𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐌
pairing: jungkook x f!reader.
word count: 6k
content warnings: smut [MDNI], protected sex, dirty talk, oc’s a nightclub dancer.
a/n: hi! it’s niki here. 𐙚 to be honest, i don’t know if this will have a second part, but for now, i hope u enjoyed reading it. lots of love, muak. ≽^•⩊•^≼
summary: You dance beneath the harsh glow of neon lights, each movement a promise, each step a declaration of independence. Living on your own isn’t easy, and the money doesn’t always stretch far. But in the nightclub, you’ve found a place where you can truly be yourself, a place that makes you feel free.
Jungkook is everything you’ve learned to distrust. A music prodigy wrapped in luxury, carrying wealth, fame, and a smile that could melt anyone.
When his world collides with yours one fateful night, neither of you expects what happens next. He sees you, and in that moment, everything changes for both of you.
You fix your lipstick in a mirror that’s seen better days, the fluorescent light above buzzing like it’s got secrets to spill. Behind you, the dressing room hums with chatter, perfume clouds, and the sound of stilettos clacking against worn tile. Someone giggles. Someone curses. You barely hear it.
Your focus is razor-sharp. The crimson lipstick stains your mouth like a weapon. You’ve learned how to wear it like armor.
You step out onto the stage with the kind of confidence you’ve learned to fake until it feels real. The lights are dim and seductive, low purples and moody reds licking across your skin like silk. The air is thick with smoke and perfume, the scent of attention heavy in your lungs.
Love, I said real love…
The opening notes of Cherry drip through the speakers like slow, warm honey, and you feel it before the sound even reaches your ears. It wraps around you, slinks into your spine, and settles in your bones.
You don’t rush. You never rush.
Your fingers trail down your sides, slow and teasing, as your body moves to the rhythm, hips rolling in a lazy figure-eight that draws every gaze like gravity. You let your head fall back, exposing the column of your neck, lips parted just slightly. The music is a heartbeat beneath your skin, and you let it lead you, let it possess you.
A touch from your real love…
There’s a chair waiting center stage. You walk toward it with purpose, heels clicking against the glossy floor like a countdown. You turn your back to the crowd, lower yourself onto the seat like a whisper, and spread your legs just enough for the room to hold its breath.
Darlin’, darlin’, darlin’, I fall to pieces when I’m with you…
You run your hands up the inside of your thighs, slow and deliberate, eyes hooded as you look out into the sea of shadows.
And that’s when you feel him.
You don’t know how or why, but somehow, you know exactly where he is. Back corner. Booth. Dressed in black like sin dressed itself up to behave. His gaze is molten, quiet, and sharp enough to cut through the noise.
You tilt your head slightly, just enough for him to wonder if that glance was for him. And it was.
Still seated, you slide one leg over the arm of the chair, reclining like you belong to the stage, like the world should beg to touch you. Your hand slips up your torso, fingers brushing under your chest, and you arch into your own touch—not for them, not for the money—but because it reminds you this body is yours.
You move like liquid. Like smoke curling in the dark. The song coils tighter, and so do you, legs closing slowly, body shifting with sin-soaked grace. The chair groans beneath you as you lean forward, hands gripping the edges. You let your tongue touch your lip, let the lights catch the sheen on your skin.
And my cherries and wine, rosemary and thyme…
You drag the final steps out like a promise you don’t plan to keep, rising from the chair one last time and walking offstage as if you don’t notice the tension you leave behind.
The dressing room swallows you like a deep breath.
Backstage, the lights are too bright, and the air too still. You peel off your heels, stretch your legs, and lean back against the wall, still in your performance set, still buzzing from the stage. Sweat clings to your skin, the lace of your top damp where it hugs your ribs. You don’t care. That was one of your best sets in weeks, and you felt it.
You think about him. Dark eyes. That stare. The way his presence reached you from across the club like heat from a flame.
You try not to let it linger. You’ve got other things to focus on. Rent, groceries, getting home without your ankle giving out. But even as you wipe off your lipstick and slip into your hoodie, he’s still there, in the corner of your thoughts, in the imprint of his gaze.
Time skips forward.
