my fandoms: bts, star wars, the clone wars, the bad batch, star trek (tos, tng, ds9), shadow and bone, six of crows, the dark crystal, person of interest, once upon a time, michael jackson, harry potter, marvel, cobra kai, narnia, disney, pixar, good omens, doctor who, hazbin hotel, suits, portal, acotar (mostly critical tbh), kpop demon hunters, game of thrones, mcyt (vampires smp rn)
i mostly just reblog stuff that i like for whatever fandom i'm into at the moment, although i sometimes post opinions and fanfiction.
i will do my best to update consistently with any fanfiction i upload, but life sometimes gets in the way so i thank you in advance for your patience.
Jimin holding your's face so gently in the cradle of his palms and smattering kisses all over your pretty face until you're giggling and grinning wide
Jimin has this way of looking at you like he’s just… found something.
Not discovered—found. Like you were always meant to be his, and he’s still a little in awe that you are.
You’re sitting across from him, talking about something that probably matters—but the words start to blur when you notice his attention drifting. Not away from you.
Into you.
“Jimin?” you tilt your head. “You listening?”
“Mhm,” he hums, but he’s already leaning forward.
His hands come up before you can ask anything else—soft, warm, careful as they cup your face. His palms settle against your cheeks like you’re something precious, thumbs brushing just beneath your eyes.
“Stay still,” he murmurs.
You blink, caught off guard. “Why—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
The first kiss lands just under your eye.
Soft. Barely there.
Then another on your cheek.
Then your other cheek.
Your forehead.
The corner of your mouth.
“Jimin—” you try again, but it dissolves into a surprised laugh as he keeps going, his lips warm and quick and everywhere.
“Pretty,” he mumbles between kisses. “So pretty—”
“Stop—!” you giggle, squirming in his hold, but he just tightens his grip slightly—not enough to trap you, just enough to keep you right where he wants you.
“Can’t,” he says, smiling against your skin as he presses another kiss to your jaw. “You’re too cute.”
You laugh harder now, head tipping back slightly, but his hands follow you—always gentle, always guiding you back.
“Jimin, I can’t—” you gasp, breathless from laughing, your smile already aching.
“Yes, you can,” he teases softly, pressing a lingering kiss to your nose.
You scrunch it instinctively, which only makes him grin wider.
“There it is,” he murmurs, eyes crinkling. “That face.”
“What face?” you manage, still laughing.
“This one,” he says, thumbs brushing your cheeks as your smile stretches uncontrollably. “The one that makes me lose my mind a little.”
You shake your head, but you don’t pull away. You can’t—not when he’s holding you like this, like you’re something he never wants to let go of.
“Hopeless,” you mumble.
“For you?” he says easily. “Always.”
And then, softer this time, slower—he presses one more kiss to your lips.
Just one.
Lingering.
Warm.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his hands still cradling your face like they belong there.
You’re still smiling.
Still breathless.
And he just looks at you like he did at the start—
SUMMARY -> in which jungkook can’t resist his star student.
WORDS -> 6.8k (approx 30 min read time)
WARNINGS -> jungkook x female reader, unprotected sex, praise kink, age gap (if you squint), power imbalance (professor and student), slowburn, size kink, jungkook is kinda pathetic
now playing: silk lingerie, - kali uchis˚.⋆♪
epilogue
you had been a teacher’s pet since grade school.
all of that hard work got you into one of the most prestigious universities in your country. you were proud of your grades—the teachers and professors throughout your academic career were happy to give them to you.
professor jeon was nothing like any of them.
the first day, you showed up to class early and sat in the front (of course). you didn’t know what to expect. professor jeon was fresh meat, the newest professor in your school. no ratemyprofessors profile, no student horror stories, no face.
he fascinated you the moment he left his office and awkwardly stumbled into the lecture hall. you leaned in to take a closer look.
he was young, not that much older than you and heart achingly handsome. when his eyes met yours, a strange warmth coursed through your veins.
matters of the heart were foreign territory for you. yes, you had heard about your roommate’s various talking stages and hookups, but you never thought this would be anything like this. your heartbeat picked up. you couldn’t take your eyes off of him and he hadn’t even said a word.
