Jimin rolls his eyes, looking sassy as ever.
“Perks of working our asses off for fifteen years. They gotta keep us happy,” he says sarcastically.
He makes his way over to the kitchen area, popping open a bottle of champagne that probably costs more than your monthly salary, and pours two glasses.
“None of the others wanted to drink with you tonight?” you ask curiously as he hands you a glass.
He shrugs. He seems to be doing that a lot tonight.
“I didn’t ask.”
He sips his champagne, hand waving in front of you to encourage you to do the same.
You take a sip too, the sweet, bubbly taste exploding on your tongue.
That’s when you notice something interesting.
“You didn’t take the braids out,” you point out.
His eyes sparkle with his smile as he walks back toward the sitting area.
“They look good. Made me feel good,” he says, plopping down on the couch.
You follow him, taking a seat on the other end of the couch.
“The fans seemed to love them, too,” you say with a soft chuckle.
Jimin looks at you then, a glint of mischief in his eyes.
“Did you?” he asks.
“Hm?”
He sips his champagne again, throat bobbing as he swallows.
“Did you love the braids, noona?” he clarifies.
It’s your turn to shrug then.
“They look good on you. I wouldn’t have done them if I didn’t think they would,” you say.
Jimin shifts on the couch, closing some of the distance between you two. He brings his left leg up on the cushion, sitting more casually.
“You made me feel really confident tonight,” he continues, his Busan satoori coming out a bit with his casual demeanor.
You can’t help but laugh softly.
“That’s what I’m here for. Making sure you feel confident enough to go on stage and be happy with how you look.”
You sip your champagne again before setting the glass down on the coffee table.
Jimin’s gaze follows your movement, his hand moving to set his own glass down.
He swallows, jaw working as he considers his next words.
“You’ve been doing my hair since debut,” he says then, “and you always make sure I’m happy with it before you let me go on stage.”
Your brow furrows in confusion.
“Well, yeah— of course I do. I might be the stylist, but it’s you that has to be okay with how you look.”
He chuckles softly, shaking his head.
“Not all stylists feel that way. Some think it’s their vision, and the idol just has to live with it.”
Jimin shifts a little closer to you on the couch, leaving only a foot of space between you now.
“You actually care,” he continues, “you want to make me feel good.”
You rest your elbow on the back of the couch, turning to face him a bit more.
“I do,” you say simply.
That mischievous glint in Jimin’s eyes shines a little brighter now.
“I want to make you feel good too,” he rasps, his Busan satoori bleeding into every word now.
“Hm?” you ask, confused.
The corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk then.
“You asked me to trust you earlier,” he says, “can you do the same for me now?”
Your body tenses slightly as Jimin closes the remaining distance between you two on the couch, his thigh pressing against yours now.
His arm snakes around your shoulders then, hand coming up to cup the side of your neck. His thumb traces the line of your jaw, making your head turn instinctively toward him.
“Jimin—,” you start then, meeting his gaze.
“Trust me, noona,” he breathes, his face inching toward yours.
He nudges at your jaw then, his breath ghosting your neck as his nose trails slowly along your jawline.
“Can I?” he murmurs, the slight vibration of his voice hitting your neck, “can I make you feel good this time?”
You shiver slightly, the heat of his breath making your skin tingle.
“Jimin— is that a good idea?” you whisper.
He chuckles softly against your neck then, his lips brushing against your skin.
“You’re always so collected, noona. So put together, worried about everything,” he murmurs.
You laugh a bit nervously, unsure what to say.
“Can’t you stop worrying about if something’s a good idea, and just think about how good it would feel to let go?” he continues.
His lips press a barely-there kiss to the spot just below your ear, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin.
“Just trust me,” he repeats.
You pull back, looking at him. You definitely thought he was fucking with you, but the look of pure want in his eyes tells you how wrong you were.
“Okay—,” you say quietly then, “yeah. I trust you.”
You barely get the last word out before Jimin surges forward, claiming your mouth in a desperate, sensual kiss. His hand grips the side of your neck more firmly, holding you in place.
You kiss him back, lips following his lead as he deepens it. It’s all teeth, tongue, and heat, him licking into your mouth like he’s been dying to do it for longer than he’s let on.
Your hand moves to his stomach, fisting into his t-shirt as you keep him close. You feel his free hand wrap around your hip, his fingers gripping right at your waist.
“Taste like the champagne,” he breathes against your mouth, nipping at your bottom lip, eliciting a soft catch of your breath.
His hand at your waist tugs you forward, putting you on his lap. He gently positions your thighs so you’re straddling him, his hand sliding to the small of your back then, pressing firmly to slide you closer so your chest presses to his.
“Don’t stop now,” he breathes, looking up at you, “I know you want this as badly as I do.”
Your free arm drapes onto the couch cushion behind him, fingers threading into the back of his hair as you claim his lips this time.
Jimin’s hips buck up against you slightly, a soft hiss following the movement as he kisses you.
The kiss gets more intense, your earlier hesitation fading into confidence. Your tongue meets his, sloppy and inhibited. You pull his lower lip between yours, sucking lightly.
“Ah— shit, noona. Please,” he breathes.
That makes you pause. “Please?” you murmur against his lips, pulling back just a bit to look at him.
He tugs at the hem of your hoodie then, his eyes half-lidded as he nods. “Yeah, please. Wanna see.”
You strip your hoodie and t-shirt off in one motion, tossing it on the floor haphazardly.
Jimin’s eyes darken slightly, taking in your black bra, the tops of your breasts spilling over the edge of the cups. His hand immediately slides up your back to the clasp, stilling there.
“Okay if I take this off?” he asks, eyes searching yours.
“How else are you gonna see?” you ask, a small smirk of your own crossing your lips now.
Jimin flicks his fingers quickly, deftly undoing the clasp and moving both hands to the straps at your shoulders, pulling them down to fully reveal your breasts to him.
A low groan leaves Jimin’s lips then, his hands sliding to your front and stopping at your ribs. His thumbs brush the underside of your breasts, eyes meeting yours again.
“Can I?” he asks, ever the king of consent.
“Yeah,” you breathe out.
His hands cup your breasts, squeezing and massaging them, his thumbs occasionally brushing or circling over the nipple. He shifts forward, his lips pressing to the hollow of your shoulder above your collarbone.
Jimin trails hot, wet kisses along the path of the bone, his tongue darting out to lick at your skin.
“Thirteen years,” he breathes against your collarbone, “thirteen years of being too fucking professional with you to ever want this.”
He sucks the skin lightly, leaving a tiny red mark that’ll fade by morning.
“But not tonight. Tonight— tonight you gave me the confidence to ask for what I want,” he finishes.
Your breath hitches, hips rolling against him as his lips reach the sensitive skin of your throat.
You tug at his t-shirt then, wanting him to be as bare as you.
“Lemme see you now,” you say quietly.
Jimin chuckles, his eyes glinting with that signature sparkle as he pulls his shirt off and tosses it somewhere on the floor.
“God— Jimin, what the fuck?” you ask, a soft scoff leaving your lips.
He gives you that cheeky smile, eyes crinkling at the corners as he shrugs.
“Been in the gym a lot with Yoongi-hyung and Jungkookie,” he says casually, as if there’s nothing impressive about his newly formed, nearly-washboard abs.
“I see this,” you say, rolling your eyes.
He takes one of your hands, dragging it down his chest and abdomen.
“Touch me too, noona,” he whispers then, “want you to want me, too.”
Your hips roll against him again, his words sending a jolt through you.
Jimin groans more audibly then, his hips bucking up to meet yours.
“Fuck,” he exhales, “don’t stop.”
You lean down and capture his lips again, one hand resting at his lower stomach, your thumb brushing along the sensitive skin there while your other hand holds the back of his neck.
He kisses you back, more sensual than before, his tongue dragging against yours as he lets out a soft moan into your mouth.
He squeezes your thigh gently, slowly working his way higher up your leg as he kisses you more. At the top of your thigh, his thumb brushes the inner part, and he breaks the kiss, keeping his mouth close against yours as he speaks.
“Can I touch you more?” he murmurs.
You nod against his lips, sliding your ass further up his lap, causing his thumb to press against your clothed core.
Jimin takes the hint, his thumb pressing firmly and rubbing circles over your clit through your leggings, making you gasp.
His soft, short laugh comes out against your lips.
“Pretty noise, noona. Can you make more for me?” he teases gently, his thumb circling a bit faster.
He moves quickly then, shifting his position, flipping you onto your back on the couch and kneeling between your thighs.
“Need these off,” he says, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your leggings, waiting, as always, for your consent.
Instead of saying anything, you lift your hips. His hands pull at your leggings, dragging them and your panties down your thighs. He gently pulls one foot and then the other out of the material, tossing the rest of your clothes onto the floor.
“You’re beautiful,” he breathes, his hands resting on the outsides of your thighs as he leans down to press his lips against the inside of your knee, “gonna make you come for me.”
His lips follow a path up your inner thigh then, his mouth wet and hot against your skin, hands parting your thighs as he settles on his belly between them.
His kisses get sloppier, more urgent, more tongue, the higher up he goes, and your breaths come shallower, quicker, as your body responds to the anticipation.
“Jimin— what are you doing?” you whine softly.
He chuckles against your skin, nibbling it gently.
“Teasing. Or showing you what to expect when I get my tongue on your pussy,” he says, “you decide.”
A jolt of desire courses through you at his words. He notices, because, always so attentive with everyone, of course he does.
“You’re thinking about it, huh? About how good it’ll feel to have my tongue between your legs?” he teases.
You whine softly again.
“Fuck— yeah, I’m thinking about it,” you admit.
He chuckles again, his tongue dragging down your inner thigh until he stops, his face hovering just above your core.
“Stop thinking then.”
His eyes meet yours from between your legs, and his tongue drags a long, slow path from your entrance up to your clit, stopping there and tracing firm, target circles around the sensitive bud.
You can’t stop the moan falling from your lips, your hips squirming as his tongue continues its torturous circles.
“The walls aren’t soundproofed, noona,” Jimin chuckles against your pussy, making you clap your palm over your mouth to muffle your sounds.
When he sees your hand covering your mouth, he licks faster, his tongue circling your clit, the pattern only broken when he dips lower, tasting your arousal before returning to that sensitive spot.
You moan into your hand again, pressing harder to make sure the sound doesn’t travel.
He buries his tongue deeper, alternating between fast and slow strokes, experimenting to learn what makes you moan and tremble the most.
You squirm more, his hand coming up to rest over your lower stomach to keep you still. His free hand trails up your thigh, two fingers pressing against your entrance before they slide inside you.
You gasp, the added stimulation only fueling your pleasure.
Jimin huffs a soft laugh against your pussy again, crooking his fingers upwards in search of your sweet spot.
His tongue works tirelessly, never slowing as his fingers work until they press against your g-spot.
You whimper into your palm, thighs shaking as he brings you closer and closer to the edge. You uncover your mouth briefly to whimper quietly.
“Jimin— fuck, there. So close.”
He speeds up his licks, tongue lapping at your clit in tandem with his fingers thrusting directly into your g-spot.
You feel your climax build rapidly, clamping your hand down over your mouth again just as the coil in your lower stomach snaps.
You moan out into your palm, wave after wave of pleasure ripping through you. Jimin doesn’t stop, simply slowing his movements to push you through your orgasm.
He only lets up when you wince quietly from oversensitivity, pulling his mouth off your pussy and slipping his fingers out of you gently. He brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean of your juices before wiping his mouth on his upper arm.
“Good?” he chuckles quietly, meeting your eyes.
Your breathing is still too unsteady to speak, so you just lift your hand to give him a thumbs up and a weak smile. He sits up then, never looking away from you.
His eyes sparkle as he smiles back at you, holding his hand out to help you sit up too.
“You’re cute when you’re fucked out like this,” he comments, making you glare at him. But there’s no heat in your gaze, your eyes dropping to the obvious erection tenting his sweatpants.
Your breathing finally settles enough to talk without pausing between words.
“Off,” you say simply, your hand pulling at the fabric of his pants.
Jimin looks at you one more time for confirmation before sliding his sweatpants and boxers off, settling back on the couch in the same spot you started.
Without hesitation, you climb back into his lap, straddling him. Your wetness brushes his cock as you settle, a sharp hiss escaping his lips.
“You’re sure?” he breathes, “because I really wanna fuck you.. but don’t feel like you owe me for what I just did.”
You roll your hips on his lap, grinding your still-dripping pussy against him in response.
“I’m sure,” you whisper, “wanna ride you.”
He groans, the sound low in his throat as you position yourself with his cock pressed to your tight hole.
“Then— fuck, then please, do it,” he murmurs, voice cracking slightly.
You sink down onto his cock then, walls stretching around him to accommodate his size. He’s thick, making the movement slower than you would’ve liked, but after a moment, you settle on his thighs, his cock buried completely inside you.
“Shit—,” he hisses through his teeth, hips instinctively bucking up, his cock hitting deeper with the movement.
You gasp, the pressure against your g-spot intense as his cock hits it just right from this angle.
Jimin’s hands settle on your hips, thumbs gently stroking your skin as he looks up at you.
“Move for me, baby,” he breathes, his hands pressing upwards to lift you.
Your arms wrap around his neck, lips meeting his in a heated kiss as you lift yourself, grinding down on his cock, forcing a low moan from his throat.
He kisses you back, the kiss slow and lazy as his hands work to help guide your rhythm. Your breasts press against his chest, hips rolling as you repeatedly bounce on him.
The room fills with the slick sound of his cock sliding in and out of your pussy, his low moans and your quiet whimpers.
“That’s it,” he breathes, “fuck— pull my hair, noona.”
Your rhythm breaks slightly as you process his request.
“Please—,” he continues, “not hard. Just— tug it. Like you did when you were doing my hair earlier. When I moved and you accidentally pulled it. Felt good.”
You kiss him again, regaining your bearings, and ride him more deliberately then. Your hand slides into the back of his hair, fingers threading into it at his scalp, and tug lightly.
The sound that escapes his lips can only be described as a desperate whimper, quiet and needy.
“Shit— yes. Please, more,” he breathes.
You break the kiss, tugging his hair a little more firmly to tip his head back, your lips pressing to his throat. He groans at the sensation of your mouth on his skin and the pulling of his hair, his hips bucking up to meet your every move.
His fingers press into your hips, leaving indentations on your skin, soft grunts and deep, low moans punctuating every thrust up into your pussy.
“Noona— gonna come. Where—,” he starts, his question cut off when you suck lightly at the base of his throat, your fingers tightening in his hair.
The sting of the harder tug pulls another needy whimper from him, his hips thrusting up hard.
“In me,” you breathe against his throat.
He groans deeply, his hips thrusting up once, twice, three more times before they still, stuttering against you as he spills inside you.
“Fuck,” he moans, “you— fuck.”
You slow your hips, rolling them slowly to draw out every drop of his release, continuing until his hands pull you down to stop you from moving anymore.
The room is quiet now save for panting breaths from both of you. Jimin’s arms wrap around your waist then, his eyes opening to meet yours. His thumbs brush the skin of your lower back, not saying anything at first.
After a few slightly awkward moments, he finally speaks.
“Well— that was.. that was fucking incredible,” he chuckles nervously.
You chuckle too then, nodding. “It was.”
He lets out a slow breath, the awkwardness fading as you both realize things are still okay between you two.
“I really don’t wanna kick you out,” he says quietly then, “but— we’re already pushing it with you even being here.”
You shake your head slightly then, a small smile crossing your face.
“I know. I’ll go,” you say, understanding.
Jimin leans forward then, pressing a few quick, tender kisses to your lips, his lips curving upward in a smile of his own.
“Not mad at me?” he asks.
You shake your head again.
“No. Not mad. I’ll be— so fucking fired if anyone ever finds out about this,” you respond.
His smile fades slightly, but it’s not in sadness, just gentle understanding.
“You won’t be. I’d take the blame, have them cover it up. I told you, it’s perfectly safe. You’re perfectly safe with me,” he says quietly.
You nod, pressing a kiss of your own to his lips before you finally pull yourself off his lap.
The two of you dress quickly, and Jimin stands, facing you. His hand reaches up to smooth over your hair, making sure it doesn’t look too messy before you go in case you’re seen.
You take one last look at each before you finally step away.
At the door, you turn back and give him a small smirk.
“Next time you’re feeling yourself again…” you trail off.
Jimin’s eyebrow raises, curious.
“Come feel me instead.”
Jimin can’t help but laugh at your words, giving you that characteristic eye-crinkling smile.
“Yeah,” he says, “I will, noona.”
With that, you slip out of his room, making your way back down the hallway toward your own room.
Just as you’re about to open your own door, you hear a clearing of someone’s throat from behind you.
You freeze, heart rate picking up as you turn slowly to face the owner of the sound.
Looking up, you’re met with the man who made the sound, instantly knowing he definitely either saw you leaving Jimin’s room, or worse, heard you from inside.
“Namjoon,” you say quietly, “it’s not—.”
“The walls aren’t soundproofed, noona,” he cuts you off, “be more careful next time, unless you want the whole floor to hear you,” he says simply.
You let out an anxious breath, nodding slowly.
“I won’t say anything. But I can’t say the same for the rest of the staff,” he continues.
You fidget with your room key, still anxious under Namjoon’s gaze.
“Go to bed before someone else finds you out here,” he finishes, giving you a small, dimpled smile before he disappears into his own room.
You turn back quickly, unlocking your door and rushing inside. You press your back against the door, exhaling shakily.
Fuck.
Namjoon knows you just slept with Jimin. You trust him to keep his word and not tell anyone, but if he heard you.. who else did?
Not even five minutes later, your phone buzzes.
Jimin: told you, noona. you’re safe with me.
You breathe a sigh of relief, but it’s tinged with residual anxiety, knowing Namjoon probably talked to Jimin too, based on his text.
Jimin: just gotta be more quiet next time.
Jimin: hope there is a next time.
You smile softly to yourself, reading his messages as they come through.
You: there will be.
You put your phone away, getting ready for bed. The anxiety fades eventually. You curl into your sheets, staring at the dark ceiling above you as you get lost in your own thoughts.