It’s late now, the club is closing, the night air bites at your skin as you step outside, the sounds of the city soft in your ears. You wrap your hoodie tighter around you, your little backpack slung over one shoulder, heels hanging from your fingers.
The sidewalk is mostly empty. Most of the crowd has already scattered into cabs and Ubers, high on alcohol and neon. You’re about to head for the subway when you see him.
Leaning against a sleek black car parked across the street. Hands in his pockets. Still in that same all-black outfit, like he never left.
His eyes meet yours, and this time, he smiles.
You slow your steps, unsure for just a moment if you should keep walking. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
There’s a quiet confidence in it, something that tells you he’s not used to chasing, but he will, if he has to. You step off the curb and cross the street.
“Were you waiting for someone?” you ask, voice calm, curious. You keep your distance, but not too much, just enough to test the air between you.
His gaze flicks down, then back up. “I wasn’t sure,” he says. “I thought maybe I imagined you.”
You tilt your head, trying not to smirk. “You didn’t.”
“Didn’t think so.”
The night hums around you. He still hasn’t told you his name.
“Jungkook,” he says, like he felt the thought leave your mind.
You nod. “You always wait outside clubs for dancers?”
He chuckles. “First time. I guess I got lucky.”
You narrow your eyes slightly, intrigued. “You don’t seem like the type to come here.”
“I’m not.” He leans back against the car a little more. “My friends dragged me. Said it would be good to get out, I didn’t argue.”
“And now you’re here. Still.”
“And now I’m here,” he repeats, like it means something. “What about you? You always leave looking like that and walk straight into the night?”
You shrug, shifting your heels in your grip. “This is me after work. You should see me at rock bottom.”
He laughs again, and this time, it’s genuine. It crinkles the corners of his eyes. “I don’t think you have a rock bottom.”
You glance at him. His jawline sharp in the streetlight, earring catching the glow, one hand dragging through his hair like he’s trying to stay cool. He’s not trying to impress you, he’s just interested, and that’s dangerous.
You’ve learned to be careful with men who have everything.
“You should go home,” you say eventually. “It’s late.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, but makes no move. “You got someone waiting on you?”
The question is light, but loaded. You smile, tired. “No. Just bills.”
He nods, eyes flicking down to your heels again. “Want a ride?”
“No thanks,” you say, not unkindly. “If you’re smart, you won’t wait for anyone who dances like I do.”
He raises a brow. “Why’s that?”
You hold his stare. “Because girls like me don’t lead you anywhere safe.”
The moment hangs, then you walk past him, brushing lightly against his sleeve.
He turns as you go. Watches you disappear into the night with that same look he wore in the club, like he’s still trying to figure you out.
The walls of your apartment are thin, not just the kind of thin where you can hear neighbors argue, the kind where it feels like your life could split down the middle if you breathe too hard. You’ve been here six months, and it still doesn’t feel like home.
You’re curled up on your couch, a cup of instant coffee in one hand and your phone in the other, the glow of your banking app reflecting off your tired eyes. The numbers glare at you, mock you. Rent’s due in four days.
You have almost enough. Almost enough to cover bills, almost enough to maybe buy some groceries, almost enough to keep pretending this version of your life isn’t eating you from the inside out.
You rub your thumb over the screen. Your feet aches from hours in heels. Your shoulders are sore. You’ve got another shift tonight.
And still, it’s not enough.
You let your head fall back against the couch. Maybe if you picked up more shifts, maybe if you danced dirtier, maybe if you finally said yes to that older guy who keeps asking for a private show.
You hate thinking like that. But sometimes, surviving means doing things you swore you wouldn’t.
You glance over at your worn-out calendar taped to the wall, two more weeks until your second job pays out, until then, it’s late nights and glittered skin, making magic onstage for strangers who toss money without ever seeing you.
Well… except for one.
You blink that thought away like it’s dust in your eyes. He was just another rich man with too much time and not enough boundaries. He looked at you like he was curious, like you were a mystery, you’ve seen that before.
You set the coffee down, pull your knees up to your chest, and try to breathe through the pressure closing in behind your ribs.
You’ll figure it out. You always do. But damn, you’re tired of surviving.
The club is already breathing heavy when you arrive. Bass pounding through the walls, lights spilling onto velvet floors, bodies moving like shadows in a fever dream.