he nearly dropped his laptop bag on the podium, fumbled with the hdmi cable to his slideshow, making the screen flash blue. he muttered an apology.
professor jeon cleared his throat, “um—hello. good morning. i’m professor jeon. jungkook. i mean—or dr. jeon. either is fine. not jungkook. not just—anyway.”
he laughed nervously.
silence.
you stared.
he ran his fingers through his jet black hair. “this is my first semester teaching. so, um. be gentle.”
the class laughed lightly.
you didn’t. you felt something shift in your chest. not authority, not intimidation.
but tenderness.
you were hooked.
art history became your favorite class. it met on tuesdays and thursdays from 5pm to 7pm. you heard your classmates complaining about how they were bored by the material, how the class was too long, but you just never understood why.
you could listen to professor jeon talk for an eternity. the way his eyes lit up when he saw a certain brush stroke. how he talked with his hands when he was excited. how he fumbled with his hdmi cord, always having problems with the connection before every class. you’d always get up to help him.
“you had the magic touch,” he said to you one day, “you always fix it.”
you replayed that moment in your head for days.
a week into the course, he announced a new resource for you all: homework videos. he filmed them weekly to explain core concepts.
“they’re probably unnecessary,” he said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “but i know the content can get…intense.”
you were the first one to watch the video the night it was uploaded.
he was in his office, books stacked behind him. he stumbled over terminology, corrected himself mid sentence, and laughed awkwardly.
“okay,” he said in the video, “that made no sense. let me start over.”
you rewinded that part three times. you didn’t need the help. you have a 100%.
but you watched every video. every week. the moment they drop. sometimes twice. sometimes to hear his voice.
you wondered if professor jeon had a wife. he was young, yes, but someone like him couldn’t be single. you imagined him with a woman, looking at her with the same brightness in his eyes he has when he talks about his favorite art pieces.
it made you sick.
you wanted to be that woman.
when he sent an email to your class about office hours, you knew you had to be there.
you didn’t have any questions. you just wanted to “clarify something.” he looked surprised to see you, like he expected no one to come.
“oh! hi. it’s you—um. front row? hdmi?” he ran his fingers through his hair.
“yes, professor.” you smiled.
he gestured to a chair, “everything okay with the reading?”
you nodded. “i just wanted to ask about the emotional framing of the baroque martyrdom.”
he blinked, just staring at you for a moment.
you swallowed.
“that’s… actually a really great question.”
you talked for thirty minutes.
you noticed him relaxing with you. he smelled like fresh laundry up close, which somehow felt more intoxicating than any cologne would.
by week three, you were there every monday. he started to expect you.
・・・・・
jungkook squinted as he reread your paper for the third time.
the subject does not desire possession. only closeness. only the warmth of standing near something luminous and being allowed to witness it.
he had that part circled since the first time he read it. something about it stuck with him in ways he couldn’t describe.
he knew educators weren’t supposed to have favorites, but if he was honest, he did and it was you. teaching at this university was a very impersonal experience and you were one of the only students he’s gotten to bond with. you were brilliant, your papers a delight to read. when you answered questions in class, he felt immense relief.
when he got excited to see you at office hours, he told himself it was because you were academically engaged.
not because you sat too close.
not because you smelled vanilla and paper.
not because of how your lip gloss caught the light.
and definitely not because he let his eyes wander to how your perfect legs would cross under your desk.
you were beautiful. that was a simple, undeniable fact.
office hours with you became the highlight of his week.
you really listened to him. chin resting on your palm, eyes steady on his mouth as he explained to you, brows knitting together ever so slightly.
“so, in caravaggio’s work, the light is meant to…”
you bit your lip in concentration. his brain short circuited.
he trailed off into silence, taking you in for a moment. heat crawled up his neck.
“dr. jeon?” you asked softly.
hearing his name come from your lips made his heart skip a beat. he ran his hands through his hair.
“yes, i’m sorry. i lost my train of thought. what was i saying?”
you blinked up at him so innocently, adjusting yourself in your seat. you somehow ended up closer to him, “the light reveals what the subject can’t say.”