You just slept with Jimin. An idol who, all things considered, could be labeled as completely untouchable. Shouldn’t be accessible, especially not to you. The one who’s been with him since the group’s debut, traveling the world, at every performance and event, simply styling his hair. Making sure he looked good, felt good. And it shouldn’t have happened at all, but it did.
You keep replaying the night in your head. How he touched you, the way he asked over and over for your consent. The way it seemed like you’d done this a thousand times before, when neither of you have ever even attempted to cross that line. None of it makes sense. Shouldn’t it have been a little awkward? Shouldn’t there have been more fumbling, more learning each other? Shouldn’t there have been a little more hesitation?
You shake your head, hoping to clear your mind. What’s done is done, and you can’t take it back now that it’s happened. You start to drift off to sleep, your brain slowly shutting off for the night.
But there’s one specific thought that you can’t seem to shake from your mind.
The thought makes your brain buzz, your mind replaying his request, every sound that fell from his lips as he responded to you.
when the stoic and devastatingly handsome sir jeon jungkook is appointed as your personal knight, sworn to guard your royal highness with a will forged from steel, you quickly discover that his greatest strength may also be his most infuriating trait, he is utterly immune to you. no matter how tightly you lace your corset, he remains the perfect knight, eyes respectfully averted, jaw set like stone. but while sir jungkook may be a man of steel, you are a princess accustomed to getting what you want, and with every sinful intention of discovering whether even the realm’s most loyal knight could be brought to his knees for you.
⎯⎯ pairing: knight jungkook x princess y/n
warnings: erotica, forbidden medieval fantasy au, porn with plot, age gap, yearning, size difference, oral fixation (f.), unprotected sex, the princess is very horny, cold,dom!knight, bigdick!knight, breeding, pregnancy trope, war brutality, motherhood, subtle angst
word count: 20.5k
The great hall of the royal palace echoed with the murmurs of the assembled court. The King sat upon his throne, his stern gaze sweeping over the line of elite knights who had come to compete for the highest honor in the realm, becoming the personal protector of his only daughter, the princess, you.
The position was coveted for many reasons, but none more obvious than the princess herself.
Beauty had always been your burden as much as your blessing. Tales of it traveled farther than merchants and faster than ravens, crossing borders until even distant courts spoke your name with a mixture of admiration and longing. Princes penned verses in your honor without ever meeting you. Even seasoned knights, men hardened by war and duty, often found themselves disarmed by nothing more than a smile.
With your coronation fast approaching, the kingdom stood on the brink of celebration. It would be the grandest event seen in decades, drawing princes, dignitaries from every corner of the continent. Some would arrive seeking alliances. Most would arrive seeking you.
The prospect amused you more than it excited you.
“Protecting my daughter is not merely a matter of strength,” your father’s voice boomed through the hall. “It demands unyielding discipline and absolute loyalty. You will each face three trials. The princess herself will accompany you, so that you may prove your worth in her presence.”
Your eyes swept slowly across the line of knights standing before the throne, a faint mask of boredom kissing your beautiful face, certain that none of them would truly be able to handle you.
For years, entertaining yourself at the expense of knights had become something of a pastime. A lingering touch against a gauntleted hand, a mere whispered compliment that left disciplined warriors suddenly forgetting their own names. Watching them struggle to maintain their composure was endlessly amusing.
You had notoriously toyed with men like this, living wildly beneath the weight of your royal title, and your father knew this better than anyone. That was precisely why he had designed these trials.
He wasn’t simply looking for the strongest sword arm. He wanted a knight with sharp intellect and the rare ability to withstand your constant attempts to live life on your terms rather than as a perfectly mannered princess.
A small, intrigued smile played on your lips when the first few knights stepped forward. They were impressive in brute force, but you could already tell they would crumble the moment you decided to play.
Then he stepped forward.
Sir Jeon Jungkook.
Even fully armored, with only his dark, piercing eyes visible through the narrow slit of his helmet, once his unflinching gaze met yours for a brief second, a strange spark ignited low in your belly. You tilted your head, studying those dark eyes with growing interest.
The first trial took place that very evening in the smaller banquet hall. Only a select few courtiers were present. You sat at the high table beside your father, sipping from a jeweled goblet.
Unknown to the competing knights, the King had arranged for one of the wine pitchers to be laced with a powerful sleeping draught. Harmless, but potent enough to leave the princess disoriented and vulnerable. Only the King, a few trusted advisors, and the princess herself knew of the plan.
The knights had been given only one instruction: protect the princess. No further details.
As the evening progressed, the effects of the draught began to take hold. Your thoughts grew pleasantly hazy, movements slower. The jeweled goblet nearly slipped from your grasp once before you caught it. A second time, you laughed at something that had not been particularly funny.
Several knights noticed. Some were too busy trying to appear vigilant, eyes constantly scanning the room for imaginary assassins.
A few noticed your condition and drew dangerously close. One insisted on helping you stand despite the fact that you had not asked for assistance. Another rested a hand against your lower back almost inappropriately while guiding you through the room. One knight even smiled when he realized how heavily you leaned upon him after stumbling.
The courtiers watched everything. So did the King.
You were beginning to feel genuinely annoyed when a tall figure stepped silently between you and yet another overeager knight.
Sir Jeon Jungkook.
Unlike the others, he had not hovered around you all evening. He had remained where a royal protector belonged, close enough to intervene, distant enough to respect your space.
Dark eyes studied your face through the narrow opening of his helmet. “The princess has had enough wine,” he declared.
The knight beside you scoffed. “She seems perfectly fin—”
“She does not.”
You watched surprise flicker across the other knight’s face.
Sir Jungkook’s hand briefly closed around your forearm as you swayed, steadying you before immediately letting go the moment your balance returned.
Within moments he had summoned two ladies-in-waiting to accompany you back to your chambers. When another knight offered to carry you himself, Sir Jungkook declined on your behalf before you could even answer.
“Her reputation is as important as her safety.”
For the first time all evening, genuine curiosity stirred within you.
Most men saw opportunity when they looked at you. Some saw beauty, a few saw a future crown. Yet somehow, Sir Jeon Jungkook seemed to see only his duty.
As the ladies guided you toward the doorway, you glanced back over your shoulder.
“How noble of you, Sir Jungkook,” you teased, voice softened by the draught. “Are you always so resistant to temptation?”
His gaze never wavered. “My duty is to protect Your Highness.”
For reasons you could not quite explain, that response lingered in your thoughts far longer than any flirtatious remark ever had.
The final trial was, by all appearances, the simplest.
After weeks of staged attacks, hidden tests, the remaining candidates expected one final demonstration of skill. Some anticipated a duel. Others believed they would be sent to defend the princess from another fabricated threat. Instead, the King announced that the last trial would consist of a single week of personal duty beside the princess. No further explanation was offered.
The knights were disappointed.
You, however, knew exactly what your father was doing.
The trial was not designed to test strength or intelligence. It was designed to test restraint.
Most of the candidates failed within days. Some became overly eager whenever you requested their company.
Others ignored palace protocol the moment you suggested bending the rules. One knight allowed you to wander through the city market without informing the royal guard because he was too eager to please you. Another accepted an invitation to share wine in one of the palace balconies despite knowing perfectly well how improper it appeared. Every failure was carefully observed and quietly recorded.
Only one knight remained infuriatingly impossible.
Sir Jeon Jungkook.
The more you watched him, the more determined you became to discover his weakness. Surely he had one. Everyone did.
At first, your attempts were harmless. During walks through the palace gardens, you lingered beside him instead of remaining ahead as protocol dictated. During meals, you directed most of your conversation toward him. More than once, you deliberately brushed your fingers against the steel of his gauntlet while speaking. Other knights would have turned crimson. Some would have stumbled over their own words.
Sir Jungkook merely stepped aside and continued his duties as though nothing had happened.
Perhaps it was the way every other knight had spent the past weeks attempting to impress you, the King, or the court.
Where others sought favor, he sought only to fulfill his duty. And thus, when the day of the final judgment arrived, the outcome surprised absolutely no one.
Your father rose slowly from his seat.
“Sir Jeon Jungkook,” he declared, voice echoing through the hall. “You have successfully completed all trials. You have shown not only strength and intellect, but the rare ability to anticipate danger and resist… temptation.” His gaze flicked briefly to you. “From this day forward, you are hereby appointed as the princess’s personal royal knight and protector. Guard her with your life. And may the gods help you.”
A murmur rippled through the court.
You turned toward Sir Jeon Jungkook, stepping just close enough that your crimson gown brushed his armor.
“Welcome to my service, Sir Jungkook,” you whispered so only he could hear. “I do hope you’re prepared. Resisting me may prove to be your greatest trial yet.”
His dark eyes held yours with unshakable strength. “I was under the impression I had already passed that one, Your Highness.”
—
Having Sir Jeon Jungkook follow you around all day wasn’t ideal.
It had not even been three months since his appointment as your royal knight, yet his constant, silent presence had already begun to grate on your nerves. He was always a towering shadow in dark armor, never more than a few steps behind. What annoyed you most was his utter lack of reaction.
No matter how boldly you flirted, no matter how you tightened your corset in front of him until your breasts nearly spilled over, no matter how many times you “accidentally” brushed against him, he remained perfectly composed.
What bothered you most of all was that you still had no idea what he looked like. Only those dark, intense eyes visible through the narrow slit of his helmet. The rest of him remained hidden behind steel, a constant, frustrating mystery.
The journey to the neighboring kingdom for the grand alliance celebration had been long and stifling. You rode in the royal ornate covered carriage borne by four strong horses and guarded on all sides. The extravagant gown you wore was beautiful but suffocating, the tight corset pressing against your ribs and making every breath feel like a struggle. Boredom weighed on you like lead.
Your dearest friend, Lady Isolde rode beside you in her own litter. She was to be wed in a month, and the two of you had spent the journey giggling like girls again, whispering behind silk curtains.
“He’s so tall,” Isolde teased, peeking through the gap toward where Sir Jeon Jungkook rode steadily beside your litter. “And those eyes… I wonder what the rest of him looks like under all that steel. Do you think he’s handsome, or just another brute?”
You laughed softly, though your gaze lingered on the narrow slit of Jungkook’s helmet, where those dark, intense eyes remained fixed forward.
“As if,” you replied mockingly, bored. “He’s far too proper. I could tighten my corset until my breasts nearly spill, and he wouldn’t even glance.”
Isolde giggled. “You should try. For science.”
Sir Jungkook’s eyes flicked toward the litter for the briefest second before returning forward. You smirked. Annoyed as you were by his constant, unflinching presence… you were also undeniably intrigued.
That night, after the feasting and music had died down and the royal party made camp near the forest’s edge, you slipped away, desperate for even a moment of peace, and determined to test just how far his restraint could stretch.
The air had grown chilly, carrying the faint bite of early autumn as you made your way to the forbidden stretch of the deep bend where the river water ran swift and dangerously deep. No one was permitted here after dark, especially not the princess.
You knew he would follow.
The heavy footsteps of armor soon echoed behind you on the rocky bank.
“Your Highness,” Sir Jungkook’s deep voice rang out, firm. “This area is strictly prohibited at night. The currents are treacherous and the water is far too cold. We must return to the palace at once.”
You barely looked at him. Your eyes were fastened upon the vast expanse of the river, moonlight dancing across its dark surface like scattered diamonds. You wanted nothing more than to feel the cool waves kissing your bare skin, to swim freely under the moon with no eyes judging you in, except his.
A small, unusually kind smile touched your lips as you turned toward him.
“Why don’t you join me, Sir Jungkook?” you asked softly, your voice carrying on the gentle night breeze. “Just for a little while. The water looks so peaceful tonight.”
Sir Jungkook stood like a statue in his dark armor. “Your Highness… that would be highly improper,” he replied low. “I am here to protect you, not to… bathe with you.”
You let out a soft, melodic laugh and began walking toward the river’s edge, the hem of your gown brushing the grass.
“Well, I suppose then…” you bit your lip, your fingers moving to the laces of your gown with aching slowness. “I shall swim, and you will stand guard like the loyal knight you are.”
You could feel his intense eyes watching through the narrow slit of his helmet as you loosened the ties. The rich fabric slid from your shoulders like liquid silk, pooling at your feet.
Completely bare under the moonlight, you wore nothing beneath. Your skin glowed luminous and your full breasts rose and fell with each breath, nipples already stiff from the cold night air. The curve of your waist flared into soft hips, and the smooth, delicate skin between your thighs was on full display.
Sir Jungkook immediately turned his head sharply away, staring fixedly into the dark trees.
“Your Highness!” His voice was strained. “This is highly inappropriate. I cannot allow—”
“You don’t have to allow anything,” you cut him off, dripping with defiance. “You’re not permitted to touch me while I’m bare. So you’ll just have to stand there.”
You waded into the river with a soft gasp. The icy water bit into your skin, but the thrill of rebellion pushed you forward. You swam out deeper, the cold making your body hypersensitive.
You glanced back at the bank. Sir Jungkook stood like a statue, head turned away, refusing to look at your naked form even once. His armored fists were clenched tightly at his sides.
A thrill of satisfaction ran through you.
You felt exhilarated. Free. And wickedly aware that the most disciplined man in the kingdom was standing on the bank, fighting not to look at you.
“Are you really going to stand there all night, Sir Jungkook? The water feels wonderful… and I’m all alone out here.” You swam further out, the cold water caressing every inch of your bare skin. A soft, content sigh escaped your lips.
It would be a plain lie if you said you weren’t at least a little relieved that he had followed you. The deep bend was no joke. its treacherous currents and deadly depth were feared even by The King. Yet here you were, aching to tear down the walls of the knight who refused to bend to your charms.
You floated lazily on your back, letting the moonlight kiss your bare skin. Then, with a mischievous glint in your eyes, you took your chance.
Once a subtle current tugged at your legs, you gasped dramatically, flailing your arms and letting out a soft, helpless cry. “Oh—!”
You fought back a giggle, pretending to be a damsel in distress, knowing the current wasn’t strong enough to truly endanger you. You wanted to see if you could finally crack his composure.
But the gods had other plans.
Without warning, a far more treacherous undercurrent slammed into you like a living beast. It dragged you under violently, twisting your body, filling your mouth and nose with icy water. Real panic surged through you as you lost your breath and sight in the black depths.
“Jungkook!” you screamed, the sound barely coherent as water rushed into your lungs. This time, it was no act.
Sir Jeon Jungkook did not hesitate for even a fraction of a second. He plunged into the river fully armored, cutting through the violent current with powerful strokes. His strong arms wrapped around your waist, yanking your naked body against his steel chest as he fought the river with raw, expert strength. You clung to him desperately, coughing and gasping as he dragged you back to the rocky bank.
The moment he pulled you ashore, his helmet caught on a low hanging branch and was ripped clean off.
You lay on the grass, gasping for air, when your eyes finally focused on the man hovering above you.
And you forgot how to breathe.
Sir Jeon Jungkook was devastatingly, unfairly handsome.
Wet raven black hair clung to his forehead and sharp, sculpted cheekbones. Water droplets traced the strong line of his jaw and dripped from sensual lips. His dark eyes, now fully exposed, were intense and beautiful, framed by long lashes and thick brows. A faint scar graced his left eyebrow, adding a rugged edge to his otherwise perfect masculine beauty.
Before you could speak, he swiftly grabbed his crimson cloak and draped it over your naked body, covering you completely with careful reverence. His gaze remained locked strictly on your face, never once drifting to your exposed skin.
“Are you okay, Your Highness?” he asked, voice rough with concern. A faint blush colored his cheeks as he noticed the way you were staring at his now-bare face.
You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came. The combination of the dangerous current, the shock of nearly drowning, and the overwhelming sight of your knight’s true face left you dizzy and speechless.
Your vision blurred. You passed out in his arms.
Sir Jungkook pulled you closer against his armored chest, one large hand gently brushed your wet hair away from your face, his touch surprisingly tender. He lifted you effortlessly, cradling you like a warrior carrying his lady, your head resting against his broad shoulder, body wrapped securely in his cloak, legs draped over his arm as he carried you back to his mare.
He mounted carefully, keeping you nestled safely against him as the horse began the journey back to the palace through secret paths.
You woke briefly as he laid you down on the thick rug before the hearth in your royal chambers. The fire was already roaring. You were still wrapped in his cloak, beneath it only a thin silk bandeau now clung to your body, the delicate material barely containing your breasts, pressing them together in a deep, soft cleavage that rose and fell with each shaky breath.
You trembled from the cold and the lingering shock of the river.
Sir Jeon Jungkook remained kneeling by the fire, his movements precise as he stoked the flames. Water dripped from his raven hair onto his armoured shoulders. Then he rose to his full, imposing height, towering, broad shouldered.
Without a word, he reached for his helmet, which rested upon a nearby oak chest, clearly intending to conceal his face once more.
“No,” you whispered, your voice soft yet commanding as you pushed yourself up on one elbow. “Do not put it back on.”
The knight paused, gloved hand hovering above the helm. His dark eyes met yours, intense and conflicted.
“Your Highness… it is not fitting for me to stand before you unveiled,” he said, his voice carrying the formal cadence of a sworn knight. “I must maintain the dignity of my position.”
You sat up fully, the cloak slipping slightly from one shoulder, revealing the smooth curve of your skin and the edge of the silk bandeau. Despite the cold still clinging to your bones, warmth bloomed low in your belly as you gazed upon his face, truly beheld it for the first time.
“Come closer,” You rose to your knees on the rug, the cloak parting further as you reached for him. “Let me see you properly.”
He hesitated, every line of his powerful frame taut with restraint. Yet he obeyed, lowering himself once more to kneel before you. Even on his knees, he remained nearly at your eye level, so tall and broad was he.
You lifted a delicate hand and brushed your fingers through his damp raven locks, pushing them back from his forehead. A contented sigh escaped your lips.
“You are far too pleasing to look upon, Sir Jungkook,” you whispered, almost in awe. “I had wondered what lay beneath that steel. Never did I imagine such a face.”
Sir Jungkook remained perfectly still on his knees before you. His hands rested tensely on his armoured thighs as he fought to keep his gaze fixed on your face and not the way your breasts strained against the thin silk bandeau.