Your locker’s waiting. So is your routine. But before you can even make it down the hallway, a familiar voice calls after you.
“Got something interesting for you, sweetheart.”
You turn around. Your manager, Dean, is grinning like he knows a secret. You arch a brow. “If it’s another pair of fishnets, I’ll scream.”
He chuckles. “Better. Or worse, depending on how you see it.”
You follow him back to the dressing room, your curiosity sharp. He gestures toward your station, where a black velvet box sits, untouched and elegant, like it doesn’t belong in a place like this.
“What is it?” you ask slowly.
He shrugs. “Open it and see.”
You hesitate. Nothing good comes wrapped like that. Not in this world. Still, your fingers move before your mind can catch up. The lid lifts, and your breath catches.
A choker. Thin, intricate, red velvet lined with diamonds, tiny but real. You can tell by the glint under the lights, it’s delicate and rich and dangerous, it’s the kind of thing worn by women who know they’re being desired.
Dean crosses his arms. “You gonna wear it?”
You close the box. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“On who gave it to me.”
He gives you a sly smirk. “Then you might want to take a peek at the lounge.”
Your pulse stumbles. You step out of the room, shoes silent against the carpet now, and look.
He’s there, again. In the far booth. Casually lounging like he’s part of the decor. Black slacks, a fitted shirt rolled at the sleeves, rings glinting on his fingers, one ankle crossed over the other. A drink in front of him, untouched. His eyes already locked on yours.
A smile curves across his lips, you stare back for a second too long, heat crawling up your spine. Then you disappear back into the dressing room. You don’t say a word to Dean, you don’t explain. You just take the choker out of the box and fasten it around your neck.
You change into your outfit for the night, a deep crimson bodysuit, sheer panels that show just enough, long sleeves that hug your arms, heels that add an edge to every step. You keep the choker on.
He gave it to you, and you want him to see it.
The night starts slowly, but you can feel him there. Watching from his booth, nursing that drink he hasn’t touched. You dance for others, smile for them, let them fantasize for the length of a song. But the only eyes that matter tonight are his.
You pass his booth once, on your way to the bar. His fingers tap against the glass lazily, but his gaze trails down the line of your legs, lingers on your throat—on the choker.
“You wore it,” he says lowly as you pass.
You don’t stop walking. Just smile over your shoulder. “It matched the mood.”
He chuckles behind you. The kind of laugh you feel in your stomach.
Later, as the night starts to wind down and the crowd thins, you find him standing at the bar, no entourage or noise, just him. He’s been patient. But his eyes are hungry now.
“Have dinner with me tonight,” he says, voice dipped in velvet.
You lean against the bar beside him. Close, but not quite touching. “That’s bold.”
He shrugs. “I’m not good at pretending I don’t want something.”
Your fingers toy with the edge of your glass. “And what do you want?”
“You.” The word drops between you like a spark. “But not like this,” he adds, eyes steady. “Not just in glimpses. I want to sit across from you and hear your voice when the music’s not drowning it out.”
You’re quiet for a moment, staring at him. It should be easy to say no. You’ve had men want more, want what they shouldn’t, but he’s not like them.
There’s no pressure in his words, and… something you haven’t seen in a long time. Something real.
You take a sip of your drink and finally smile. “Maybe.”
His lips twitch. “Maybe’s a good start.”
Your shift ends later than you’d like. The night stretched long with sweaty bills tucked into your thighs and too many hands reaching for a version of you they’ll never truly get. But all you could think about was that choker on your neck… and the way he looked at you like you were the only person who mattered in the whole damn room.
“Goodnight, baby,” one of the girls purrs, already halfway out the door, heels swinging in hand.
You nod, half-dazed. The rush has faded, but your heart still beats fast, because it’s not over yet.
You head back into the dressing room, peeling off the crimson bodysuit, watching your reflection in the mirror as your skin shimmers faintly with leftover stage light.
You change slowly. A black dress that hugs your hips and dips just enough at the front to make your pulse jump. Strappy heels. Clean skin, the faintest trace of perfume behind your ears, and the choker stays on. Of course it does.
Outside, the city is humming. Night air kisses your skin with a bite, but you barely notice, because he’s there.