“that’s right.”
he stared at you for half a second too long. you made him feel smart. seen. important when he was so afraid of being seen as incompetent.
one day, he checked your name on the gradebook out of pure curiosity. you had the highest average by far. you didn’t need office hours. yet you never missed them.
that night, he replayed his conversations with you.
the way you looked at him.
it’s not normal student interest. it’s softer. lingering. he swallowed.
you’re just enthusiastic, he told himself. but he knew what a crush looks like. he’s had them.
he disregarded that thought.
it was pathetic to think that someone like you wanted him. you were brilliant, beautiful, and had a bright future ahead of you. and most importantly you were his student.
he was awkward, and you probably thought he was incompetent but were too nice to show it. he was projecting.
but a part of him wished he wasn’t.
at office hours that week, you showed him a draft of an upcoming paper. he stood behind you, scanning it over your shoulder.
he leaned down slightly, his hand gingerly rested on your shoulder.
he could smell your coconut shampoo. he swallowed. his voice lowered subconsciously.
“this line stood out to me,” jungkook said. “the way you describe longing… it’s intense.”
you just nodded.
jungkook reread it.
the tragedy is not that he is distant. the tragedy is that he believes himself unworthy of being wanted.
something about that felt too personal.
he pushed it down.
you followed the prompt, right?
it’s art analysis.
you couldn’t be writing about him.
that night, he couldn’t get the sweet scent of your shampoo out of his mind.
when he finally got your paper in his hands on a late night in his apartment, he was very impressed. you were his star student, of course.
just his star student.
not the girl he counted down the days till he saw.
not the girl who made mondays his favorite day of the week.
not the girl who bit her lip when she was concentrating.
not the girl who made his body feel things he definitely shouldn’t.
just his student.
he loved reading your papers. your syntax was perfect and your analysis was refreshing. the prompt was about longing and devotion in the assigned piece. he wanted to see what you had to say.
but something was strange.
the cruelest irony is that he fears crossing a line that has already blurred.
his brows furrowed.
what did that mean?
it was a stretch to say it was relevant to the piece.
jungkook leaned back in his chair, the paper still in his hands.
he read the line again.
the cruelest irony is that he fears crossing a line that has already blurred.
his stomach dropped.
that wasn’t about a painting.
that wasn’t about some baroque martyr suspended in dramatic lighting.
that sounded like—
no.
he shook his head and scrubbed a hand down his face.
you were just good at this. you wrote with emotional precision. that’s all. you were perceptive. intense. maybe a little dramatic.
he kept reading.
the viewer aches not because he is unattainable, but because he cannot see what she sees when she looks at him.
his throat went dry.
she.
not the viewer. not the audience.
she.
jungkook’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the page.
it was probably stylistic. plenty of critics used gendered language. it didn’t mean anything.
he forced himself to keep going.
he stands illuminated before a room full of people and still insists he is ordinary. that is the greatest misunderstanding in the composition.
his chest felt tight.
illuminated before a room full of people.
standing in front of a room.
insisting he was ordinary.
he thought about the way he apologized during his first lecture. the way he said be gentle. the way you had looked at him like he wasn’t something fragile but something worth protecting.
his pulse started to thrum in his ears.
this is ridiculous, he told himself.
he is projecting.
he is lonely.
he is reading into things because he wants to.
she didn’t mean it like that.
but then—
he flipped back a page.
devotion often attaches itself not to grandeur, but to sincerity. to the quiet way he fumbles with cords before speaking. to the nervous laugh he cannot seem to outgrow.
his breath stuttered.
that wasn’t—
that couldn’t—
he actually dropped the paper this time, the soft rustle loud in his silent apartment.
fumbles with cords.
nervous laugh.
those were details.
not abstract traits.
details.
jungkook stood abruptly, pacing once across his small living room before running both hands through his hair.
no.
you wouldn’t.
you couldn’t.
you were brilliant. careful. disciplined. you followed prompts. you didn’t blur lines.
he was the one blurring them.
he was the one noticing how close you sat.
the one replaying your voice saying dr. jeon late at night.
the one counting down to mondays.
this had to be him reading what he wanted to read.
but when he picked the paper back up, his hands weren’t steady anymore.
the tragedy is not that he is distant. the tragedy is that he believes himself unworthy of being wanted.
his jaw clenched.
unworthy.
he had said that word before. not to you. never to you. but to himself. in the mirror. in quiet moments when imposter syndrome clawed at his ribs.