“You flatter me, Your Highness,” he replied, voice low. “But I am your knight. Nothing more. Please allow me to restore my helmet.”
You shook your head slowly, refusing to let him hide again. Instead, you leaned closer, your fingers still buried in his damp raven hair.
A new, overwhelming wave of admiration and obsession washed over you. This man... this mature, hardened, breathtakingly handsome knight was kneeling before you like a devotee. The realization sent a fresh rush of heat between your thighs.
“You’re older than me, aren’t you?” you murmured softly, continuing to caress his hair with gentle strokes. “Hardened by battles and years I haven’t yet seen.”
You wondered how many more scars he carried beneath that heavy armor hidden across his broad chest, his strong back.
“I am twenty eight, Your Highness,” he answered quietly, his deep voice carrying that disciplined tone you were growing addicted to.
“Tell me something personal,” you said, your voice turning playful yet curious. Your fingers trailed from his hair down to trace his cheekbone once more. “Have you ever been with a woman, Sir Jeon? Truly been with one?”
His jaw tightened visibly. The question crossed every boundary a knight was sworn to respect.
“Your Highness… such questions are not appropriate for me to answer,” he replied. You leaned in even closer, still stroking his hair tenderly, your breath brushing against his skin.
“But I want to know,” you whispered. “Have you ever touched a woman the way a man touches a lover? Ever kissed one?”
Jungkook’s breathing grew slightly heavier. His dark eyes stayed locked on yours with iron discipline, though you could clearly see the storm brewing behind them.
“I have not, Your Highness,” he finally answered, voice low and honest. “My duty has always come first.”
A thrill ran through you at his confession. You let your fingers drift lower, brushing along his sharp jawline. “And if a woman wanted you… desperately?” your voice dropped to a near whisper. “If she wanted your mouth between her thighs… your tongue tasting her, would you deny her?”
The impure question hung heavy in the air between you. You shocked even yourself with how boldly it slipped out, but the vivid image, his devastatingly handsome face trapped between your legs, mouth glistening with your arousal made the heat bloom even more slick between your thighs.
Sir Jungkook’s hands clenched tighter on his armored thighs. A faint flush colored the tips of his ears and neck, but he remained on his knees.
“Your Highness,” he said, reverently, “I am sworn to protect you. Not to… indulge in such thoughts.”
You smiled softly. Then you leaned back on the bed, letting the crimson cloak fall open completely. The thin silk bandeau was the only thing left covering you, and even that felt too much now.
“Then I command you,” You looked down at him, this powerful knight on his knees before you, and felt a rush of pure need. “I want your mouth on me, Jungkook. Right now.”
“Your Highness, I—”
“Touch me,” you breathed, cutting him off. “Please, Jungkook…”
You reached down and grabbed his gloved hand, bringing it to your chest. Slowly, you pressed his large palm over the thin silk bandeau, letting him feel the soft, heavy weight of your breast. Your nipple was already painfully hard beneath the fabric.
Sir Jungkook’s breath hitched sharply. His entire body tensed, the muscles in his arm flexing under the armor as he fought against every instinct.
You didn’t stop there, dragging his hand lower, sliding it down your stomach until his fingers rested between your thighs. You were soaked. your petals slick and hot against his gloved fingers.
“Feel how damp you make me,” you whispered, voice shaking with need.
Sir Jungkook let out a low, strained groan. His dark eyes were fixed on your face, but you could see the violent war happening behind them.
The most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on — the princess, the future queen, was laid out before him in nothing but a flimsy silk bandeau, legs spread, pressing his hand against her dripping cunt.
“Your Highness…” he rasped, albeit desperate. “This is beyond forbidden. You are royalty. I am sworn—”
“I don’t care,” you whimpered, grinding slowly against his gloved fingers. “I need you. I’ve never felt this way before. Touch me now, my knight. Please.”
His hand trembled. For a long moment, he simply rested there, feeling your wetness soak through the leather of his glove. Then, with a broken exhale that sounded like surrender, his fingers moved.
He stroked along your soaked folds, parting the delicate petals of your most secret flower. And what a flower it was... a lush, glistening rosebud blooming only for him. Your outer lips were soft and swollen with need, flushed deep, delicate like the first blush of dawn.
As he gently spread you open, the inner petals revealed themselves: silky, and impossibly tender, layered like the finest rose in full bloom after a summer rain. At the center lay your sweetest nectar, dripping and honeyed, flowing abundantly from your aching entrance.
The knight didn’t know what came over him, but your pulsing heat and slick, puckering folds had him utterly entranced. His breathing grew ragged. You could see the way his throat worked, the way his tongue unconsciously darted out to wet his lips. He was drooling.
“May I lick you, Your Highness?” he asked hoarsely, voice thick with barely contained hunger. “Please… allow me to taste you.”
The desperate plea from such a disciplined man sent a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you.
“Yes,” you breathed, spreading your thighs wider for him, your voice trembling with raw need. “Use your mouth on me, Jungkook. Lick your princess until she cannot think.”
The moment the words left your lips, something in him broke. Sir Jungkook leaned in and dragged his hot, wet tongue slowly up your soaked slit. The first full taste of you pulled a deep, guttural groan from his chest. You were intoxicatingly sweet and dripping with arousal. He licked you again, slower this time, savoring every slick fold as if he were drinking the finest wine in the kingdom.
You cried out sharply, back arching off the bed as overwhelming pleasure flooded your body. The sensation was brand new, so intense it made your legs twitch violently.
“Oh... Jungkook!” you moaned, fingers digging into his raven hair.
The knight’s tongue circled your swollen clit before sucking it gently into his mouth, then plunged inside your tight heat, ravishing you with slow, deep strokes. The wet, filthy sounds of his mouth eagerly eating you echoed through the chamber, obscene, and shameless.
The most beautiful woman he had ever known, the future queen, was thrashing beneath him, legs shaking uncontrollably around his head, soft whimpers and loud moans spilling from her pretty lips.
Your hips rolled desperately against his face, coating his tongue, lips, and chin with your sweet release. Sir Jungkook drank every drop you gave him, groaning against your cunt as his own cock strained painfully against his armor.
He had never tasted anything so addictive.
You were already twitching, gasping, legs trembling so hard they threatened to close around his head. The pleasure was too much, too new, too overwhelming for your body.
Suddenly, Sir Jungkook pulled back slightly, his lips glistening with your juices. His dark eyes looked up at you, breathing ragged.
“Should I continue, Your Highness?” he asked hoarsely, voice thick with lust and devotion. “Tell me… do you want more?”
You could barely form words. Your body was shaking, pussy throbbing, dripping onto the mattress beneath you.
“Please don’t stop,” you whimpered desperately. “Keep licking me... please...”
The knight obeyed instantly. He buried his face back between your thighs and attacked your clit with relentless strokes of his tongue. Two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling perfectly against that sensitive spot while he sucked hard on your swollen pearl.
The pleasure hit you like a storm.
Your entire body seized up. A loud, broken scream tore from your throat as your orgasm crashed over you violently. Your thighs clamped around his head, hips bucking wildly against his mouth as you gushed on his tongue. Wave after wave of intense pleasure ripped through you, leaving you shaking uncontrollably, vision blurring at the edges.
You nearly passed out from the sheer intensity of it. body twitching, chest heaving, soft cries still falling from your lips as the pleasure refused to let go.
Sir Jungkook stayed between your thighs through every tremor, drinking down every last drop of your release like a man who had finally found salvation.
When your body finally went limp, trembling and oversensitive, he gently kissed your inner thigh before pulling back, his handsome face flushed and glistening with your arousal.
You could barely speak, still catching your breath as you stared at the sight of your proud, disciplined knight with your release shining on his lips.
—
“The Princess requires her knight’s escort to the eastern tower for stargazing.”
The message was innocent enough on paper. But the court had begun to notice how often you summoned Sir Jeon Jungkook for these private “duties.” Some whispered that the Princess trusted no one else. Others envied the knight who had earned such unwavering favor from the realm’s greatest beauty.
They had no idea what really happened once the tower door was bolted.
In the eastern tower under the stars, you would push Sir Jungkook against the cold stone wall and demand his mouth on you again. He always hesitated at first, “Your Highness, we mustn’t…” but the moment you looked at him with those wide, needy eyes and whispered “Please, Jungkook… I ache for you,” his resolve crumbled.
He would drop to his knees in full armor, push your skirts up to your waist, and bury his face between your thighs. The sounds he made while devouring you were filthy and desperately loud. wet slurps and deep groans as he drank every drop of your arousal. You quickly learned to muffle your loud moans against your own arm or his shoulder, thighs shaking violently around his head as he brought you to shattering orgasm after orgasm.
He never asked for anything in return at first. But one night, after he had made you come so hard you saw stars, you dropped to your knees in front of him, hands trembling as you freed his thick, aching cock from his breeches.
You had never seen the knight fully bare, but you had tasted him.
You took him into your mouth with clumsy but eager hunger, sucking and licking until he was groaning your name like a prayer, his gloved hand gently cradling the back of your head. When he spilled down your throat, you swallowed every drop, looking up at him with wide, adoring eyes.
The tension between you only grew hotter, more forbidden.
You began creating excuses just to be close to him.
You “accidentally” wandered into dangerous parts of the forest during hunts. You “lost” your way in the palace corridors at night. You deliberately teased foreign dignitaries until they grew too bold, all so Sir Jungkook would have to step in, pull you protectively against his armored chest, and hold you there while scolding you with his low voice.
Each time, you nestled your head against his chest plate, breathing in his scent, feeling safe in a way you had never felt with anyone else.
One quiet afternoon in the royal rose gardens, while the other knights kept their distance. The summer blooms were at their peak, rows upon rows of crimson roses spilling over marble trellises in a riot of color and fragrance. Courtiers often compared them to you. You had heard the comparison so many times throughout your life that it had long since lost all meaning.
Your attention was elsewhere when Sir Jungkook paused beside a rose bush heavy with crimson blooms. Reaching out, he selected a single flower and turned it thoughtfully between his fingers before approaching.
“A gift?” you asked.
“If Your Highness would accept it.”
The answer surprised a smile from you.
He stepped forward and tucked the rose behind your ear. His gloved fingers lingered only for a second before withdrawing, but even that brief touch seemed to affect him more than he wished to admit.
When you looked up, his gaze was fixed upon the flower. “Beautiful things are dangerous,” he said quietly.
You laughed. “I believe roses are dangerous for everyone except gardeners.”
His expression didn’t change.
“I wasn’t speaking about the rose.”
Your heart fluttered so violently you had to look away. it was becoming impossible to deny how deeply you were falling for him.
The kisses grew sloppier, more desperate with every stolen moment.
In the abandoned library, your knight would press you against the bookshelves, helmet removed, and kiss you like he was drowning, tongue sliding against yours, hands gripping your waist as if afraid you might vanish. You kissed him back just as hungrily, tugging at his hair, moaning softly into his mouth while your hand palmed the hard bulge in his breeches.
Your hunger for him was insatiable. You ached for his presence constantly. The court noticed how you lit up when he entered a room, how you instinctively moved closer to him during gatherings. They saw devotion, they saw trust.
They never saw the way you both held each other’s eyes like lovers who knew their time was stolen.
The relationship was utterly forbidden. Your father would banish him, or worse, if he ever discovered the truth. But neither of you could stop. Something real was blossoming between you.
The knight admired your wild, rebellious spirit. You admired his quiet strength and unwavering honor. In the darkness, you were no longer just princess and knight. You were becoming each other’s secret salvation. And it was only a matter of time before the tension finally snapped.
—
The Coronation.
The kingdom was in full celebration. Banners of the finest gold flew from every tower. The greatest event in decades had arrived, your coronation as Queen.
Princes from across the realms had come in droves, each more eager than the last to win your hand and the throne beside you. They brought lavish gifts, performed in grand tournaments, and showered you with compliments. The entire court watched with bated breath, waiting for you to choose.
You sat upon the raised dais in a breathtaking gown of white, looking every bit the ethereal queen-to-be. But your eyes kept drifting to the tall, armored figure standing silently behind your throne, Sir Jeon Jungkook.
He had become even more composed in public, yet you could feel the storm raging beneath his helmet. Especially when you decided to play your cruel little game.
Prince Min of Veina leaned close during the feast, whispering sweet nothings about your beauty. You laughed brightly, placing a hand on his arm, letting your fingers linger, leaning in just enough for your neckline to offer him a generous view of your breasts.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Sir Jungkook’s gloved hand tighten around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white.
Another prince, a golden haired lord from the eastern isles, offered you a rose during the garden promenade. You accepted it with a coy smile, twirling it between your fingers while glancing toward your knight.
Sir Jungkook’s dark eyes burned behind the helmet. You could feel his jealousy like a living thing, hot and barely contained.
That night, after the feasting and dancing, you summoned him to the eastern tower under the usual pretense.
The moment the door closed, he was on you.
The knight pinned you against the cold stone wall. The single rose you’d been idly twirling between your fingers, a gift from one of the many princes, fell forgotten to the floor.
Sir Jungkook’s dark eyes burned with something almost feral.
“You will be wed off soon?” he growled dangerously, breath hot against your ear.
You looked up at him, heart racing. Your long, wavy hair had finally been let down after the long day, cascading over your shoulders and hips like dark silk. The tight corset of your white coronation gown was already loosened, the fabric slipping slightly off one shoulder, revealing the smooth curve of your skin.
“What do you think about Prince Min?” you asked sweetly, tilting your head. “I think he’s quite lovely. So charming. He even said he would worship me every night once we’re wed.”
Sir Jungkook’s jaw clenched so hard you heard it crack. The jealousy that had been simmering all day threatening to explode.
“Doesn’t it drive you mad, Sir Jeon?” You leaned in closer, letting your breasts brush against his armored chest. “Knowing your princess, the one you’ve been secretly devouring every night, is wanted by so many powerful men? That they all dream of putting a ring on my finger and taking me to their beds?”
“It is exquisite torture, Your Highness,” he growled, eyes burning. “Watching them look at you like they have any right to you. Knowing I’m the only one who’s ever tasted you, the only one who’s ever made you scream.”
His raw honesty sent a sharp thrill through you. You bit your lip, loving the way jealousy sharpened his features, making his dark eyes appear even more intense. He was possessive and barely holding himself back. And you wanted to push him further.
You stepped away from the wall with a teasing smile, walking over to the tall, gilded mirror that stood near the fireplace. The white gown still clung to your body, hair cascading in long, wild waves down your back. You picked up a silver brush and began slowly running it through it, watching him in the reflection.
Sir Jungkook followed you like a shadow, stopping just behind you. His tall, powerful frame loomed in the mirror, twice your size, radiating heat and restrained fury.
“Does that bother you, my knight?” A teasing smile played on your lips. “Knowing that soon I might have to let another man—”
You didn’t get to finish. Sir Jungkook’s large hand closed around your wrist, stopping the brush mid stroke. He plucked it from your fingers and set it down with a deliberate clack. His other hand gripped your hip, pulling your back flush against his armored chest.
Your breath hitched. The playful boldness you’d been wielding all night vanished in an instant.
“Enough,” he growled low against your ear, “You’ve teased me enough tonight, Your Highness.”
His dark eyes burned into yours through the mirror. The intensity there made your knees weak. This wasn’t the restrained, obedient knight anymore. This was a man who had finally reached his limit.
He reached around you and slowly began unlacing the rest of your corset. The white gown loosened further, slipping down your shoulders. You watched in the mirror as he tugged it lower, exposing your full breasts to the cool air and the warm firelight. Your nipples were hard, flushed, and sensitive.
Sir Jungkook’s hand cupped one breast possessively, squeezing it as his thumb brushed over the stiff peak. You gasped, arching into his touch.
“Look at yourself,” he ordered quietly, voice rough. “Look how beautiful you are. How perfect. And yet you let them think they could ever have this.”
He pinched your nipple, rolling it between his fingers until you whimpered. His other hand slid down, gathering the fabric of your gown and pulling it up to your waist, fully exposing your bare cunt in the mirror.
Your face bloomed bright red as you instinctively tried to close your legs, suddenly overwhelmed with shyness at the sight of yourself so lewdly displayed, flushed and completely bare in the golden firelight.
But Sir Jungkook wouldn’t allow it. His large hand gripped your thigh firmly, spreading you open again as he pressed his body harder against your back.
“Don’t hide,” His dark eyes met yours in the mirror, intense and commanding. “Look how filthy and wet you are for me.”
You shivered, unable to tear your eyes away from the reflection. The contrast was obscene, your ethereal white gown bunched around your waist, breasts exposed and heaving, legs spread wide while his armored body loomed behind you like a dark, possessive shadow.
Sir Jungkook’s hand returned between your thighs. Two thick fingers slid through your slick folds, parting them slowly so you could see everything in the mirror. You whimpered at the sight, embarrassed yet unbearably aroused.
“So beautiful,” he breathed as he circled your swollen clit with his fingertip. “This is what belongs to me. Not to any prince. Not to anyone else.”
He pushed two fingers inside you without warning, curling them deep. Your mouth fell open in a silent cry as he began ravishing you with slow, deliberate strokes that made wet, obscene sounds echo in the quiet tower.
You tried to close your legs again, overwhelmed, but he held them open with ease, his grip firm and unyielding.
“Watch,” he ordered softly, voice dark with lust. “Watch how easily I can make my princess fall apart.”
Your eyes stayed glued to the mirror as his fingers plunged in and out of your soaked cunt, his thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit. Your cheeks were flushed deep crimson, lips parted in shameless moans, breasts bouncing slightly with every thrust of his hand.
The pleasure built fast and merciless. Your legs started shaking, thighs trembling violently as you fought to stay upright.
Sir Jungkook’s fingers curled deeper, stroking that perfect spot inside you while his thumb pressed firm circles on your swollen clit.
You came hard with a broken cry, arousal gushing down his wrist and dripping onto the stone floor beneath you. Your head fell back against his armored shoulder, body convulsing as wave after wave of intense pleasure tore through right after.
The knight dragged his arousal coated fingers from your pulsing heat and brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean while his dark eyes stayed locked on yours in the mirror. The obscene sight made you whimper, legs pressing together instinctively. This time, he allowed it.