Leaning against the side of his car, hands in his pockets, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the ink on his arms. His hair is messy in that way that looks styled on purpose, and his gaze is already locked on you the second you step into view.
He doesn’t say a word at first, he just looks at you. From the choker down to your dress, down your legs, then back up again, slower.
You walk toward him, your heels soft against the pavement, lips curved. “Thought maybe meant maybe,” you tease, stopping just a breath away.
He smiles. “You don’t dress like a maybe.”
You tilt your head, heart racing. “You always this smug?”
“Only when it works.”
You laugh, shaking your head, but there’s no denying the heat between you.
He opens the passenger door without a word, and you slip inside, the choker catching the light as you move. It’s quiet in the car, just the pulse of the city and the rustle of your dress as you cross your legs.
Jungkook slides into the driver’s seat and glances at you sideways, eyes dark with something wicked and wondering.
“You look like trouble,” he says.
You smile slowly. “So do you.”
The restaurant is drenched in luxury. Everything glows with a low, golden hue that makes every table feel like a secret. Crystal glasses, flickering candles, linen napkins folded with mathematical precision. It smells like money in here. Old money. And for a moment, you feel like you’re wearing someone else’s skin.
Jungkook walks like he belongs here. He thanks the hostess with a nod, hand resting lightly at the small of your back as she leads you to a booth tucked into the curve of the wall. It’s intimate, shadowed. You slide in across from him, trying not to feel small, or out of place.
When the menus come, you pick yours up slowly. It’s black leather, the font too elegant to be readable at a glance. Your eyes trail down the list, and your heart drops with every number beside every name.
₩92,000 for an entrée. ₩160,000 for a bottle of wine.
Even if it’s not your money, the guilt creeps in. You should be focused on the rent due in four days, not sitting across from a man who smells like spice and sin, making you forget you’ve been scraping coins out of your coat pockets all week.
He notices the way your fingers still against the page. “Hey,” he says, voice smooth and quiet, but pointed. “Order whatever you want.”
You glance up. “I— It’s just…”
“I know,” he interrupts, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But you don’t have to worry about that. Not tonight.”
You hesitate. He leans forward, tattooed fingers wrapping around the stem of his wine glass. “If I bring you somewhere, it means I want you there. Let me have that.”
You feel the breath catch in your throat, because it sounds so simple when he says it. Like indulgence isn’t dangerous. Like pleasure isn’t a slippery slope.
But deep down, guilt bubbles beneath the surface. You should be thinking about the bills piling up in your tiny apartment, you should be clocking into your next shift, counting tips, wondering if you’ll make it.
Instead, you’re here. Wrapped in silk, lips glossed, his choker still hugging your neck, letting a man like him treat you like you’re worth more than what the world ever gave you.
You close the menu slowly, trying to keep your voice steady. “You really are impossible.”
He grins. “That’s not a no.”
And it isn’t. Because no matter how hard your reality pulls, there’s something magnetic about the way he looks at you. Like you’re art. Like you’re a fucking storm.
The wine is deep and red, almost black in the low lighting, and you take the first sip slower than you mean to. It’s sweet, rich, the kind of expensive you’d never order on your own. You glance over your glass at him, lips still wet from the drink, and find him already watching you.
“What?” you ask, setting the glass down with a soft clink.
He rests his cheek against his hand, rings catching the candlelight. “Nothing. Just trying to figure you out.”
You raise a brow. “Good luck with that.”
“I like a challenge.”
You laugh, softly. But beneath it, there’s a hum of something warmer. Something that cuts deeper than playful banter.
“Why me?” you ask before you can stop yourself. The question slips out too honestly, too bare. You hate that it does.
He blinks, then tilts his head like he’s surprised you even have to ask. “Because you walked like you weren’t afraid of being looked at,” he says. “And danced like no one ever saw you the way you wanted them to.”
God. That shouldn’t feel as raw as it does.
“I didn’t think you were watching that closely.”
“I wasn’t watching,” he says, voice lower now. “I was caught.”
You stare at him for a beat too long, your heart hammering in your ears. It shouldn’t get to you, but it does. You look away, your fingers tightening around your wine glass.
“I should be worrying about my rent,” you murmur, half to yourself, half to him. “Not sitting here with a guy who wears watches worth more than my entire apartment.”