how could you possibly know that?
unless—
unless you were paying attention the same way he was.
unless when he thought you were just listening, you were seeing.
really seeing.
a slow heat crept up his neck, down his spine.
shock first.
then disbelief.
then something far more dangerous.
hope.
he sank back into his chair, staring at your name typed neatly at the top of the page.
you.
you with the highest average in his gradebook.
you who didn’t need office hours.
you who sat too close.
you who bit your lip when concentrating.
you who looked at him like he mattered.
how could someone like you—
want someone like him?
the thought made his head spin.
it was impossible.
and yet the evidence was sitting in his hands in twelve-point times new roman.
he pressed his thumb lightly over the line again.
fears crossing a line that has already blurred.
a line.
between what?
student and professor.
he inhaled sharply.
this was wrong.
this was dangerous.
he should shut it down immediately. draw a boundary. grade the paper objectively. pretend he never read between the lines.
but instead, he found himself wondering—
when you wrote he, were you picturing him?
when you wrote she, were you picturing yourself?
his heart hammered harder at the possibility.
that wasn’t academic curiosity.
that was desire.
he stood again, restless, pacing a second time.
this is inappropriate.
he is your professor.
you deserve better than his loneliness.
but the image of you at that desk, looking up at him with those wide, steady eyes, wouldn’t leave him.
what if he wasn’t imagining it?
what if you really—
he stopped that thought before it could fully form.
he dropped back into his chair and grabbed a red pen.
his hand hovered over the top of the page.
for a long moment, he didn’t write a grade.
instead, almost without thinking, he wrote:
see me after class.
he stared at the words.
his pulse thundered.
he had no idea what he was going to say to you.
he just knew he couldn’t keep pretending he didn’t see it anymore.
and he couldn’t keep pretending he didn’t want it to be true.
he dreamt about you that night.
・・・・・
see me after class.
your heart dropped. as you reread the line on top your paper.
no grade. just that written in red pen.
what could he mean? professor jeon loved to read your papers. he told you that it was a delight to grade them.
you had tailored your writing style to fit his tastes. to get the praise and approval from him that you grew to crave. the thought of him suddenly disapproving was heartbreaking.
you knew you couldn’t have him, but at least you had his professional admiration.
did you just lose that too?
that class was the first to feel slow.
professor jeon avoided eye contact with you, directing his attention away from the front row for the whole two hours. he called on other students, and pretended as if you weren’t there.
you were addicted to his attention, and you could feel the withdrawals.
when class finally ended, you stayed in your seat, looking over your notes as everyone else filed out of the lecture hall.
he closed the door behind the last student and locked it.
you swallowed.
“professor, i—“
“one moment please,” his tone was colder than normal as he tidied up his podium and approached you.
you were silent, your heart pounding in your chest.
“i wanted to talk about your essay,” he went to sit in the chair next to you.
you looked down, fiddling with the hem of your skirt, “is it… inappropriate?” you were quieter than you wanted to be.
“no,” he said. you felts his eyes boring into you but you refused to look up. “just… very honest.”
the silence stretched.
“you write longing like you understand it intimately.”
that was when you looked up, meeting his searching eyes. your breath trembled.
“maybe i do.”
you had no idea why you said that. he slid closer. “is there… someone you’re writing about?” his eyes softened.
you couldn’t lie to him. “yes.”
his head tilted, “does he know?”
you studied his face. his skin was perfect, free from blemishes that you’d normally see from someone this close. his thin rimmed glasses slightly slipped down his face and framed his beautiful brown eyes.
you still couldn’t lie to him.
“i think he does now.”
the silence was suffocating.
your heart is slamming against your chest. heat crawled up your neck. he could probably see the slight blush on your cheeks.
professor jeon nervously laughed the way he does when he mixed up his words or lost his train of thought.
you could hear the disbelief in his voice, “you’re… you’re brilliant.” he ran a hand through his hair, “you could have anyone.”
you leaned in, “i don’t want anyone.”
he slid closer.
“why me?”
his voice was raw, honest. his professor persona was gone, replaced with something softer.