You pulled away from him shyly, legs unsteady as you walked toward the wide couch near the fireplace. You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to cover your bare breasts, suddenly overwhelmed with embarrassment.
Sir Jungkook approached you ever so slowly. His heart was pounding. you could see it in the rise and fall of his broad chest. The way your flushed cheeks and shy posture made you look so adorable only made his desire burn hotter.
He stopped in front of you, towering over your smaller frame. Without a word, he gently uncrossed your arms, exposing your breasts again. You tried to cover them once more, but he caught your wrists softly.
“You’re too beautiful to hide, my love.” he murmured, voice low.
He leaned down and took one sensitive nipple into his hot mouth, sucking gently at first, then harder. You gasped sharply, hands flying to his shoulders as overwhelming sensitivity shot through you.
“Jungkook... it’s too much...” you whimpered, lightly pushing at his shoulders, cheeks burning with shyness.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark with lust and affection. “You’re so sensitive here,” he whispered, almost in awe. He flicked his tongue over your nipple again, watching your reaction closely. “So angelic when you tremble like this.”
He sucked harder, alternating between your breasts, licking and biting softly until you were a whimpering mess, pushing at him weakly while your body arched into his mouth.
You grew frustrated at the unfairness, nearly naked while he was still fully armored. With a small, determined huff, you pushed him back slightly and began tugging at the straps of his armor.
“It is not fair,” you muttered, cheeks still flushed. “You get to see all of me, but I still haven’t seen you.”
The knight let you undress him, helping you remove piece after piece until he stood completely bare before you for the first time.
Your breath caught.
He was magnificent. Broad shoulders, powerfully sculpted chest marked with old scars, some long and faded, others newer. A few dark tattoos adorned his left pectoral and ribs. His abdomen was ridged with muscle, leading down to narrow hips. His cock hung heavy between his legs, thick and already hard.
You stepped closer, running your hands over his bare chest, tracing every scar with reverent fingers, exploring the strong lines of his back, more scars mapping his battles. He stood perfectly still, letting you admire him, though his breathing had grown heavier.
“You are… so manly, my knight,” you breathed, barely coherent, as your hands returned to his chest, sliding down the hard ridges of his abdomen. “So big… so perfect.”
The room had grown hotter, heavier. The air between you felt charged with months of suppressed longing. Your breaths mingled as you stared into each other’s eyes... yours wide with awe and desire, his dark with barely restrained hunger.
Sir Jungkook’s control finally snapped. He lifted you and laid you down on the wide couch near the fireplace, pinning your exploring hands above your head with one large hand, holding them there firmly before his body hovered over yours, powerful and imposing, thick cock resting heavy against your inner thigh.
“Look at me,” he commanded, voice low and rough.
You did, heart hammering.
“Tell me what you want,” he demanded, eyes burning into yours.
You squirmed beneath him, aching and desperate. “Take me,” you pleaded, trembling. “Please, Jungkook… give it to me. I need you inside me.”
Sir Jungkook let out a low groan at your words. He positioned himself at your entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing against your soaked folds. He was big, almost intimidatingly so. You felt the stretch even before he pushed in.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Your Highness,” he whispered, voice strained with worry and barely contained lust. His dark eyes searched yours, torn between desire and restraint. “You’re so tight...”
You trembled beneath him, legs parted wide around his hips. “Please,” you begged softly, cupping his face. “Don’t hold back. I need you. All of you.”
The knight exhaled shakily and began to push inside.
The stretch was intense. You gasped sharply as the thick head of his cock breached you, slowly forcing your walls open. Inch by thick inch, he sank deeper, filling you in a way you had never experienced before. It burned sweetly, bordering on too much, making your nails dig into his shoulders.
“Ah... Jungkook…” you whimpered, tears pricking your eyes at the overwhelming fullness.
He paused halfway, breathing hard, jaw clenched tight. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he rasped, rough. “I’ll stop. I swear it.”
But you shook your head, wrapping your legs around his waist.
“Don’t stop,” you pleaded, voice breaking. “I need you deeper… please.”
With a low groan, he pushed the rest of the way in, burying himself to the hilt. The fullness was devastating. You felt so stretched, so completely claimed, that for a moment you could barely breathe.
Sir Jungkook stayed still, letting you adjust, pressing soft kisses to your tear stained cheeks.
“You’re taking me so well,” he murmured, voice filled with awe and lust. “Such a good girl for me.”
When the burn finally melted into aching pleasure, you rolled your hips experimentally.
“Move,” you whispered. “Please… ruin me.”
That was all it took.
Sir Jungkook’s control snapped completely. He pulled back and thrust into you hard, setting a deep, punishing rhythm. Jealousy and months of pent up desire fueled every powerful stroke. The wet, filthy sound of his thick cock slamming into your soaked cunt filled the tower, mixing with your loud, broken moans.
He was a knight sworn to protect the crown, now utterly ruining the very sovereign he had pledged his life to shield.
“Mine,” Sir Jungkook growled, biting down on your neck hard enough to leave a dark mark. “Not theirs. Never theirs.”
He ravished you relentlessly, claiming you, marking you. His mouth was everywhere: sucking bruises into your breasts, biting your collarbone, licking the tears from your cheeks. He pinned your wrists above your head again, hips snapping against yours with raw need.
You came hard the first time, screaming his name as your walls clenched violently around his thick length. But he didn’t stop. He took you through it, then flipped you onto your hands and knees, on the wide couch.
First, he worshipped.
The knight dropped to his knees behind you, his large hands spreading your cheeks reverently. He leaned in and pressed slow, open mouthed kisses along the curve of your royal backside, lingering presses of his lips that made your breath hitch. He kissed lower, then lower still, until his tongue dragged hot and wet over your soaked folds from behind.
“So beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, breath hot and heavy. “So divine. And yet I am going to ruin every sacred inch of you.”
Then the worship turned into ruin.
He rose, gripping your hips with white knuckled force, and thrust into you from behind in one deep, devastating stroke. You cried out sharply at the stretch, the thick length of his cock forcing your walls open, filling you so completely it stole your breath.
You sobbed in pleasure, fingers clawing at the cushions as he drove into you relentlessly. The power he exerted over you was intoxicating. this hardened warrior, dominating you utterly while still worshipping every tremble of your body.
“You belong to me,” he rasped, ruining you with slow, devastating strokes now. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” you whimpered, voice breaking. “Only yours, Jungkook... ahh!”
By the third round, you were a sobbing, whimpering mess, tears streaming down your face from overwhelming pleasure, body covered in his marks, cunt swollen and dripping with your combined release.
He took you in every way he could: against the wall, bent over the couch, riding him as he sat on the edge of the seat, then finally on your back again with your legs over his shoulders as he drove impossibly deep.
All night long, the tower echoed with your moans, his deep groans, the obscene wet sounds of your bodies joining. He claimed you utterly and completely devoted.
When he finally came for the last time, buried deep inside you, he held you tight, spilling pulse after pulse of hot seed into your womb, filling you until you felt impossibly full, claimed from the inside out.
Sir Jeon Jungkook pressed his forehead to yours, his lips brushing against yours with every word.
“You command the entire kingdom, my lady,” he whispered reverently, “but here in this hidden place… you are mine to ruin.”
You could only tremble in his arms, utterly spent, legs wrapped around his waist, heart pounding wildly as the fire crackled beside you.
The weight of what you had just done, and what it meant for both of you settled uncomfortably in the air. But in that moment, wrapped in his powerful arms, marked and filled by your knight, nothing else in the kingdom mattered.
The days that followed were a delicate illusion of peace.
It was late morning when you found yourself in the secluded royal bathing pool fed by a gentle river, surrounded by floating lily pads and white blossoms that drifted lazily on the current. The water was warm, scented with rose and lavender oils poured in by your maids. Sunlight filtered through the overhanging willow branches, casting soft, dappled light across the surface.
You leaned back against the smooth stone edge, your long dark hair floating around you like ink in water. Your body still carried the secret marks of the previous night, faint bruises on your hips, love bites hidden beneath the waterline, and a persistent, delicious ache between your thighs that reminded you with every shift who had claimed you so thoroughly.
Your maids, Elara, Verra, and old, wise Selyse moved around you carefully. They had raised you since you were a babe, more mothers than servants. They knew you better than anyone.
Elara poured another stream of warm water over your shoulders, her sharp eyes catching the faint flush that still lingered on your cheeks.
“You are glowing again this morning, my lady,” she said lightly, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “One might think the moon itself had kissed your skin.”
Verra, younger and bolder, laughed softly as she massaged oil into your scalp. “Or perhaps a certain tall, dark eyed knight has been keeping you… well attended.”
You felt your face heat, but you couldn’t stop the small, secret smile that curved your lips.
Selyse, the eldest, clicked her tongue but her eyes were soft with affection. “Hush, you two. Our princess has always been radiant. Though…” she tilted her head, studying you, “there is a new light in her eyes these days. And a certain weariness in her step that speaks of long nights.”
You bit your lip, sinking a little lower into the water as lily pads brushed against your skin.
“It is nothing,” you murmured, though the flush in your cheeks betrayed you.
“Nothing?” Vera teased, wading closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially.
“We have seen you grow from a wild little girl into this breathtaking woman. We know your heart. And we know it does not belong to any of those puffed up princes parading through the halls.”
You reached out, squeezing Elara’s hand, then Verra’s, your voice dropping to a shy, trembling whisper.
“It is true,” you confessed, cheeks burning hotter than the midday sun. “I have given myself to Sir Jeon. Body and heart. He is the only man I have ever wanted. The only one who has ever touched me.”
For a heartbeat, silence fell over the bathing pool. Then came the gasps.
Elara’s eyes widened, her hand flying to her mouth. Verra let out a delighted little squeak, nearly dropping the oil vial. Even old Selyse, usually so composed, looked momentarily stunned before her face broke into a warm, knowing smile.
“Oh, my sweet girl,” Elara breathed, scandalized, thrilled. “You wicked little thing! With your own knight? Right under the King’s nose?”
Verra giggled uncontrollably, splashing water playfully in your direction. “And here we thought you were simply fond of him! All those late night ‘stargazing’ trips… you minx! Was he gentle? Was he… big?”
“Verra!” Selyse scolded, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. She turned to you with motherly affection. “Though I must admit, we have suspected for some time. The way he looks at you when he thinks no one is watching… that man is utterly gone for you, my lady.”
You buried your face in your hands, mortified but unable to stop the shy, giddy smile spreading across your lips. Your gaze drifted across the river to where Sir Jeon Jungkook stood guard a respectful distance away, half hidden among the willow trees.
Even from here, you could feel the weight of his stare. He stood tall and imposing in his armor, but his dark eyes were fixed on you with a quiet, burning intensity that always made your stomach flutter.
You bit your lip, still flushed from both the warm water and the memory of his mouth, his hands, his body claiming you so thoroughly the night before.
“He is… everything,” you whispered dreamily, more to yourself than the maids. “Strong. Honorable. And when we are alone… he worships me like I am his entire world.”
Verra let out another delighted laugh. “As he should! Our princess deserves nothing less. Though if the King ever finds out…”
Selyse gently squeezed your shoulder, her voice softening with both love and concern.
“Then we will protect your secret as fiercely as we have protected you all these years,” she said. “You deserve to love who you love, my dear. Crown or no crown.”
You looked back at Sir Jungkook again. He hadn’t moved from his post among the willow trees, tall and steadfast in his armor, but your heart ached with a sharp mix of fear and wonder.
If The King ever discovered the truth, he would not spare your knight. Sir Jungkook would be banished, or worse. And you… you would be married off immediately to seal the wound.
The thought disturbed you deeply.
You turned back to the water, forcing a smile for your maids, but the warmth of the bath could no longer chase away the chill settling in your chest.
—
The rumors had begun to spread like fire through the palace corridors.
A lesser knight claimed he had seen “suspicious movement” near the eastern tower. One of the visiting princes mentioned, with a sly smile, that the Princess seemed unusually attached to her personal guard. Nothing concrete, nor proven. But the whispers were growing louder.
Your maids noticed your distraction immediately. During your morning dressing, Verra fastened the laces of your gown with unusually tight pulls, her voice urgent.
“My lady… you must be more careful,” she whispered. “Some of the king’s men have been asking questions about Sir Jeon. They say he spends too many nights away from the barracks. And one of Prince Min’s retainers swears he saw a tall figure slipping into your wing after midnight.”
Elara’s hands paused on your hair. “The knight is being cautious now. He avoids being seen with you as much. But you… you still look at him like he hung the moon. It is only a matter of time before the King hears something he cannot ignore.”
Selyse placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her eyes full of love and worry. “You are playing with fire, sweet girl. And fire does not care how much you love it.”
Your heart clenched with fear. You hadn’t seen your knight alone in a week. He had been deliberately distant, protecting you both by keeping his distance. The absence gnawed at you like hunger.
That night, you sent for him under the pretense of needing extra security for a private walk in the inner courtyard.
The moment the hidden door to your chambers closed behind him, you were on him.
You pushed Sir Jungkook against the wall, frustration and fear pouring out of you in a desperate kiss. Your hands fisted in his tunic, tugging him closer.
“Where have you been?” you demanded between kisses, voice shaking. “I was scared. I thought something had happened to you. I thought my father had already—”
“I’m here,” he whispered against your lips, rough with emotion. He pulled you closer, arms wrapping around you. “I’m right here, my love.”
But then he pulled back slightly, forehead pressed to yours. His dark eyes were filled with pain.
“I cannot stay,” he said quietly. The words hit you like a blow. “Your father has ordered me to lead a company to the western borders. There have been reports of raiders. He says it is to prove my devotion to protecting the realm… and you. He also made it clear I can no longer linger so closely around you. The rumors are growing too loud.”
You stared at him, heart shattering.
“No,” you whispered, then louder, “No. You cannot leave me. Not now. Not after everything.”
Tears stung your eyes as the hurt poured out.
“After our first night, you pulled away. You kept your distance like I was poison. And now you’re leaving entirely? What if something happens to you out there? What if I lose you forever? I can’t take it, Jungkook. I won’t survive it.”
Your hands moved frantically, tugging at the straps of his armor with desperate, angry fingers.
“I don’t care about the king. I don’t care about the borders. I only care about you.”
Piece by piece, you stripped him. The armor fell to the floor with heavy clangs until he stood completely bare before you, broad chest, scarred skin, powerful frame looking every bit of the warrior he was. You shoved him back onto the bed and climbed on top of him, straddling his hips.
Sir Jungkook’s hands moved instinctively to the laces of your corset, trying to free you fully, but you slapped his hand away, tears already glistening in your eyes.
But the knight was patient. He sat up slowly, your legs still wrapped tightly around his waist, and gently cupped your face with both hands. His thumbs brushed away the tears on your cheeks with heartbreaking tenderness.
“My love,” he whispered, voice soothing, “Let me worship you. Let me take care of you tonight. Please.”
He leaned in and captured one of your sensitive breasts in his mouth, sucking slowly. His tongue swirled around your stiff nipple, drawing a shaky moan from you. He moved to the other, giving it the same devoted attention, sucking and licking until your back arched and fresh tears slipped down your cheeks, this time from overwhelming sensation and emotion.
Holding you close, then gently but firmly, Sir Jungkook leaned back, gripping your hips and guiding you upward. In one rapid motion, he pulled you over his face, settling you directly onto his waiting mouth. Your soaked folds pressed flush against his lips and tongue, your thighs framing his head as he looked up at you with pure hunger.
“Use me,” he growled against your dripping folds, the vibration sending sparks through your core. “Pleasure yourself on my tongue love. I want to drown in you.”
You hesitated for half a second, still shy and nervous, cheeks burning hot even as your body screamed for more. But the frantic ache between your legs won out. You lowered yourself more fully, your slick cunt sliding over his mouth, his nose buried against your clit. He groaned loudly, the sound muffled and obscene as he immediately speared his tongue deep inside you, licking and sucking at your juices like a man starved.
You started moving almost desperately, grinding down with frantic little rocks of your hips. Shyness still flickered in your chest, making you whimper and bite your lip, but the pleasure overrode everything. Your hands braced on the headboard as wet, filthy sounds filled the room, the slick slide of your cunt over his tongue, his eager slurping and moaning, the way he sucked your swollen clit between his lips and flicked it mercilessly.
“Oh gods...” you gasped. Your thighs trembled around his head as you grew bolder, grinding harder, smearing your arousal all over his face. He gripped your cheeks, spreading them, holding you down so you could use him exactly how you needed. His tongue ravished in and out of your dripping hole, then flattened to lap broad strokes from your entrance to your clit, devouring every drop.
But it wasn’t enough.
You lifted off his face with a wet pop, strings of your arousal connecting you to his glistening mouth. His eyes were dark, lips swollen and shiny with your juices. Before he could speak, you slid down his body impatiently.
You straddled his hips, wrapped your hand around his thick, throbbing cock, and sank down onto him in one frantic motion.
The stretch made you cry out, but you didn’t stop. You rode him hard, bouncing on his length with frantic, emotional need, your breasts bouncing heavily with every harsh drop of your hips.
“Don’t leave me,” you sobbed, riding him faster, tears falling onto his chest. “Please, Jungkook… I can’t lose you. Not after this. Not after you’ve ruined me for anyone else.”
He thrust up to meet you, matching your desperate rhythm, his strong hands gripping your hips to guide you deeper.
“I don’t want to go,” he rasped, voice breaking with the same pain. “But I must. Your father commands it. I have to prove my loyalty… so I can stay by your side.”
You leaned down, kissing him messily through your tears, riding him like you could keep him here forever if you just moved fast enough.
“Then stay inside me,” you begged, voice cracking. “Fill me up. So deep that a part of you stays with me even when you’re gone. I want to carry you with me when they try to take you away.”
Sir Jungkook groaned deeply. His hands tightened on your hips as he suddenly flipped you onto your back, pinning you beneath his powerful body.
He made love to you then, with deep, devastating strokes that reached the very core of you. His mouth never left your skin, sucking marks into your neck, whispering promises between every thrust.