He doesn’t laugh, he just looks at you, seriously this time. “Then let me be the exception.”
You meet his gaze again, and for once, he’s not cocky or teasing. He’s… sincere. Dangerous in a whole different way, and somehow, that’s worse. Because you can already feel yourself leaning in.
The car ride is quiet, but not calm.
Jungkook’s hand rests casually on the wheel, his other arm draped along the center console, fingers inches from your bare thigh. You’re still in the same dress, the one that felt powerful earlier, but now it feels tight, like your skin is stretched too thin. Too aware of him beside you. The scent of his cologne. The warmth of his voice still coiled inside you.
You glance at him once, but he’s already looking at the road, jaw tight. You know he wants to say something. You know you want to say something. But neither of you does.
When he pulls up to your apartment, the street is quiet. Your building stands there, small, a little worn down, but home. His engine idles. You reach for the door handle, but pause.
“I had a good time,” you say quietly.
He turns toward you, one arm still resting on the steering wheel. “I did too.”
You linger in that second, waiting for it to end, but it doesn’t. His eyes drop to your lips. His jaw ticks.
“Do you want to come in?” you ask, breath barely audible.
Jungkook doesn’t move for a second. But then, his voice comes low. “Are you sure?”
You nod, heart pounding. He kills the engine and gets out.
You leave the door to your apartment cracked behind you, and the moment he steps inside, he sees all of it. Your life in its smallest, truest form.
Shoes scattered by the door. An old mug on the table. A tiny couch barely big enough for one person to stretch out. This isn’t his world, but he doesn’t blink. He just looks at you.
You slip your shoes off quietly, walking toward the middle of the room, unsure what to do with your hands, your breath, your desire.
“You live alone,” he murmurs, eyes slowly sweeping the space.
“Yeah.”
He steps closer. “Doesn’t feel lonely?”
You shrug. “Sometimes. But it’s quiet. And it’s mine.”
He nods, but his gaze lingers on your lips again. He’s closer now, only a few inches separating your breath from his. And then, like it’s inevitable, you lean in.
Your lips brush his, just barely. You feel his breath stutter. His hands clench at his sides, like he’s holding back. But you’re done holding back.
You press your mouth to his, full this time, and he groans into it, like you’ve finally broken something he’s been trying to keep caged. His hands rise, one threading into your hair, the other gripping your waist.
Your back hits the wall, and he kisses you like it’s oxygen. His mouth moves over yours, tongue tasting, claiming. You gasp when his teeth catch your bottom lip. He swallows it down like a curse.
“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he whispers against your mouth, voice ragged.
You whimper, fingers clutching at his shirt, pulling him closer until there’s nothing between your bodies but heat.
“You want this?” he asks, lips ghosting along your jaw, down your throat.
“God, yes,” you breathe. “Please.”
And that’s all he needs. He lifts you easily, lips never leaving yours, and you wrap your legs around his waist, letting him carry you toward the bedroom, or hell, ‘cause you’d let him take you right there if he asked.
He carries you through the short hallway like it costs him nothing. One arm under your thighs, the other curled around your back, holding you like you weigh less than a thought. You feel the muscles in his chest flex against you, the soft drag of his breath near your neck, the beat of his pulse hammering through his skin.
You don’t tell him which door. He picks the right one anyway.
Your bedroom is small, barely more than a mattress pushed up against the wall and a rickety dresser, but it’s clean. It smells like you, soft perfume, maybe vanilla, and Jungkook freezes for a second in the doorway.
Like stepping into your space is suddenly more intimate than kissing you. But you’re already pulling him back in.
Your hands are in his hair, fingers tugging gently, tilting his head until you find his mouth again. He groans into the kiss, and this time, it’s needier, more frantic. His hands slide down your thighs as he sets you on the edge of the bed, and he doesn’t let you go, not for a second.
Your legs fall open for him instinctively. His body slots between them like he was made to fit there.
“You’re so—” he starts, but his voice breaks off in a low growl. His hand comes up, brushing hair from your face, then trails down your jaw, over your throat, and lower. “—fucking beautiful.”
You shiver at the rasp in his voice, the reverence tangled in the filth.