“you look at me like i matter.”
that was his undoing.
he had never been the object of someone’s longing.
he was always replaceable. invisible. occasionally admired for his usefulness.
and here you were—beautiful, bright, the top of his class, looking at him like he was sacred.
something snapped.
“this is a terrible idea,” he whispered.
“tell me to leave.”
he couldn’t.
his hand moved, almost involuntarily cupping your cheek.
it was soft against your cheek. you melted into the touch.
he inhaled sharply.
you kissed him first.
soft, uncertain. he froze for a moment, shocked.
he caved.
he kissed you back, hands hovering over your waist. it was clumsy. breathless. desperate. you pulled away, stunned. he stared at you like he just jumped off of a cliff.
“w-we can’t do this,” he muttered.
you grabbed his hands, guiding them onto his hips.
“then stop.”
he doesn’t.
you climbed on top of him, hips bracketing his.
he kissed you this time. deeper, slower, memorizing. it was overwhelming for the both of you. you had never been wanted like this.
then reality slammed back in.
you were on campus. the door was unlocked. the building was probably empty, this was a night class, but it wasn’t empty enough. if anyone saw you, he would be fired and your scholarship would be in jeopardy.
the risk seemed to process in his head as well. you climbed off of him, expecting him to push you away.
instead, he said, “we have to get out of here.”
we.
・・・・・
this was idiotic and jungkook knew it.
you walked out of the lecture hall first, and he set a five minute timer to leave after you.
you met him in the empty faculty parking lot. the air was cool, the sky was dim. he unlocked his car with shaking hands.
this was insane.
you got in the car anyways.
the moment the door shut behind you, he looked at you.
then it all started over. you gave him a kiss before buckling your seatbelt. it was urgent. his hands framed your face like he couldn’t believe you were real. he pulled back, starting his car.
he was grateful his apartment was clean when you walked in. you stepped inside like it was sacred ground. he closed the door, locked it, and shut the blinds.
he just stared at you, nervously standing in his living room.
“you deserve someone better,” he blurted, breaking the silence.
it wasn’t modesty. it was insecurity.
“i don’t want better. i want you.” you said matter of factly.
he sat on the couch. you climbed on top of him again, gingerly positioning your clothed heat on top of his crotch. his hands hovered over your hips.
“can i?”
you nodded. his hands rested on your hips, rubbing light circles that made you melt further into him. he kissed your again, his tongue curling with yours as your hips began to subconsciously rock into his. he didn’t stop it.
jungkook hadn’t done anything like this since he was in grad school, your touch making him realize how starved he’s been. he shuddered as your hips found a rhythm grinding against him.
he tilted your chin up, trying to to deepen the kiss. you did your best to keep up, and he pulled back.
he pulled back, cupping your face. “relax,” he whispered, “let me.”
and when he kissed you again, you obeyed, melting under him as you let him take control of the kiss. he smiled into it.
you were always such a good listener.
your hips began to rut into him faster and faster, clearly chasing something you didn’t fully understand. he noticed your movements were clumsy, uncoordinated, a coil tightening in your stomach that needed release.
his hands tensed on your hips, stilling you.
“easy,” he murmured, “let me help you.”
his fingers slid down, slowly inching underneath your skirt. “can i?”
you nodded, breathless. his knuckles brushed against your panties. you gasped, leaning into the touch.
“so responsive,” he made eye contact with you. “has anyone touched you here before?”
you shook your head, unable to form words. a possessive rush ran down his spine.
he slipped his hand into your panties, finding you soaked and swollen. you cried into the touch, hips bucking against his hand.
“shhh,” he soothed, his other hand coming to cup the back of your neck, “i’ve got you, just feel.”
his fingers explored you slowly, deliberately. he watched every expression that crossed your face, cataloging your responses like he studied art. when his thumb softly massaged your clit, you whimpered and tried to grind against his hand again.
“p-professor…”
he slowed down, cupping your cheek. “look at me,” he coaxed.
you obeyed immediately.
“can you call me by my first name here?” he asked, thumb rubbing circles into your cheek.
it felt wrong to you to call your professor by his first name. he was someone of greater knowledge. someone older. someone to respect.
someone with his hand in your panties as you sat in his lap.
the way he studied you melted your heart. he stared at you with a reverence that you never thought you would receive.
you couldn’t say no to him.