“You are mine,” he breathed against your lips, hips rolling deeply. “I will come back to you. I will fill you again and again until you swell with our future.”
You wrapped your arms and legs around him, clinging desperately as another orgasm built inside you. When it finally crashed over you, you sobbed his name, walls pulsing tightly around his thick cock.
Sir Jungkook followed right after, burying himself as deep as possible with a low, guttural groan. He came hard, flooding your womb with thick, pulsing ropes of his seed, holding you so tightly it felt like he was trying to merge your souls together.
Even after, he stayed buried inside you, pressing soft kisses to your damp forehead, your cheeks, your trembling lips.
“I don’t want you to go,” you whispered, small and broken. “I love you too much.”
Sir Jungkook pressed a soft kiss to your temple, his arms never loosening. “I know, my love,” he murmured. “And that is why I must return to you. No matter what.”
The weeks following Sir Jungkook’s departure had stretched into an endless gray fog.
You moved through your royal duties like a ghost wearing a crown. You sat through council meetings with a straight spine and a hollow smile, listening to nobles bicker about alliances, trade routes while your mind wandered back to your knight’s strong arms. Every night since, your bed felt too large, too cold. You would press your face into the pillow he had once used and fight the ache in your chest.
You missed him with a desperation that bordered on madness.
This morning was no different. You had barely kept your breakfast down before the maids helped you into a heavy velvet gown the color of deep wine for yet another assembly with potential suitors. The princes and lords from neighboring kingdoms were growing impatient. Your coronation was only a month away, and the pressure to choose a consort was mounting like a noose around your throat.
By midday, the nausea returned with a vengeance. You barely made it through the formal greetings before excusing yourself to the private solar, hand pressed to your mouth.
Elara followed quickly with a basin. You retched violently into it, eyes watering.
“Your Highness…” she whispered, rubbing gentle circles on your back.
“I’m fine,” you rasped, waving her away. “Just… something I ate.”
But it wasn’t.
Later that evening, after the day’s obligations were finally over, Vera and Selyse insisted on the usual massage to ease the tension in your shoulders. They helped you out of your gown until you lay on the wide cushioned table in nothing but a thin silk shift.
The moment Selyse’s skilled hands moved over your breasts, the older maid froze.
Verra, who was working on your legs, also stilled.
“…Your Highness,” Selyse said carefully, “Your breasts… they are fuller. Tender, yes?”
Your breath hitched. You had noticed it days ago but had tried to ignore the swelling, the sensitivity. The way even the softest fabric sometimes made you wince.
Verra’s hands gently pressed against your lower belly, not quite a touch, more an assessment. “And the sickness every morning… the fatigue… the way you’ve been crying in your chambers…”
Your eyes filled with tears. You turned your face into your folded arms, shoulders shaking.
Selyse knelt beside the table, taking your hand gently. “My lady… are you with a child?”
You didn’t answer at first. Then a broken sob escaped you.
“I think so,” you whispered. “I… I don’t know for certain, but the timing…” Your voice cracked. “It would be his. Sir Jungkook’s.”
Both maids exchanged a heavy glance. This changed everything.
Verra spoke softly, “My lady... with your coronation approaching. The lords are already circling like vultures, pushing their sons at you. If this comes out before you choose a prince…”
“I know,” you said, voice muffled. Fresh tears slipped down your cheeks. “I know what it means. But I can’t… I can’t just marry one of them. Not when I’m carrying the child of the only man I’ve ever loved.”
You sat up slowly, clutching the silk shift to your chest, arms wrapped protectively around your still flat stomach.
“My dear knight...” you sniffled. “He is out there fighting gods-know-what, and I’m here pretending to be the perfect princess while my body betrays our secret.”
Selyse brushed a strand of hair from your face with motherly tenderness. “We can hide it a little longer, Highness. Looser gowns. Ginger tea for the sickness. But you must decide soon what path you will take. The child… it will not stay hidden forever.”
You nodded, but your heart was breaking all over again. The thought of choosing one of those cold, ambitious princes while carrying Sir Jungkook’s child made you feel ill all over again.
Selyse pressed a kiss to the top of your head, her voice firm with loyalty. “We pray he returns soon, my lady. And until then, we will guard you and this little one with our lives.”
—
The weeks blurred into months as winter settled over the kingdom like a heavy white shroud. Snow blanketed the towers and gardens, turning the world soft and silent, yet inside your chest, the storm only grew louder.
Sir Jeon Jungkook had not returned.
Your belly had swelled noticeably now, a gentle but undeniable curve that marked the life growing within you. With the help of Elara, Verra, and Selyse, you hid it beneath layers of loose, flowing gowns and heavy cloaks lined with fur.
The rich fabrics concealed the truth for now, but you could no longer ignore the way your body changed, the tender fullness of your breasts, the occasional flutter of movement beneath your skin, and the constant, bone deep exhaustion.
You had begun excusing yourself from the suitors’ assemblies more frequently, claiming headaches or matters of state. But the King, grew increasingly impatient.
In the grand throne room one frost laced afternoon, he fixed you with a stern gaze as snow fell outside the tall windows. “You cannot delay any longer, daughter,” he spoke, heavy with royal command. “Prince Min of Viena is a strong candidate. The coronation is weeks away. You must choose a consort soon. The realm needs stability.”
You bowed your head, hands clasped tightly over your hidden belly beneath the voluminous velvet. “Yes, Father,” you murmured, the lie tasting like ash. Inside, your heart screamed for the only man you wanted.
Every few days, with your maids’ help, you sent letters. Verra would sneak them to a trusted rider, sealed with your private wax. You poured your soul onto the parchment; how much you missed him, the way your body was changing, the secret you carried, your love that only deepened with every passing day. Yet no responses ever came. The silence gnawed at you, feeding nightmares of him lying wounded on some distant battlefield or worse.
The worry became unbearable.
One bitter winter morning, wrapped in a thick hooded cloak that concealed your swollen middle, you slipped away from the castle with only Elara and Selyse accompanying you. The three of you rode through the snow dusted forest to a modest stone cottage on the outskirts of the kingdom, the home where Sir Jungkook had grown up.
When the door opened, an older woman with kind eyes and streaks of silver in her dark hair stood before you. Sir Jungkook’s mother. She froze at the sight of the princess on her doorstep, her hand flying to her chest.
“Your Highness…?” she whispered, stunned. “Surely I do not deserve to be blessed with your presence at my humble door. Please, come inside before the cold takes you.”
She ushered you, Elara, and Selyse quickly into the warm cottage, the scent of pinewood and baking bread wrapping around you like an embrace. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth as she helped you remove your snow dusted cloak. Only when you were seated by the fire did her gaze drop to the unmistakable swell of your belly beneath the loose gown.
You took a steadying breath, your hands resting protectively over your rounded stomach.
“I carry his child,” you said softly, trembling with emotion. “Your son’s. Sir Jungkook’s. He does not know yet… he has not returned, and I… I needed to feel close to him somehow.”
Jungkook’s mother, Maera, stood completely still for a long moment, her eyes wide with shock. Then her hand flew to her mouth as tears welled up in her eyes.
“Oh… gods above,” she breathed, her voice cracking. “A grandchild…? From my Jungkook?” Fresh tears flowed freely as she dropped to her knees in front of you, taking your hands in hers with deep reverence. “My lady… my princess. You honor me beyond words. You honor my son. To think that you, a royal daughter, would carry his child… I am stunned. Truly stunned. And so deeply moved.”
She pressed her forehead to your knuckles, weeping quietly with pure joy and emotion. When she lifted her head again, her eyes shone with fierce affection.
“You are already family to me,” she whispered. “Come here, sweet child.” She rose and pulled you into a warm embrace, cradling you gently as if you were made of glass. “You must be so frightened, carrying this secret alone while he is away. But you are not alone anymore. Not while I draw breath.”
You felt safe in her arms, the weight on your heart easing just a little as winter wind howled softly outside the cottage walls.
After composing herself, Maera wiped her tears and fetched a small wooden chest from a shelf. She sat beside you, opening it with trembling hands.
“Look,” she said tenderly, pulling out several treasured items. She showed you a faded sketch of a chubby baby with dark, serious eyes —Sir Jungkook as an infant. Another portrait showed him as a sturdy little boy of four, holding a wooden sword with determination. There was even a lock of his soft baby hair tied with a ribbon.
“He was always so intense, even as a babe,” she said with a watery laugh. “Strong and quiet… but when he smiled, the whole world lit up. Just like I imagine your little one will.”
You traced the portraits with gentle fingers, tears slipping down your own cheeks. Seeing these glimpses of him as a child made your love for the knight swell even deeper. You could so clearly picture your baby with his eyes, his strength, his rare smile. The thought made your heart ache with both joy and longing.
Maera kept one hand over yours, cherishing you openly. “Thank you for coming to me,” she murmured. “For trusting me with this precious news. We will wait for him together, my daughter. And when he returns, he will be the happiest man alive.”
The two of you sat by the fire for a long while — his mother and the mother of his child, talking softly as snow continued to fall outside, bound by love for the same man.
The days after your visit to Maera’s cottage only deepened the ache in your soul. Winter grew harsher, and so did your impatience. Every morning you woke with your hands on your swelling belly, feeling the strong kicks of his child, and the longing became unbearable.
One evening in the royal chambers, you fell to your knees before the King, tears streaming down your face. “Father, please… I beg you. Bring Sir Jungkook back. I need him. I cannot do this without him.”
The King frowned, confused by your desperation. “Daughter, he is leading my forces on the border. The realm needs him there. Why this sudden insistence on one knight?”
You could not tell him the truth. “I just… need him,” you whispered brokenly. “Please.”
He did not relent. The pressure to choose a suitor only intensified.
And then the sickness took hold.
Your body ached constantly. deep soreness in your back, hips, and breasts that made every movement painful. The baby’s kicks, once a comfort, now left you breathless. You grew feverish and weak.
Elara, Verra, and Selyse rarely left your side, forcing herbal teas and bitter medicines down your throat while piling warm blankets over you. For nearly a week you were bedridden, barely able to leave your chambers, hidden away from the court under the excuse of a winter chill.
One cold, silent night, as snow tapped gently against the window panes, you drifted in and out of a fevered haze. The herbs made the world soft and blurry around the edges.
You thought it was a dream when the heavy door to your chambers opened with a quiet creak and a tall, familiar figure stepped inside, shedding his snow dusted cloak. The firelight caught on his sharp jawline and those intense dark eyes.
Strong arms slipped beneath you, lifting you carefully as he climbed into your grand bed. A warm, calloused hand gently cradled your swollen belly. You felt the press of soft, reverent lips against the curve of your stomach.
“My love…” The knight’s deep voice whispered against your skin, rough with emotion. “I’m here. I finally came back to you.”
“Jungkook…?” you murmured drowsily, eyelids heavy, unsure if this was real or another cruel dream born of longing and medicine.
“It’s me,” he breathed, pulling your body flush against his solid chest. He was real. warm, solid, smelling of snow, leather, and the faint scent of campfires. “I’ve been aching for you every single day. Your touch, your voice… it kept me alive out there.”
His large hand stroked slow, soothing circles over your rounded belly, feeling the baby shift and kick beneath his palm. He lowered his head, pressing his lips directly to the taut skin.
You let out a tired, broken sound. “You left me… You promised you’d come back sooner. Look at me… I’m so sore, so heavy with your child, and you weren’t here…”
Sir Jungkook chuckled softly, the sound warm against your skin, even as his eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I know, my princess. I deserve your scolding. I’m deeply sorry.” He kissed your belly again and again, soft open mouthed presses wherever he could reach. Then he trailed his lips higher, attaching his mouth gently to the swollen, aching curve of your breasts, sucking lightly and kissing away the soreness with such care that you whimpered in relief.
His hands never stopped moving, massaging the deep ache in your lower back, cupping and gently holding your heavy breasts to ease their weight, stroking your hips and thighs. He intertwined his fingers with yours, holding your hand tightly as if afraid you might vanish.
“You are unreal, my love.” he murmured, voice hoarse with awe as he looked at you. “Your glow… it’s deeper now. The way pregnancy has changed you… you’re beyond anything I could have imagined. You shine like starlight. Carrying our child has only made you more radiant, more mine.”
You clung to him weakly, drowsy but desperate for his touch. “The baby… it kicks so much. I don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl… but it feels like you. Strong and stubborn.”
Jungkook smiled against your temple, one hand still resting warmly over your belly. “This child is the product of our love. A piece of both of us. I already love them more than life.” He kissed you deeply, slowly, pouring months of aching into it. “Every battle, every cold night, I thought only of coming home to you like this… holding you, feeling our baby move, worshipping the body that’s creating our future.”
He continued kissing every place that ached... the sides of your breasts, the curve of your belly, the inside of your wrist, his mouth soft and devoted. You melted into him, the pain easing under his gentle care as he held you close.
“Stay…” you whispered tiredly, already slipping back into sleep.
“I’m here right now,” he promised, lips brushing your ear. “Sleep, my love. I’ve got you both.”
When morning light filtered through the heavy curtains, you woke slowly, body still aching but strangely comforted.
The bed beside you was cold. No warmth lingered. No cloak on the chair. No scent of him on the pillows. Only the faint memory of strong hands, whispered words to your belly, and soft kisses remained.
You touched your swollen stomach, feeling another firm kick, and tears filled your eyes.
Was it a dream? A fevered hallucination woven from medicine, longing, and love? Or had Sir Jungkook truly returned to you in the dead of night… only to disappear again before dawn?
The herbs and medicines your maids prepared worked their magic. The fever finally broke, the deep soreness in your body eased into a manageable ache, and the constant nausea faded. Though you were still tired, your strength slowly returned. Your belly continued to grow rounder and heavier, the baby’s kicks becoming more insistent and lively.
One quiet winter evening, when the moon hung full over the snow covered palace, your maids turned your chambers into a secret sanctuary.
Accompanied by Sir Jungkook’s mother, they had worked together in absolute secrecy. No one outside your trusted circle knew. They had decorated the large private solar adjacent to your bedroom with soft candlelight, evergreen boughs, and winter white roses. Warm furs and silk pillows were arranged in a luxurious nest near the hearth. Incense of myrrh filled the air, and a small table held gifts wrapped in fine cloth.
They helped you into a loose, flowing gown of the softest ivory silk that draped beautifully over your swollen belly, leaving your shoulders bare. When you stepped into the room, all four women bowed their heads in reverence.
Selyse took your hand and guided you to the center of the soft pillows. “Tonight we celebrate you, my lady. And the precious life you carry. No one else will know of this blessing. It is ours alone.”
They treated you with deep adoration, as though you were sacred.
Elara gently massaged your feet with warm scented oil while Maera brushed your hair until it shone. Verra offered you sweet honeyed fruits and warm spiced milk, foods meant to nourish both you and the baby. Selyse laid her hands lightly on your rounded belly and spoke soft blessings for a safe birth and a strong child.
Selyse, ever wise, placed a small crown of dried herbs and winter berries on your head. “You are the vessel of love and life,” she murmured. “Even in these uncertain times, you bloom. We honor you as our princess… and as the mother of Sir Jungkook’s heir.”
You felt tears prick your eyes as they presented their secret gifts: tiny embroidered blankets, a soft knitted cap in deep green, a small silver pendant shaped like a blooming rose, a symbol of motherhood.
Vera leaned her cheek against your belly for a moment, grinning when the baby kicked in response. “He or she is strong already. Just like their father.”
You placed both hands over your swollen stomach, feeling another firm flutter. The warmth of their love and the secret celebration soothed the constant ache of missing your knight.
“Thank you,” you whispered, “All of you. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Elara kissed your temple. “We will keep you and this little one safe until Sir Jungkook returns. And he will return.”
The warmth of the secret celebration lingered on your skin as you returned to your chambers that night. The maids had just helped you out of the ivory silk gown when a royal messenger knocked urgently.
“The King demands your presence immediately, Your Highness. In his private study.”
You had no time to prepare. Still glowing from the love and blessings of your maids, you wrapped yourself in a heavy velvet robe that concealed your very swollen belly and followed the messenger.
The moment you entered the study, the atmosphere turned icy. Your father stood behind his desk, several of your letters spread before him.
“Daughter,” he spoke, controlled. “I have given you time to come to me yourself. I know you have been sending letters to the front lines. To Sir Jungkook, specifically.” He turned to face you, his expression stern but not yet furious. “I know of your… admiration for him. Speak truthfully now. What is this attachment?”
Your throat tightened. This was the moment. With your belly heavy with his child and your heart aching, you could no longer hide everything.
“Father…” you began, voice trembling as you stepped closer. “It is more than admiration. I love him. Sir Jungkook is the only man I want.” Your hands instinctively moved to cradle your stomach. “And I… I am carrying his child.”
Silence crashed over the room.
The King’s eyes widened, then narrowed sharply as his gaze dropped to the unmistakable swell beneath your gown. His face darkened with shock, then rage.
“You what?” he hissed. “A knight’s bastard? While I have been parading princes before you? While the entire realm waits for you to secure the throne with a proper alliance?”
“Father, please,” you begged, tears filling your eyes. “It is his. Our love is real. If you would only let him return, we could—”
The King’s face twisted with fury. “You dare speak such filth to me? A royal princess swollen with a common knight’s bastard?”
You rebelled, voice shaking but defiant. “It is not filth. It is love. I will not marry Prince Min. I will not let you use me as a pawn for alliances while I carry the man I love’s child.”
“Enough!” The King slammed his fist on the table, making you flinch. “I have been patient with your childish infatuation, but this is treason against your bloodline. You will do as you are told! Your fate is sealed. You will marry Prince Min before the month ends.”
Later that same night, before your maids could even calm you, you found your most trusted rider in the stables. With tears streaming down your face and snow falling around you, you whispered your final message: “Tell him… tell Sir Jungkook that I will wait for him. No matter how long it takes. My heart is his alone. I will wait.”
The rider bowed and galloped into the night. No response ever came.
The next weeks were a nightmare.
Prince Min visited often, his eyes raking over your body with open lust and infatuation. He complimented your “ethereal glow”, clearly aroused by your pregnant form, but his arrogance disgusted you. He spoke openly of claiming the throne through you, of bedding you the moment you were his. You hated him with every fiber of your being.