Your hands slide beneath his shirt, soft cotton stretched across a lean chest. He watches you as you push it up, exposing inch after inch of inked skin. His abs flex beneath your touch, and he hisses when your fingertips trace the lines between muscle and tattoo.
“You wanna touch me, baby?” he murmurs, voice like honey-drenched sin. “Then do it. Take what you want.”
And god, you do. You lift his shirt over his head, and he lets you, dropping it somewhere on the floor. Your hands roam his body like you’re trying to memorize it. His skin is warm, smooth, and covered in ink and heat.
“Take it off,” he whispers, fingertips brushing the strap of your dress. “Please.”
That please wrecks you. You slide the straps down slowly, teasingly, letting the silky fabric pool around your waist. You’re not wearing a bra, and Jungkook’s gaze drops like gravity’s pulling it.
“Fuck,” he says, almost reverently. His hands rise, hesitating just an inch from your chest.
“Touch me,” you whisper.
His palms cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they stiffen, until your hips shift restlessly beneath him. He kisses your chest slowly, tongue dragging, mouth worshipping. He trails kisses down your stomach, open-mouthed and warm, until he’s kneeling between your thighs, looking up at you like a man starving.
His hands trail up your legs. His thumbs stroke gently along the inside of your thighs, raising goosebumps with each inch.
He looks up at you from between your thighs, lips parted, eyes dark and blown out. “Lay back,” he says softly. “Let me taste you.”
You sink into the mattress, hair splayed around you, your breath already caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat. And when he slides your panties down your legs, leans in and kisses you there, slow and open-mouthed, like you’re something delicate and holy, you swear you feel it in your soul.
The first lick is gentle. Experimental. He watches your reaction as his tongue flicks once, then again, a little firmer. Your legs tremble. Your fingers twist into the sheets.
“Fuck,” you whisper.
He hums like he agrees. His mouth is warm, wet and perfect, tongue stroking with unhurried precision, lips sucking softly, gently. It’s not rushed, it’s thorough, like he’s learning you. Mapping the way your breath stutters when he drags the flat of his tongue up and flicks at the top. The way your hips buck when he moans against you, sending vibrations through your bones.
You’re soaked in seconds, your back arching, one hand covering your mouth and the other clutching his hair, grounding yourself to the only thing that matters right now.
“You taste so fucking good,” he murmurs, pulling back just long enough to speak, then licking a slow stripe that makes you whimper. “You want me to stop?”
You shake your head desperately. “Don’t you dare.”
That makes him grin, mouth shiny with you. “Didn’t plan to.”
And then he dives back in, more eager now, more relentless. His tongue works in tight, steady circles, and when he slips one finger inside you, it’s all too much.
You come with a gasp, legs shaking, voice breaking around his name. He keeps going until your hips jerk from oversensitivity, and even then, he kisses the inside of your thigh like a goodbye.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then rises to hover over you, gaze fixed on your face.
“You’re unreal,” he whispers, brushing hair from your cheek. “Do you know that?”
You shake your head, too breathless to speak, but your body tells the truth.
You pull him down to kiss you again, and this time, there’s nothing soft about it. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the taste of your mouth. Like he’s starving, but still somehow patient, hands braced on either side of your head, his body suspended over yours like he’s keeping himself in check.
He pulls back, staring at you. You drag your palms down his chest, and he watches you with hooded eyes, lips parted, breath heavy.
Then his hand cups your jaw. “I want you,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “But I’m not going inside you without a condom.”
You blink, your breath catching for an entirely different reason now.
God, even when he’s like this, cocky, dominant, eyes dark and body tense with want, he still thinks. He still respects you.
You nod, breathlessly. “Top drawer.”
He leans over you, muscles shifting beneath his inked skin as he slides it open and pulls out a condom. You’re still catching your breath, thighs slightly parted, watching him like he’s something out of a fever dream.
He stands. His eyes stay locked with yours as his fingers go to the front of his slacks, and your mouth runs dry when you hear the slow drag of his zipper.
He slides them down, unhurried, the material catching on the curve of his hips before pooling at his ankles. His black boxers cling to him, the outline of his cock so thick and perfect it makes your head spin.
When he hooks his thumbs in the waistband and pushes them down, your breath hitches.