“j-jungkook,” you whispered.
he felt himself twitch in his pants. something about the way it rolled off your tongue had him dizzy.
he cursed under his breath. “again, please baby.” he asked with pleading eyes.
that nickname made you shudder. you obeyed, “jungkook.”
jungkook gave you a quick kiss, “good girl. just my name. only my name.”
the praise was addictive.
he circled your clit with his thumb while sliding one finger inside you. you clenched around him instinctively, your body reacting to the foreign intrusion. the sensation made you whimper.
“baby…” he rested his forehead against yours, “you’re so perfect for me.”
you whined.
something in him snapped. he added another finger, pumping them in and out and stretching you while he rubbed circles on your clit. his doe eyes stared down at you.
his bottom lip trembled. “i can’t believe i let you sit in my office hours for weeks and didn’t know you wanted this. i-i tried my best to not look at you,” he rambled between open mouthed kisses to your cheek and her jaw, “you’ve always been so good to me… so sweet. i could’ve had you so much sooner.”
you gasped as he found the sweet spot on your neck. he took a moment to suck and nibble on it. “if i tried to touch you like this right in that lecture hall, you probably would’ve let me… just spread your legs and let me take what i wanted, right? because you want this as bad as i do, right?”
you bit back a moan and nodded as the pace of his fingers picked up. the combination of the fingers and the pressure on your clit was overwhelming. your breath came out in short pants.
you came with cry, your body shaking as waves of pleasure washed over you. jungkook held you through it, his movements slowing as you rode out your orgasm.
when you finally gathered yourself, you were slumped against him, your face buried in his neck. you could feel his hardness pressing against you through his slacks. he removed his fingers, the loss making you whine.
you had never experienced anything like that before.
“did you like it?” he asked, his voice rough.
you were still staring at your lap, overwhelmed. he tilted your chin up with his finger.
“eyes up,” he corrected softly.
you looked up at him with wide, yielding eyes. he wanted to devour you. he wanted to rip all of your clothes off, bend you over on the couch, and take you over, and over, and over until you couldn’t walk. until the only thing you could say was his name. you were so eager to please that you probably would’ve let him.
but you didn’t deserve that. you deserved something sweet and slow.
he smiled at you, “we’re not done yet.”
he lifted you effortlessly, body going limp in his arms as you clung to his shoulders. you were in a daze and he could tell.
jungkook didn’t waste any time. he opened his bedroom door, kicking it shut behind him with his heel.
the first thing you noticed about the room was that it smelled like him—sandalwood and old books.
he laid you out on the bed like you were something precious, his soft mattress dipping under your weight. you stared up at the ceiling, your heart still hammering against your ribs, your skin tingling all over. your skirt rode up to your waist.
“look at you,” he murmured, “so pretty.”
he crawled onto the bed. your thighs spread instinctively. he noticed, grinning.
he positioned his head between your thighs, looking up at you as his fingers brushed your waistband.
“what are you doing?” you whispered.
he looked up at you, “can i taste you?”
your breath hitched, “…yes.”
he pulled off your skirt, unbuttoning your shirt and taking off your bra for good measure, leaving you only in your panties. he pulled back for a moment to take you in. you blushed.
he pulled your panties down slowly and tenderly, letting out a soft gasp as he saw the remnants of your orgasm slipped out of your panties and dripped down your thighs.
“oh baby,” he said, “you made a mess, didn’t you?”
you whimpered. it was music to his ears.
“it’s okay,” he coaxed, taking off his fogged up glasses and setting them on the nightstand. “i’ll clean you up.”
that was when he bent down and licked a stripe against your sensitive flesh. your thighs instinctively closed against the sides of his head. he moved his hands to rest on your knees.
“keep your legs open,” he commanded softly.
the second swipe made you cry out, back arching off the bed. he groaned, the sound going straight through your core, feeling that coil tighten all over again in your tummy.
“jungkook…” you whined, hands tangling in his hair.