You fought your father harder than ever, refusing to attend meetings with Prince Min, screaming that you would rather die than marry him. But the King had reached his limit.
One brutal afternoon, he summoned you again and placed a bloodied cloak and a forged letter before you.
“Sir Jeon Jungkook is dead,” he said flatly. “He fell in battle two weeks ago. This is proof.”
The world shattered.
You collapsed to the floor, a guttural sob tearing from your throat. The baby inside you kicked as if sensing your pain. From that moment, you broke completely.
You refused to eat. You barely slept. You stopped speaking, even to Elara, Verra, and Selyse who begged you through tears to think of the child. You lay in bed for days, staring at nothing, your once radiant glow fading into pale exhaustion. Your maids feared for both your life and the baby’s.
Despite how numb you had become, when your maids gently suggested taking you to Maera’s quiet home on the edge of the forest, you agreed without protest. You were taken there in secret under the cover of night.
Maera, a strong but grieving woman with the same dark eyes as her son, took you in without question. She cared for you with quiet hands and even quieter words. You didn’t speak much to her either, but you accepted her care wholeheartedly. After all, she was mourning the loss of her son, and you were mourning the loss of your lover and the father of your child.
The King, despite his fury, still sent guards to watch over you from a distance. You were still royalty, still carrying what he believed might be his grandchild. But you could only think of the protection you once had... the strongest, safest pair of arms that had ever wrapped around you.
You mourned deeply. But you couldn’t be completely selfish with a baby on the way, restless and eager to come into the world.
The labor came on a stormy night.
The pains started suddenly and violently. Maera and your maids worked frantically around you as you screamed and cried, gripping the sheets until your knuckles turned white. The King himself had ridden out in secret when he heard you had gone into labor, standing outside the cottage with a face pale with rare fear.
He didn’t know how to comfort you. He only knew one thing, his daughter was calling for her knight in her delirium.
Even though he viewed the child as the product of a sinful affair, something in him softened at the sound of your broken sobs. He could not lose you.
Inside the cottage, you gave birth to a baby girl.
She was small, chubby, with a shock of raven hair and big, dark eyes that looked exactly like her father’s. The moment the midwife placed her on your chest, fresh tears streamed down your face.
“She looks like him…” you whispered, hoarse and broken. “My little love… she has his eyes.”
You held her close, sobbing softly as the pain and grief mixed with a fragile, overwhelming love. Even in your exhaustion, you couldn’t stop crying. You believed Sir Jungkook was dead. The thought that your daughter would never know her father tore you apart.
Maera wept beside you, gently stroking your hair. “She’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Just like her mother.”
Outside, the King stood in the rain, waiting.
When the door finally opened and the midwife stepped out, he demanded to know if you and the child were alive. Upon hearing they both were, something in his hardened heart shifted.
He turned to his captain without a word and gave the order.
“Send riders to the western borders at once. Bring Sir Jeon Jungkook back. Tell him… his princess has need of him.”
It would take time. The borders were far, and the roads were muddy from the storms. A week, perhaps a month.
In the quiet warmth of the cottage, you held your newborn daughter against your chest, wrapped in soft linen.
You rocked her gently as she fussed against your breast, nursing hungrily. Your maids and Maera moved around you, bringing broth, fresh cloths, and ever soft words. But you barely spoke. The grief had hollowed you out.
“I wish you could meet your father,” you whispered to the baby one quiet night, voice cracking. Tears slipped down your cheeks as she latched on again. “He would have held you so carefully. He would have loved you more than anything in this world. He would have protected us both…”
Maera sat beside you, her own eyes red from mourning. She placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. “He would have been so proud,” she said softly. “Of both of you.”
You could only nod, throat too tight to speak. The emptiness inside you felt endless. Every time the baby cried, every time she looked up at you with those familiar dark eyes, the pain returned like a fresh wound.
The King demanded your return to the palace, as you were still royalty, still bound to your father’s will despite carrying a child out of wedlock. He wrote letter after letter insisting you resume your duties and prepare for the inevitable marriage to Prince Min. You refused to answer most of them.
Your maids tried their best to comfort you, but even they could not reach the depths of your sorrow. The only light in your world was your daughter. Tiny, perfect, with Jungkook’s dark eyes and a tuft of raven hair. You held her constantly, whispering stories about her father, singing lullabies with a voice that often broke halfway through.
You mourned him deeply. The King had not even granted him a proper funeral. No rites. No chance to say goodbye. Just a bloodied cloak and a cold declaration.
One quiet evening, Maera left the cottage to fetch groceries from the nearby village. Your maids had been called back to the palace on the King’s orders, duties they could not refuse. For the first time in weeks, it was just you and your baby in the small, warm cottage.
You sat by the window, cradling her in your arms. She cooed softly, tiny fingers wrapping around yours as you gently rocked her. For a few precious minutes, you allowed yourself to smile a real, soft smile as you played with her little hands and kissed her forehead.
“My baby,” you whispered, “The loveliest babe. Don’t tell the queens and princesses, I think they’d be terribly jealous.”
The baby blinked up at you. “Oh, yes,” you continued solemnly. “Especially of those cheeks.”
You leaned back in the chair as exhaustion eventually won over you, your eyes growing heavy. With your daughter nestled safely against your chest, sleep claimed you quickly.
When you woke, the cottage was awfully quiet.
Your arms were empty.
Panic slammed into you like a physical blow. You shot upright, heart hammering wildly as you looked around the room.
The baby was gone.
“No… no, no, no...” you gasped, stumbling to your feet, voice rising into a broken sob. “Where is my baby?!”
You searched frantically, under the blankets, behind the chairs, near the hearth, terror clawing at your throat. Your mind spun with nightmarish possibilities. Had someone taken her? Had the King sent men to steal her away?
Then you saw him.
A tall figure standing near the doorway, cradling your daughter gently in his strong arms. She was sleeping peacefully against his chest, tiny fist curled into his tunic.
Your knees buckled.
It was Sir Jungkook.
He looked exhausted, travel worn, mud on his boots, shadows under his eyes, but he was alive. Real. His dark eyes met yours, filled with unbearable love and pain.
You stared at him, trembling violently, refusing to believe what you were seeing.
“No…” you whispered, shaking your head. “No, no, this isn’t real. You’re dead. They told me you were dead. This is another dream. You always come in my dreams and then you leave me again—”
Your voice cracked into a sob as you backed away, hands clutching your chest.
“You left me,” you cried, tears streaming down your face. “You left me and our child. I mourned you. I almost died mourning you. Please… don’t do this to me again. I can’t take another dream. I can’t wake up to find you gone again.”
Sir Jungkook’s face crumpled with anguish. He took one careful step forward, still cradling your daughter like the most precious thing in the world.
“My love,” he said hoarsely, voice breaking. “It’s not a dream. I’m here. I’m real. Your father… he lied. He sent me away to the borders to keep me from you. But I came back the moment he allowed it. I rode without stopping.”
You shook your head harder, tears falling faster, refusing to believe it even as your heart screamed at you to run to him.
“You’re dead,” you repeated, voice small and shattered. “You have to be dead… because if you’re not, then you let me believe it. You never answered my letters. Not one. I wrote to you every single day, pouring my heart out, begging you to come back to me, to our child… and you never...”
Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks as the pain twisted deeper.
“You were in on it, weren’t you?” you whispered, voice breaking. “You let my father tell me you were gone. You left me here to rot in grief while I carried your child alone. How could you?”
The knight’s face crumpled with agony. He took a step forward, but you flinched, and he stopped immediately, hands trembling at his sides.
Before he could speak, your daughter stirred in his arms. As if sensing the suffocating tension in the room, she let out a sharp, hungry cry, her little lips puckering, tiny fists waving.
You moved without thinking, reaching for her. Sir Jungkook gently handed her over, his hands lingering for a moment as if afraid to let go. You turned away from him, sitting on the edge of the bed and loosening your dress to feed her. The baby latched on eagerly, her cries softening into small, contented sounds.
The knight stood there, watching you in silence. He looked lost, this battle-hardened soldier, returned from war, now completely unsure how to comfort the woman he loved. He slowly lowered himself to his knees in the middle of the room, head bowed.
“I wrote to you,” he admitted hoarsely. “Every chance I had. Your father… he made sure none of my letters reached you. He wanted you to believe I was gone. I fought every day to come back to you. I almost died trying to get word to you.”
You didn’t look at him. You kept your eyes on your daughter, tears falling silently onto her soft hair.
“I mourned you like a widow,” you whispered, voice thick with pain. “I almost died. And now you’re here… acting like you didn’t abandon me when I needed you most.”
The words cut awfully deep. Sir Jungkook’s shoulders slumped, but he stayed on his knees, silent and respectful, giving you the space your wounded heart demanded.
Your daughter stirred in your arms, letting out a small, distressed whimper as if she could sense the storm raging between her parents. You rocked her gently, pressing a kiss to her soft raven hair.
“Shh, my sweet one,” you cooed softly, “Mama’s here. You’re safe.”
Sir Jungkook’s hands twitched at his sides, aching to reach out, to touch you, to hold both of you, but he remained still, jaw clenched tight. He was no longer in full armor, only a worn tunic and breeches, his appearance shambled from the long ride, fresh bruises blooming across his knuckles and jaw.
You turned away from him, focusing on the small tasks that had become your life in the cottage. The rain outside grew heavier, pounding against the roof like a relentless drum.
You moved about the space, stirring the pot of stew over the fire, folding fresh linens, anything to keep your hands busy and your mind from breaking completely.
Hours passed in heavy silence. When your daughter finally grew fussy again, you nursed her by the hearth until her little eyes fluttered shut. You laid her gently in the wooden cradle Maera had prepared, stroking her cheek one last time before covering her with a soft blanket.
Only then did you notice movement near the door.
Sir Jungkook was standing there, cloak in hand, quietly preparing to leave.
Something inside you fractured. You stepped toward him, voice cracking. “You’re leaving again?”
He turned slowly, eyes filled with torment. “I was only going to check the perimeter. The rain is heavy, and I… I didn’t want to burden you further.”
You stared at him, this warrior who had survived hell just to return to you, and the dam finally broke.
“Come here,” you whispered.
He obeyed without hesitation.
You led him to your bed and with trembling hands, you began removing his tunic, revealing the damage the war had left behind.
New bruises painted his ribs and shoulders in shades of purple and blue. Fresh scars, still healing, cut across his chest and abdomen. He looked harder, a man who had walked through fire and barely returned.
Your lips trembled, but you forced yourself to stay steady. You turned away briefly, gathering clean linen strips, salve, and a bowl of warm water. When you returned, the knight stood perfectly still, letting you see all of him, the bruises, the brutal evidence of everything he had endured just to return to you.
You began tending to him in silence, your hands gentle as you cleaned a particularly nasty cut along his side. But the more you looked, the more the dam inside you cracked.
“What have they done to you, Jungkook?” you whispered, voice breaking. Tears spilled down your cheeks as you carefully wrapped a bandage around his ribs. “You’re… you’re covered in pain. All of this… just to come back to me?”
He stood motionless, letting you care for him, but his dark eyes never left your face.
“I would go through it a thousand times more,” he said softly, “if it meant coming back to you and our daughter.”
You shook your head, fresh tears falling as you pressed a bandage over another wound. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that. I can’t bear thinking of you suffering like this. I thought you were dead. I thought I would never see you again, and now you’re here… broken because of me.”
Sir Jungkook slowly lowered himself to his knees in front of you, even though you were still trying to tend to him. The powerful knight, the man who had survived war, knelt before you like the loyal protector he had always been.
“Your Highness,” he murmured, head slightly bowed, voice thick with emotion. “I failed you. I wasn’t here when you needed me most. I wasn’t here when you carried our child. I wasn’t here when you gave birth. I wasn’t here when they told you I was gone. Forgive me.”
You dropped the bandages and pulled him into your arms, holding his head to your chest. His arms wrapped around your waist instantly, clinging to you like a man who had almost lost everything.
A broken sob tore from his throat.
Your knight, your warrior, the strongest person you had ever known, cried against your chest like a child. Deep, shuddering sobs that shook his powerful frame as his arms tightened around you.
“I thought I lost you,” he choked out, voice muffled against your skin. “Every night on the border, I prayed I would make it back to you. To both of you.”
You held him tighter, fingers threading through his raven hair, your own tears falling onto his head.
“You’re here now,” you whispered, rocking him gently. “You’re here. You came back to us. That’s all that matters.”
For a long time, the only sounds in the cottage were the rain outside, the crackling fire, and the quiet, heartbroken sobs of a knight who had finally returned to his princess.
—
The rain had not eased by the middle of the night. It hammered against the thatched roof like an impatient army. You had fallen asleep in Jungkook’s arms on the narrow bed, your daughter nestled safely in her cradle beside you. For the first time in months, your sleep was deep and dreamless.
A sharp knock on the cottage door shattered the peace.
Sir Jungkook was awake in an instant. He slipped from the bed silently, pulling on his tunic and reaching for the sword he had left by the door. His body was still tense from war, every muscle ready for threat.
“Stay here,” he whispered, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “I will see who it is.”
But you already knew.
A cold certainty settled in your chest. You rose, wrapping a shawl around your shoulders, and followed him despite his warning. Your daughter stirred but remained asleep.
Sir Jungkook opened the door, sword half drawn, rain pouring behind the figure standing outside.
It was the King.
Your father stood in the downpour, cloak heavy with water, face pale and drawn. Guards waited at a respectful distance, torches flickering weakly in the storm. His eyes moved past your knight and landed on you.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then the King stepped inside without invitation, water dripping onto the wooden floor. His gaze softened when it fell on you — his only daughter, still pale from childbirth, carrying the weight of grief and motherhood.
“My child,” he said, voice rough. “You must return to the palace. You are still royalty. Still my blood. You do not belong in a cottage like this.”
You stood straighter, even as exhaustion and lingering pain made your body ache.
“I belong where I choose,” you replied quietly, but firmly. “And I will not return without Sir Jeon. He is my knight. He is the father of my daughter. He stays with me.”
The King’s jaw tightened. He glanced at Jungkook, who stood tall and silent beside you, sword now lowered but ready.
“I know what you are to each other,” the King said heavily. “I have known for some time. Prince Min is a fool and a coward, but his bloodline is strong. The alliance—”
“I will not marry him,” you cut in, voice steady despite the tears gathering in your eyes. “I will return to the palace. I will perform my duties as princess, as future queen. I will be the ruler this kingdom needs. But only if Sir Jungkook remains at my side. As my knight. As the man I have chosen. As the only man with any right to me.”
The King looked at you for a long time. He saw the woman you had become, not just his rebellious daughter, but a figure of quiet strength. The people in the surrounding villages spoke of you with reverence. They told stories of the princess who helped common women, shared food during hard winters, who listened to their troubles as if they mattered as much as any noble’s.
The King exhaled slowly, defeated but not broken.
“Very well,” he said at last. “Sir Jeon will return with you. He will remain your personal knight. But this… affair… must remain hidden from the court. For now.”
You nodded once, relief flooding through you.
The King’s gaze drifted to the cradle where your daughter slept. He had not yet seen her. You had kept her away from him, protecting her with every fiber of your being.
He took one hesitant step toward the cradle, then stopped, as if afraid.
The King’s shoulders sagged. For the first time in years, he looked truly old.
“Bring her home,” he said quietly. “Both of you. We will find a way.”
When the heavy door of the cottage finally closed behind your father, you let out a huge, shaky sigh. The weight of the conversation pressed on your chest like a stone. You turned and walked to the cradle, gently lifting your daughter into your arms. She stirred but settled quickly against your chest.
Sir Jungkook followed silently behind you, his presence warm.
“I would not trust him,” you whispered, voice laced with bitterness. “My father lied. He did all of this, told me you were dead, kept us apart, made me believe I had lost you forever. How can I believe a single word he says now?”
Jungkook stepped closer. He gently wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on the top of your head as you held your daughter.
“Petal,” he murmured softly, the old endearment slipping out like a balm. “Your father is a hard man, but he is not as cold as he pretends to be. He sent for me the moment he learned you had gone into labor. He could have kept me away forever. But he didn’t.”
You turned slightly in his arms, eyes wide with disbelief.
The knight continued, low and calm.
“There was one night… when you were still heavy with our child and very sick. I rode through a storm to reach you. Your father allowed it. He let me see you. I held you while you slept, fevered and restless. I whispered to you. I kissed your forehead and promised I would return. But I had to leave before dawn. He made me swear not to wake you. He said it would only make the pain worse when I had to go back to the borders.”
You stared at him, stunned. Tears welled up again.
“That night… it was real?” you whispered. “I thought it was a dream. I thought I imagined your arms around me.”
“It was real,” he said gently, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I was there. And I have regretted leaving you every single day since.”
You turned fully toward him, still cradling your daughter. The baby had woken and was fussing softly. You loosened your dress and began to feed her.
Sir Jungkook watched the two of you with such open love and longing that it made your chest ache.
“She has your eyes,” you said softly, brushing a finger over your daughter’s cheek. “So dark and beautiful. Just like yours.”
Sir Jungkook’s expression softened further. He reached out, gently stroking the baby’s tiny hand.
“And she is as beautiful as her mother,” he murmured. “I hope she grows to be as strong as her. As kind. As full of fire and love.”
For a while, the only sounds were the soft suckling of your daughter and the rain pattering against the roof. Sir Jungkook stayed close, one arm around your waist, the other lightly resting near the baby.
Eventually, after your daughter had fallen asleep again, you made the decision.
“We will return to the palace,” you said quietly. “Together. As a family. I will not hide anymore.”
The next morning, after tender farewells to Maera, who hugged you both tightly and kissed her granddaughter’s forehead with tears in her eyes, you left the cottage.
—
Three Months Later,
The palace had transformed around you.
After your return, the finest healers in the realm were summoned, learned men and women versed in herbs and ancient remedies. They tended to you with the utmost care, restoring the strength you had lost in grief and childbirth. Slowly, the hollow exhaustion faded. Color returned to your cheeks. Your body healed, and with it, your spirit bloomed once more.