He’s big. Hard. Veins prominent, tip flushed and glistening, his cock bobbing slightly as it’s freed.
He strokes himself once, just enough to make your thighs press together, and then rips the condom wrapper open between his teeth, a soft hiss escaping as he rolls it on with expert ease.
“Been dying to fuck you properly.”
And then he’s back, one hand braced on your hip, the other guiding himself to your entrance.
You’re still soaked, still aching from the way his tongue worshiped you minutes ago, and when he pushes in, your mouth falls open in a silent moan.
“Shit,” he groans. “You’re so tight…”
He gives you time to adjust. Every inch deeper comes with a slow grind of his hips, his lips brushing your neck, his breath warm against your collarbone.
And when he’s finally all the way in, bottomed out and still holding back, you swear you’ve never felt so full.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You nod, nails digging into his shoulders. “You can move.”
He starts slow. Each thrust is measured, his hips pressing into yours like he’s savoring the stretch, like he’s mapping out every gasp he can pull from you.
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper. His mouth finds your neck again, sucking softly, tongue dragging over your pulse.
“You feel so fucking good,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know.”
You moan, your hips arching into his, chasing more friction. But it’s not enough, not yet. He’s still holding back, still careful. Still too gentle.
“Jungkook,” you breathe, voice cracking.
He pulls back enough to look at you. “Yeah?”
Your eyes burn into his. “Don’t hold back. Please.”
There’s a flicker in his eyes, something primal that’s barely been caged.
“You sure?” His voice is lower now. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
You shake your head, breathless. “I need it.”
And that’s all it takes. He slams back into you, hard enough to make the headboard knock. He sets a rhythm that’s filthy and perfect, each thrust hitting a spot that makes your toes curl.
“God, you feel so fucking good,” he pants, driving into you with rough, perfect thrusts. “You’re taking me so well. Look at you.”
He catches your gaze, and your breath catches. You’re not sure if it’s the pace, or the way he sees you like this, but it’s too much, too good.
Your legs tremble, tightening around his waist, and you arch into him with a breathless cry.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he growls. “Let me hear you.”
You moan his name like a prayer and a curse, your body burning at the edges.
He leans down, mouth grazing your ear, voice rough silk. “Feel how deep I am, baby?” He grinds his hips, rolling them just right. “Right where you need me.”
You can’t even answer, only whimper, nails dragging across his back. He groans at that, dark and wrecked.
Then suddenly, he pulls out. You gasp, dazed and blinking up at him, but he’s already grabbing your waist and flipping you onto your stomach in one smooth motion.
“Up,” he commands, voice thick and ragged. “On your knees.”
You obey without thinking, and his hands immediately grab your hips, pulling you back until you feel his cock drag between your folds.
He gives you one slow thrust, then pulls back, teasing. “So fucking pretty,” he murmurs, sliding back in, this time hard and deep. “You’re dripping so much for me.”
He snaps his hips, and you cry out, bracing yourself as he fucks you from behind, rough and fast, a hand sliding around your throat as he pulls you back against him. His other hand slips between your legs, fingers finding your clit with ease.
“Come on,” he growls. “One more. I wanna feel you clench around me while I fuck you.”
You’re already so close. Your moans turn frantic, eyes fluttering as his fingers work you faster, his thrusts unrelenting.
“That’s it, baby. Let me ruin you.”
You come with a scream, your body shaking, thighs trembling. You collapse forward, but he doesn’t stop, rides you through it until your body’s boneless, twitching under him.
“Shit—” he groans, and with one final deep thrust, he spills inside the condom, body tensing over yours.
Silence follows, charged and intimate. You feel his weight shift slightly, one arm wrapping around your waist as he lowers both of you to the bed gently.
For a second, neither of you says a word. His breath is hot against your shoulder, lips brushing skin like an apology and a promise all at once.
“Come here,” he murmurs, pulling you to his chest.
You let him. Heart pounding, skin flushed, body aching in the best way. You don’t know what this is, what it’ll become, but tonight, you don’t care.
And in the quiet that follows, with his fingers stroking lazy circles into your spine and his breath steady beside yours, you realize, maybe for the first time in a long time, you feel safe.
Even if it’s just for tonight.