You were treated not merely as royalty, but as something sacred. The people whispered that the Princess had returned more radiant than before, as if the earth itself had blessed her.
Your maids, Elara, Verra, and Selyse, were beyond ecstatic to have you back. They fussed over you constantly, brushing your long hair until it shone, dressing you in the finest silks, and whispering prayers of gratitude for your safe return.
The kingdom now knew the truth: the child was Sir Jeon Jungkook’s. The scandal had spread like wildfire, but instead of outrage, most of the people embraced it. They saw their princess glowing, and fiercely protected.
Prince Min had tried to slander you upon his return, calling you impure, unfit, a disgrace for bearing a knight’s child out of wedlock. Sir Jungkook had nearly killed him in the great hall before the King’s guards pulled him back. Prince Min was expelled from the kingdom that very day, the alliance shattered. No one mourned his departure.
It was a warm evening when you returned to the royal bathing pool, surrounded by floating lily pads and fragrant white blossoms. The water shimmered under the sunlight as your maids helped you undress. Your daughter, now three months old and full of life, babbled happily in Elara’s arms, reaching for you with chubby little hands.
“Come here, my sweet,” you cooed, taking her into the warm water with you. She immediately nestled against your bare chest, tiny fingers grasping at your long, wavy hair as you gently rocked her. She was a needy little thing, always wanting her mother’s warmth, her scent, her voice.
Verra smiled as she poured scented oil over your shoulders. “She adores you, my lady. Look at those big, bejeweled eyes.”
You glanced toward the far bank where Sir Jeon Jungkook stood guard, as always. He was no longer forced to hide. He remained your personal knight, ever watchful and devoted. His gaze met yours across the water, soft with love and quiet pride. He had become even more protective since your return, rarely leaving your side unless duty demanded it.
The King had grown strangely silent on the matter of your relationship. Seeing you flourish and beloved by the people, had turned him into something of a coward when it came to opposing you.
He doted on his granddaughter in private, though he still struggled to fully accept the circumstances. Yet he no longer pushed for any other marriage. He had seen what happened when he tried to separate you from your knight.
Bit by bit, your beauty had deepened into something almost otherworldly, skin luminous, eyes bright with life, a gentle fullness to your figure from motherhood that only made you more captivating. You moved through the palace performing your duties with grace while still finding time to help the common women who came to the gates seeking aid. You had become more than a princess.
At night, when the palace slept, Sir Jungkook was yours completely.
He would slip into your chambers, shed his armor, and worship you with slow hands and mouth. He made love to you like a man who had walked through hell and returned only for this. You clung to him every night, whispering how much you loved him, how you had chosen him long before the crown ever mattered.
Your daughter babbled softly, pulling at your long hair again with her tiny fist, drawing a soft, delighted laugh from you.
“Oh, my little one,” you cooed, gently untangling her fingers from your waves before pressing a kiss to her chubby cheek. “You are going to pull Mama’s hair right off if you keep that up, aren’t you? Such a strong little flower.”
She giggled in your arms, reaching up to pat your face with her small, uncoordinated hand, her big dark eyes, exact replicas of her father’s, sparkling with pure joy. The resemblance was almost startling even at such a young age. She was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.
Elara sighed dreamily as she poured warm water over your shoulders. “Look at her, my lady. She is perfection. She already has the whole palace wrapped around her tiny finger.”
Verra nodded, gently massaging oil into your hair. “And you, my princess. You glow like the sun itself these days. Motherhood suits you more than any crown ever could.”
Selyse, ever the wise one, glanced toward the bank where Sir Jeon Jungkook stood guard, fully armored but with his helmet removed today. A small, teasing smile tugged at her lips.
“And that one over there… he can’t take his eyes off the two of you. Look at him, standing there like a lovesick fool in steel. Our fierce knight, brought to his knees by a baby and her mother.”
The knight’s ears turned faintly red, but he didn’t deny it. His gaze remained soft, locked on you and your daughter with quiet awe and devotion.
Later that evening, in the royal rose gardens where he had once walked beside you as your new knight, Sir Jungkook carried your daughter in his arms.
He was still in full armor, crimson cloak draped over his broad shoulders, but he held her with such careful gentleness it made your heart melt. The baby was dressed in the softest cream colored gown embroidered with tiny golden flowers, a little bonnet tied under her chin. She looked like a living doll against his armored chest.
She reached up with both hands, grabbing at the edge of his armor, babbling excitedly as she tried to pull herself closer to his face. When he leaned down, she patted his cheek with a wet, sloppy kiss.
Sir Jungkook’s entire expression softened into something almost boyish. He smiled, genuine and devastatingly handsome.
“My little love,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
You walked beside them, heart full as you watched your daughter play with the buckles on his armor. Every time he lowered his head to let her see his face, she lit up. But when he playfully put his helmet back on for a moment to tease her, she immediately fussed, letting out a small, indignant cry and reaching for him with both arms.
“No helmet,” you laughed softly. “She hates it. She wants to see her father’s face.”
Sir Jungkook removed it immediately, tucking it under one arm while cradling her with the other. He leaned down so she could press her tiny palms against his cheeks and give him another sloppy kiss on the jaw.
The maids watching from a distance cooed and teased him lightly.
“Look at that,” Verra whispered loudly enough for him to hear. “Who would have thought the man who survived the western borders would be brought down by tiny hands and gummy smiles?”
Later that night, the heavy oak door to your royal chambers was barred, only the soft glow of candles and the low fire in the hearth illuminated the room.
You stood before the tall mirror, slowly changing into your nightgown. The fabric whispered against your skin as it slid down your body. Your gaze caught on the beautiful ring on your finger, the one Sir Jungkook had slipped onto your hand in secret weeks ago, a quiet promise between the two of you. You turned it gently, a small, private smile touching your lips.
Your daughter lay nestled against your bare chest, warm and content, her tiny fingers curled around the edge of your loosened gown. She babbled softly, her big dark eyes full of adoration for her mother.
Sir Jungkook stood a few steps behind you, fully armored except for his helmet, watching the two of you with quiet awe. The firelight danced across his face, highlighting every healed scar and the lingering shadows of war that still clung to him.
You gently laid your daughter in her ornate cradle, pressing one last kiss to her forehead as she drifted into sleep. Then you returned to the mirror, picking up the silver brush to run it through your long, wavy hair.
Sir Jungkook followed without a word. He stopped behind you, his large hands resting lightly on your waist. Slowly, he leaned down and began pressing soft kisses along your bare arms, from shoulder to wrist, as you continued brushing your hair.
You giggled softly, cheeks flushing with that familiar shyness even after all this time.
“Jungkook…” you murmured, breathy. “You ought to distract me.”
“Good,” he whispered against your skin, kissing the curve of your shoulder. “I have missed you all day. I need my darling.”
He dropped to his knees behind you with a quiet clink of armor, bowing his head in his familiar, devoted way. You turned to face him, running your fingers through his raven hair, then tracing the sharp line of his jaw and the faint scars that remained on his face.
You saddened for a moment, remembering the brutality he had endured.
But he looked up at you with such pure worship that it took your breath away. To him, you were more than a princess. you were his salvation, the very source of life that had healed him.
You pulled him closer, and he rose, lifting you effortlessly into his arms and carrying you to the grand bed.
The knight laid you down gently, then began to worship you with slow, reverent hands. He unlaced your nightgown with painstaking care, peeling the silk away until you were bare before him. His mouth found your breasts immediately, sucking softly on one sensitive nipple, then the other, drinking the sweet milk that flowed for him with deep, grateful groans.
You moaned softly, fingers threading through his hair as he fed from you, his tongue swirling, lips sealed tight around your peak. He drank like a man who had been starving for you, savoring every drop as if it were the very essence of life itself.
Sir Jungkook groaned deeply against your breast, the sound vibrating through your chest as he drank almost desperately. His large hand cradled the soft weight of your breast, squeezing gently to draw more from you while his other hand stroked your side with reverent tenderness.
“So sweet,” he whispered against your skin, voice hoarse and worshipful. “You give me life, my petal. You heal what war tried to break.”
You whimpered, arching into his mouth, overwhelmed by the intimate, sacred act, fresh heat blooming between your thighs.
When he finally released your nipple with a wet pop, his lips glistening, he looked up at you with dark, adoring eyes.
“You are my salvation,” he murmured, kissing the valley between your breasts before moving lower. “The mother of my child. The light that brought me home.”
When he finally moved lower, he spread your thighs with firm hands and settled between them. He looked up at you once, eyes dark with devotion, before lowering his mouth to your core.
He worshipped your flower, seeking nectar with slow, deep licks that made your back arch, followed by gentle suction on your swollen clit. His tongue delved inside you, tasting every inch, groaning at your sweetness as if it were the most sacred thing he had ever known.
You whimpered and moaned, hips rolling against his handsome face as pleasure built in waves. He was relentless yet tender, bringing you to the edge again and again before letting you tip over.
When you finally begged for him, voice trembling with need, Sir Jungkook rose above you like a knight before his altar.
He did not rush. Instead, he sat back on his heels, dark eyes drinking in every inch of your bare, flushed body with such raw hunger that it made your skin burn. You felt vulnerable and impossibly desired under that gaze. A shy, breathless giggle escaped your lips as heat flooded your cheeks.
Sir Jungkook reached out with one large, calloused hand and traced a single finger slowly down your body, from the delicate line of your throat, between your heaving breasts, over the soft curve of your belly, and down to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The touch ever so feather light, yet it left fire in its wake.
“You are a goddess made flesh,” he whispered, voice hoarse with awe. “And I am but a mortal who has been granted the honor of kneeling at your feet.”
He leaned down and pressed his forehead to your thigh in a gesture of pure worship, eyes closed, breath warm against your skin as if he were praying to the only deity he had ever believed in.
Then he moved over you, settling between your spread thighs. His thick cock pressed against your entrance, hot and heavy. He looked into your eyes as he slowly pushed inside, inch by thick, stretching inch, filling you so completely that your mouth fell open in a silent cry.
You dug your nails into his back as he began to move, first slow and loving, then harder, deeper, claiming you with every thrust.
“I love you,” he groaned against your neck, hips snapping forward. “I love you more than life itself.”
When you came, it was with his name on your lips and tears of overwhelming pleasure in your eyes. Jungkook followed moments later, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a low, broken groan, filling you with pulse after pulse of his release.
In the quiet that followed, with the knight’s arms still wrapped around you and the weight of the world momentarily forgotten, it was strangely easy to remember the day he had first knelt before the throne.
The impenetrable knight clad in steel, sworn to protect a princess draped in silk. and protect you he would, as though it had been carved into the marrow of every breath he would draw, for eternity.
editing thid in a few hours. thankyou so much for reading!! comments and reblogs are very much appreciated mwah love you all 🫶💋
Jungkook’s newest obsession with vlogging turns into the two of you making your first sex tape together.
Pairing - jungkook x reader
Genre - 18+ established relationship au, smut MDNI
wc -3.3k
Warnings - filming sex ofc, lotss of kissing, pet names, big d jk, marking, biting, oral f. and m. receiving, dom jk, fingering, breast play, unprotected sex, crying, praises, riding, missionary, cumming on body, rough sex, overstimulation, some filthy cum play, they're jst really cutee ((
a/n - every time I think I’ve already written the most filthiest thing I could, I somehow come up with something even more ridiculous 😔 oh n I also plan to post one more fic by this week hopefully!!
The staff guides you to Jungkook’s room and leaves after opening the door for you. You gently push the door open and step inside to find Jin walking out from the living area. He breaks into a smile greeting you before telling how impatient Jungkook’s been waiting for you all day.
Your excitement dims a little when you realize your surprise clearly isn’t a surprise anymore making him laugh. He explains that Jungkook found out you were coming earlier in the morning from one of the staff.
You end up laughing while Jin leaves dramatically rambling about being fed up of Jungkook's camera. Needless to say that the world has been witnessing Jungkook’s current obsession in real time. For the past week he’s been recording absolutely everything.
Once the door clicks shut, you take off your shoes and sit on the edge of the bed.
A few minutes later, the bathroom door opens. Jungkook steps out wearing a black tank top and black shorts. His hair is a little damp, water droplets slide down his neck and toned arms.
He holds his camera in his left hand absentmindedly checking the screen.
The moment his eyes land on you, you stand up and practically run to him. Jungkook drops the camera onto the nearby couch and catches you as you jump into his arms wrapping your legs around his waist.
“Fuck baby, I was waiting for so long,” he breathes against your neck inhaling your scent.
“I wanted to surprise you,” you pout lightly. “Jin oppa told me you already knew I was coming today.”
Jungkook lets out a soft laugh and pulls back to look at your face.
“I can still act super surprised if you want."
You roll your eyes and your pout fades as he leans in and kisses you. The kiss quickly turns hungry as his lips move against yours with weeks of built-up longing.
Jungkook moves carrying you in his arms. One hand reaches out to place the camera on the stand in front of the bed, adjusting it quickly until it faces both of you properly.
A giggle slips from you immediately.
“New vlog?”
Jungkook grins against your lips.
"With your cameo.”
You shake your head fondly while he sits down on the edge of the bed with you straddling his lap. His hands slide down to grip your waist as the kiss grows nothing but more messier.
“I missed you so fucking much."
You pull back to reply the same. “I missed you too,” you take his cheeks between your hands before placing so many more of your kisses.
His hands roam around touching you everywhere. sliding down to grip your ass, then moving back up. “Your tour’s going really well,” you try speaking in between. “Everyone’s doing so good.”
Jungkook hums against your mouth, clearly distracted. His lips trail down to your neck sucking and biting hard enough to leave marks. you throw your head back, letting out a breathless moan.
His thumb brushes over your breasts, making you shiver.
and your eyes suddenly drift to the side.
“kook...” you breath out. “your camera..”
Jungkook slides his tongue deep into your mouth before pulling back to speak against it.
“What about it?”
Your heart pounds wildly in your chest. You both know exactly what’s happening. although you trust Jungkook with your entire soul, the idea of being recorded like this makes nervousness and arousal swirl together inside you.
“You want me to stop it?”
His fingers remain under your top as he waits for your answer.
You bite your lower lip with a little hesitation, but the heat in his eyes and the way your body is aching for him takes over and you slowly shake your head. Jungkook’s smirk is pure sin as he bites your earlobe.
“Good girl."
His hands pull you down harder against his growing erection. mouth crashing back onto yours. you kiss him back just as desperately, your hands sliding up to grip his biceps, feeling his new muscles flex under your fingers.
You start grinding slowly on him. the thin fabric of your pants rubs against him and you can feel everything.
You know he isn’t wearing anything underneath because you can feel the outline of his cock rubbing perfectly against your clit through your clothes.
“fuck... I missed you,” Jungkook’s words come out husky against your lips. “missed you so fucking much, baby.”
wet sounds fill the room as your tongues slide together. his palm is hot against your waist. the other squeezes your ass harder, encouraging you to grind down on his cock.
Jungkook pulls back to tug your top up. You lift your arms for him and he yanks it off. His eyes drop to your chest and his dick twitches at the sight of you wearing his new design.
He curses deeply as his eyes darken the more he takes you in. “You planning to kill me, princess?”
Your breathless laugh quickly turns into a surprised gasp as Jungkook flips you over—caging you in with his arms like you're his prey.
His mouth finds your neck much rougher this time. marking across all over your throat and collarbones.
You squeak with a small laugh when he bites a little too roughly on your shoulder.
“Koo—!” you gasp, half-laughing, half-moaning.
Jungkook chuckles against your skin but doesn’t stop. He soothes the bite with his tongue while his hands slide up to squeeze over your covered breasts.
“You look so fucking good in my design,” he speaks with dripping need. “But I want it off soon.”
He palms your pussy roughly through your pants, pressing the heel of his hand against your clit. The pressure makes you jerk against him.
“jungkoo—” your voice already breaks.
He hums in satisfaction while kissing down your body. His lips trail open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, tongue dipping into your belly button before moving even lower. His fingers hook into the waistband of your pants and tug them down.
“Look at this mess,” he eyes the large wet patch soaking through your panties. He leans down to press a torturous kiss right over your aching pussy.
“Tell me how much you missed me, baby.”
You whimper desperately. “so much, kook... please… I missed you so much.”
Just as the words leave your mouth, Jungkook rips your panties down your legs before diving in immediately like a starved man.
The first long lick from your entrance to your clit makes you moan loudly. his tongue laps at your soaked folds before sucking your clit into his mouth. The metal of his piercing adds a delicious sensation sending shockwaves through your body with every flick.
Jungkook eats you like he’s addicted. pushing in his tongue inside you. your thighs shake around his head as his deep groans vibrate against your core.
your eyes suddenly drift to the side and rush of embarrassment hits you but this time it only makes you wetter.
you almost whine at the loss of his mouth when Jungkook pulls back with lips and chin glistening with your arousal.
He returns back with his camera, placing it in your hands and adjusting it so the lens faces him between your spread legs.
“Hold it steady for me,” he instructs you before settling back.
your hands tremble slightly as you grip the camera. your pussy clenches visibly under his gaze.
Jungkook smirks at your nervousness before diving back in. his mouth latches onto your pussy again with a new vigour.
He circles his tongue over your swollen clit slowly while he looks straight into the camera lens. and you make the mistake of looking down at the filthy scene. the sight only makes your pussy gush fresh slick onto his tongue.
You moan loudly, struggling to keep the camera steady. The pleasure is too intense as your arms start shaking.
Jungkook pulls back slightly before growling at you, “I told you to hold it steady, baby. I need good footage of me eating this pretty pussy.”
He slaps your thigh lightly as a teasing punishment before pushing two thick fingers inside you, curling instantly against your g-spot while his tongue flicks rapidly over your clit.
A few tears slip down your eyes.
“Kook— ahh— I can’t— fuck!”
“Yes you can,” he chuckles darkly against your fold.
As his fingers pump faster, your thighs tremble violently around his head. you’re barely able to keep the camera focused on him with the pleasure making your vision blur. your back arches sharply off the bed, pussy clenching hard around his fingers. Jungkook groans in satisfaction completely lost in your taste.
He laps at every drop of your release drinking you down greedily.
You try to close your legs.
“koo— too much—”
Jungkook lets out an almost angry groan against your pussy and forcefully spreads your legs wider. his mouth continues making sure he gets every last drop.
Tears gather in the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure as broken moans keep spilling from your lips. Only when your body starts twitching hard does Jungkook finally pull back.
He places one last tender kiss on your sensitive clit before lifting his head.
He rises onto his knees between your spread legs and tugs his black tank top off before wiping his chin with it and tossing aside. You try focusing your teary eyes on him.
Jungkook takes the camera from your shaky hands and places it on the bed for a moment. He leans down to kiss you deeply.
“You good, baby?” he asks softly against your lips.
You hum weakly in response. your hands roam over his bare torso, feeling the hard ridges of his abs.
“You’ve gained more muscles…” you whisper out.
Jungkook hums darkly and you feel him flexing his body under your touch.
“You like it?” his eyes locks on yours.
You bite your lip and lean up to biting his jaw in response. “so much..”
Jungkook chuckles as his hands work to remove your bra leaving you completely bare for him. Jungkook’s hands are back on the camera as he sits on his heels between your legs and angles the lens towards your flushed face.
“Is this good, my love?”
You suddenly feel extremely exposed under the camera’s gaze. Your cheeks heat up instantly. You give him a weak nod unable to speak properly.
Jungkook’s expression softens with pure fondness while his eyes stay dark on you.
“You’re really shy about the camera, huh?”
He reaches out with his free hand and gently strokes your flushed cheek with his thumb then drags it to press against your bottom lip, slightly pulling it down.
“So cute,” he murmurs almost to himself.
Jungkook can't resist but place some loving pecks on your cheeks making you both giggle.
“Say hi to my vlog, baby,” he teases.
You whine shyly, trying to turn your face away. Jungkook breathes out a laugh before cupping one of your breasts, squeezing the soft flesh before his fingers find your already hardened nipple. He rolls it between his thumb and forefinger.
Your eyes flutter shut instinctively, teeth sinking into your lower lip to trap the moan threatening to spill out.
“Don’t hide those pretty eyes from me.”
You eyes lift to meet his intense stare, the moment you do—he brings his hand to his mouth spitting onto his fingers letting a generous amount of saliva coat them before returning his hand to your chest. He spreads the slickness over both buds, coating and tugging them between his wet fingers making your back arch off the bed.
Your legs squirm restlessly beneath him, thighs pressing together as fresh heat floods your core.
His eyes flick down between your legs, watching the way your pussy glistens under the light.
“You like how I ruin you, don’t you?” he rasps with dark satisfaction.
His thumb eventually leaves your nipple and slides up to your mouth. He presses the pad of it against your lips.
You part your lips as he pushes his thumb inside and immediately start sucking on it—swirling your tongue around the digit like you would his cock.
“So fucking greedy for me,” Jungkook hisses.
The sight of you sucking so eagerly on his thumb while your nipples are shiny and swollen from his spit has his cock throbbing painfully in his sweats.
Your eyes drift down his body to his bulge straining against his shorts.
with a needy whimper, you pull him down by his broad shoulders onto the bed. He lets out a surprised chuckle and you climb over him kissing down his body. Your lips press against his warm skin. You trail wet kisses over his chest, paying extra attention to the beautiful tattoos decorating his skin.
Your tongue traces the lines of his ink, tasting the faint salt of his sweat.
God, you wish you could mark him the way he marks you — leave dark hickeys and bite marks all over his perfect body for everyone to see. but for now, you make up for it by worshipping him with your mouth, determined to make him feel as good as he made you.
Jungkook’s free hand comes to rest in your hair as you move further down.
finally, you hook your fingers into the waistband of his shorts and tug them down impatiently. His cock springs free, slapping against his toned stomach. The pink tip glistens with precum.
You wrap your lips around the leaking head and suck, too impatient to tease him. Jungkook curses sharply. Your favourite musky taste of him explodes on your tongue and you moan louder around his cock.
You take him deeper right away, hollowing your cheeks as you bob your head, working the top half of his length with eager sounds.
Jungkook’s head falls back for a second, momentarily forgetting about the camera in his hand. But he quickly recovers, lifting it again and angling it perfectly to capture the sinful sight of his beautiful girlfriend sucking his cock so greedily.
“shit, baby.. look at you,” he groans. “always fucking hungry for my cock.”
His praises only makes you take him deeper until he hits the back of your throat.
Jungkook’s hand tightens in your hair guiding you as he pushes your head down a little more. The pressure makes you gag around him.
“that’s it.. fuck — just like that,” his abs clenching as he watches you through the camera. “my good girl. looking so pretty crying on my cock.”
He starts to thrust up gently, fucking into your warm mouth.
your tears mix with the spit dripping from your chin onto his balls but you don’t stop — you can’t. You want all of him.
Jungkook’s cock twitches in your mouth, the veins pulsing against your tongue. you can feel him getting dangerously close.
but he pulls your head back firmly. a thick string of spit connects your swollen lips to the shiny head of his cock as you gasp for air.
“I need to feel you, baby.. get up here.”
You don’t need to be told twice. while he quickly reaches over and places the camera on the nightstand beside the bed, angling it perfectly to capture both of you, you're already climbing over him.
Your hand wraps around his spit-slick cock, stroking him once before you sink on him. you both moan in unison. Jungkook hisses through gritted teeth biting onto your shoulder.
you whimper, feeling every thick inch stretch you open. He’s so big — always so fucking big that it burns in the most delicious way.
Impatience and pure need take over as you start bouncing on his cock with a desperate rhythm. The slick smack of your soaked pussy taking his cock over and over fills the room.
He pulls you down harder against him, pressing your chests together until your bodies are completely stuck — skin against sweaty skin, your hard nipples rubbing against his chest.
“Give me a kiss.”
You lean in messily, crashing your mouth onto his. moans spill into each other’s mouths. Jungkook thrusts up hard from below, meeting your bounces with powerful strokes that make you cry out into the kiss.
He fucks you like that, reaching you so deep while you ride him like you’re starved for his cock.
Jungkook’s hands slide down to grip your ass, spreading your cheeks as he helps you bounce harder.
He bites into your bottom lip.
“My beautiful baby.. keep riding my cock, princess.”
You clench hard around him, a loud broken moan ripping from your throat as another wave of pleasure crashes through you. The way he’s stretching you and filling you so perfectly just makes your mind go hazy.
Jungkook growls at the feeling and he flips you over with ease. your back hits the mattress before your boyfriend intertwines your fingers and resumes with his rough thrusts.
Your legs wrap weakly around his narrow waist trying to pull him even deeper.
“This pussy is made for me. You are made for me... only for me.”
Your heels dig into his back as he fucks you straight into oblivion.
Jungkook swallows every single moan that spills from your lips. His tongue dominating yours while he rails you into the mattress.
“Tell me, baby,” he demands hotly. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“You, Kook—” you sob. “Only for you... only yours—”
“That’s right.”
Your nails dig desperately into the back of his hands. His free hand slides between your bodies finding your swollen clit.
Your eyes roll back as you fall apart again. Your pussy throbs with creamy arousal gushing around his length with a broken scream of his name.
His thrusts become more erratic as he chases his high.
Jungkook blindly reaches for the camera with one hand angling it down at your stomach.
“Fuck.. look at that." He presses his free hand over the bulge in your lower belly feeling his own cock moving inside you. “So pretty, baby. so fucking pretty with my cock inside you.”
He records himself sliding in and out of you slowly glistening with your arousal.
The overstimulation makes you whimper and squirm heavily underneath him. only then does he finally pull out of you.
He kneels between your spread thighs, wrapping his hand around his cock. He strokes himself roughly eyes locked on your fucked-out face.
with a husky groan thick ropes of his warm cum shoot across your stomach and tits — painting your skin in sticky white.
You barely have time to process the filthy sight while Jungkook films himself dragging the swollen head of his cock through his own release, spreading it messily over your skin.
He rubs his cum into your nipple and across your belly — dipping the tip of his cock between your sensitive folds to smear some over your clit.
You watch him with hazy eyes and a heaving chest.
Sometimes you forget just how nasty your boyfriend can really be.
“Such a pretty canvas." Jungkook finally looks up at you through the camera lens with a wild smirk.
Hating the armies that are on socials like "only old army will understand why-" girl stop gatekeeping. Im a 2015 army and if I know something and you dont if you are newer, I'll tell you.
summary. jungkook gets irritated, says something he doesn’t mean, and spends the next twenty minutes pretending he doesn’t care that you’re upset. unfortunately for him, he’s physically incapable of staying away from you for too long.
pairing. boyfriend!jungkook x fem!reader
content / warnings. arguing, fluff/comfort, pouty jk, lots of touching, soft domestic vibes, clingy jungkook agenda, no toxic behavior, no y/n, one forehead kiss that changes lives
w.c. 2.9k
a/n: GUYS I NEED TO LEARN HOW TO FORMAT IMAGESSSS anyways please enjoy and show this fic some lovee
“You’re not even listening to me.”
“I am listening.”
“No, Jungkook, you’re nodding and saying ‘mhm’ every five seconds.”
Another distracted “mhm” left him immediately after.
You stared at him in disbelief.
He sat cross-legged on the couch with his laptop balanced against one thigh, brows furrowed in concentration while editing something for work. The glow from the screen reflected against his face softly, highlighting the small pout sitting naturally on his lips.
Pretty.
Annoyingly pretty considering he was irritating you right now.
“See?” you snapped. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
That finally got his attention.
Jungkook blinked up at you slowly before pushing his headphones down around his neck.
“What?”
Your mouth fell open.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I literally asked what happened.”
“Because you haven’t heard a single thing I’ve said for the past ten minutes!”
He frowned immediately.
“I heard you.”
“Okay then,” you crossed your arms, “what was I talking about?”
Silence.
Jungkook’s eyes darted briefly away from yours.
“…your friend?”
You laughed once.
Not happily.
“Oh my god.”
“Baby—”
“No, it’s fine.”
That phrase again.
The one that never actually meant fine.
Jungkook sighed quietly, shutting his laptop halfway. “I’m working.”
“And I know that,” you replied frustratedly. “But you could at least pretend to care while I’m talking to you.”
“I do care.”
“Then act like it.”
The apartment went quiet after that.
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
Your tea sat forgotten on the coffee table.
Jungkook rubbed tiredly at his eyes before leaning back against the couch cushions.
Normally he would’ve reached for you already.
Normally the second your tone changed, his hands would find your waist automatically, pulling you between his legs until you softened.
Not this time.
“I’ve had the worst day,” he muttered, irritation slipping into his voice finally. “Can we not fight right now?”
Your frustration cracked immediately into hurt.
“I wasn’t trying to fight with you.”
“Well, it feels like it.”
The words came out sharper than he intended.
You could tell instantly by the way his expression changed afterwards.
But instead of apologizing, Jungkook only sighed again and dragged a hand through his hair tiredly.
And somehow that made it worse.
Because it felt dismissive.
Like your feelings were just another thing exhausting him tonight.
You grabbed your phone from beside you quickly before standing up from the couch.
“Forget it.”
Jungkook looked up immediately. “Where are you going?”
“To the bedroom.”
“Why?”
You blinked at him.
“Seriously?”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like I committed a crime because I’m tired.”
Your chest tightened.
“I’m acting like my boyfriend ignored me all night.”
“I’m sitting right here.”
“Physically, yes.”
Wrong answer.
Jungkook’s expression hardened instantly, frustration flashing properly across his face now.
“You know what?” he muttered, pushing his laptop aside fully. “I don’t understand why everything has to become a whole thing.”
Your eyebrows lifted.
“A whole thing?”
“Yeah.” He stood up now too, running a hand over the back of his neck. “I said I’m tired. I’ve been working since this morning. I just wanted one quiet night.”
The implication stung immediately.
“Oh,” you laughed softly. “So talking to me is exhausting now?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
Jungkook groaned quietly in frustration, turning away for a second before looking back at you again.
“You’re twisting my words.”
“And you’re being mean.”
That stopped him.
Only for a second.
But still.
His expression faltered slightly before irritation covered it again.
“I’m not being mean.”
“You kinda are.”
Silence stretched between you both after that.
Heavy.
Not screaming-match heavy.
Not relationship-ending heavy.
Just sad.
The kind of argument built from exhaustion and misunderstandings and two people loving each other while communicating terribly for twenty minutes straight.
You suddenly felt stupid for bringing anything up at all.
Jungkook looked tired.
You looked emotional.
Everything felt annoying now.
So instead of continuing the conversation, you shook your head once and stepped around the coffee table.
“Whatever,” you mumbled. “I’m gonna shower.”
You made it exactly three steps.
“Fine.”
The word came from behind you instantly.
Cold.
Short.
Irritated.
Your shoulders dropped.
You waited a second longer than necessary before continuing toward the hallway anyway.
One step.
Two.
Then—
“Seriously?”
You stopped walking again, annoyance flaring instantly.
“What now?”
Jungkook stood beside the couch with crossed arms now, watching you with a frustrated expression.
“You’re seriously just gonna walk away?”
You stared at him.
“You literally said fine.”
“Yeah because you keep doing this thing where you leave in the middle of conversations.”
“Because you’re being annoying!”
“And you’re dramatic!”
A shocked laugh escaped you immediately.
“Me?”
“Yes, you!”
“You started this!”
“No, you started this when you got mad over literally nothing.”
Your mouth fell open.
“Nothing?”
Jungkook ran both hands through his hair aggressively before exhaling hard through his nose.
“Okay, no, see— now I’m getting irritated again.”
“Again?”
“Yes, again.”
“You were already irritated!”
“I know!”
The silence afterwards almost felt ridiculous.
Both of you breathing hard.
Both annoyed.
Both stubborn.
Then suddenly Jungkook looked away first with a muttered curse under his breath.
Your anger softened immediately at the sight.
Because he looked less angry now and more… frustrated with himself.
His shoulders slumped slightly.
One hand rubbed across his mouth tiredly before falling back to his side.
You knew that look.
Jungkook got overwhelmed easily when emotions stacked too fast. Not angry-overwhelmed. Just mentally full. Like his thoughts all tangled together until he stopped knowing how to say things properly.
Still, you stayed quiet.
Letting him figure it out.
A few seconds passed before he finally sighed.
Then quietly—
“Come here.”
Your heart betrayed you instantly.
You hated how fast it melted whenever he said that.
Not demanding.
Not cold anymore.
Just soft and tired and very very Jungkook.
You looked at him carefully. “You’re still annoyed.”
“I know.”
“That wasn’t an apology.”
“I know.”
“Jungkook.”
Another sigh left him before he uncrossed his arms finally and held one hand out toward you instead.
Large hands.
Pretty veins.
Silver rings catching warm apartment light.
“Baby,” he muttered quietly. “Please come here before I say something stupid again.”
God.
That did it.
You crossed the room trying not to look too affected by him, but the second you got close enough, Jungkook grabbed your waist immediately and pulled you against his chest with enough force to make you stumble into him.
“There,” he murmured.
Like he could breathe again now.
Your hands instinctively landed against his chest to steady yourself while his arms wrapped tightly around your middle.
Warm.
Always warm.
“You’re clingy,” you mumbled weakly.
“Mhm.”
“And irritating.”
“Mhm.”
“And kinda mean.”
At that, his grip tightened slightly.
“Okay,” he admitted against your hair. “Maybe a little mean.”
“A little?”
He huffed out a tiny laugh finally.
“You were annoying me.”
You pulled back enough to stare at him incredulously.
“Oh my god?”
“What?” he asked defensively, though the corners of his mouth twitched slightly now. “You were.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“But you still came here.”
Unfortunately true.
Jungkook noticed your expression softening and instantly took advantage of it, nosing gently against your temple before hiding his face against your shoulder dramatically.
“I hate arguing with you,” he muttered.
“You literally started half of it.”
“I know.”
“You were in the wrong.”
Another quiet pause.
Then reluctantly—
“I know.”
Victory.
You tried not to smile too hard at finally hearing him admit it.
Jungkook noticed anyway.
“You’re feeling smug right now.”
“Because I won.”
“You’re lucky you’re cute.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “Excuse me?”
He finally looked at you properly again, expression softer now than it had been all night.
“You heard me.”
The tension between you dissolved completely after that.
Jungkook’s hands slid underneath the hem of your hoodie absentmindedly, warm palms flattening against your waist while he swayed both of you gently side to side.
Comfort habit.
One he did constantly without realizing.
“You hurt my feelings,” you admitted quietly after a minute.
His face dropped immediately.
Instant guilt.
“I know,” he whispered.
There it is.
Your Jungkook.
Not prideful enough to avoid accountability.
Not toxic.
Just a boy who got irritated and said things badly sometimes.
His thumbs rubbed slowly against your skin.
“I wasn’t trying to ignore you earlier,” he said softly. “My brain was just somewhere else.”
“You could’ve told me that.”
“Yeah.”
“You made me feel annoying.”
That one visibly hurt him.
His brows furrowed instantly before he leaned down slightly so your foreheads touched.
“You’re never annoying to me.”
Your chest squeezed painfully.
Even now, after arguing, his voice still sounded full of affection.
Like loving you came naturally even during ugly moments.
“I just get quiet when I’m stressed,” he admitted.
“I know.”
“And then you get upset because I get quiet.”
“Because I miss you.”
Something in his expression softened completely after that.
God.
He looked at you like you’d said something devastating.
Without another word, Jungkook lifted one hand to cup your cheek gently before kissing your forehead slowly.
One kiss.
Soft enough to feel like an apology.
“You have me,” he murmured quietly afterwards.
The sincerity in his voice made your eyes sting a little.
Even after arguments, he always came back to this.
To touch.
To closeness.
To you.
Like no amount of irritation could overpower his instinct to love you gently.
“You’re still sleeping in the bed tonight?” he asked after a moment.
You stared at him.
“Obviously?”
“Okay good.” He exhaled dramatically. “Because I was already planning how to convince you.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Jungkook smiled instantly at the sound, dimples appearing properly now.
“There she is.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“But you love me.”
Unfortunately.
Very unfortunately.
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