“just relax,” he mumbled against you, vibrations sending shockwaves through your body. “let me take care of you.”
your back arched again, and he held your hips down. the restraint made you dizzy.
he was a starving man, and you were the feast. he ate you out with desperate, enthusiastic hunger, his nose nudging against your clit as he lapped at you. he didn't just want to please you—he wanted to consume you.
you were melting into the mattress, completely overwhelmed. you wanted to grind against his face, to chase the friction, but his hold forced you to stay still. you were his to use, his to taste. you let him do all the heavy lifting, letting his tongue and his hands do the work while you just surrendered to the sensation.
you whimpered. high, helpless, embarrassingly sweet. the praise, the quiet command, it unraveled you faster than you thought possible.
he could tell.
your breathing turned ragged and your stomach started fluttering again, he sealed his lips around your clit and sucked. it was soft at first, then with steady, pulsing pressure. your whole body locked up. a broken little sob tore out of your throat as the second orgasm crashed through you, sharper and deeper than the first.
he didn’t stop.
he licked you through every aftershock, slower now, almost tender, until your whimpers turned into soft, overwhelmed sniffles. only then did he finally pull back, lips glossy, cheeks flushed, pupils blown so wide the brown was nearly gone.
he crawled up your body carefully, caging you without crushing you. his forearms bracketed your head. you could smell yourself on his mouth, on his chin, and the realization made fresh heat bloom low in your belly.
jungkook looked… ruined.
his hair was a mess from your fingers, shirt half-unbuttoned, chest rising and falling too fast. he stared down at you like you were the most devastating thing he’d ever seen.
“you’re shaking,” he whispered, brushing your hair out of your face. his thumb traced your bottom lip. “was that too much?”
you shook your head immediately, eyes glassy. “n-no… it felt so good…”
his expression softened into something dangerously fond.
he kissed you then, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. you moaned quietly into his mouth, small hands clutching at his shoulders like you were afraid he’d disappear.
when he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice cracked.
“baby…” he swallowed hard. “can i… can I be inside you?”
your breath hitched.
the question hung between you, heavy and reverent.
you wanted to say yes. you did want to say yes. but the sudden rush of everything, body over yours, the damp heat still pulsing between your legs, the sheer size of him pressing against your thigh through his slacks—made your brain short-circuit.
you stared up at him with wide, dazed eyes. lips parted. no sound came out.
jungkook’s face fell the tiniest bit. misreading your silence as hesitation, he started to pull back.
“i’m sorry—i shouldn’t have—”
your hands grabbed his shirt before he could retreat.
he froze.
you didn’t speak, just looked at him—soft, overwhelmed, trusting—and slowly shook your head no. not no to him. no to him stopping.
understanding flickered across his face.
he exhaled shakily. “you want me to keep going?”
a tiny nod.
“but you’re… you’re not saying anything.”
another tiny nod. your cheeks burned. you liked this, seeing the normally composed, fumbling professor come apart. liked the way his voice was starting to shake.
jungkook dropped his forehead to your shoulder, breathing hard.
“you’re gonna kill me,” he muttered. then, quieter, almost broken: “please. sweetheart, please. i need to feel you. i need it so bad. i haven’t—fuck, i haven’t let myself have anyone since i was studying for my master’s. i buried myself in books and data and—and then you walked into my class and i… i can’t think straight anymore.”
his hips rolled once, involuntarily, grinding his clothed length against your soaked core. he groaned low in his throat.
“i’ll go slow. i swear. i’ll stop the second you want me to. just… please let me inside you. please.”
the please sounded almost pathetic. desperate. nothing like the quiet authority he carried in lecture halls.
and you loved it.
you stayed silent a little longer, letting him unravel.
his breathing grew uneven. he started pressing soft, pleading kisses along your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.
“i’ll take such good care of you,” he whispered against your skin. “i promise. i just… i need you. need to feel how warm you are. how tight. please, baby. please say yes. i’m begging you.”
your heart squeezed.
finally, soft, barely audible—you breathed:
“…yes.”
jungkook made a broken sound in the back of his throat.
he kissed you fiercely once, then sat back just enough to yank his shirt over his head. belt. button. zipper. he shoved everything down and off in one impatient motion.
when he settled back over you, completely bare, your eyes widened.
he was… big.
thick. long. flushed dark at the tip and already leaking. the sight made your thighs tremble.
“i—i don’t think…” you whispered, suddenly small and unsure again.
jungkook noticed immediately.
he leaned down, cupping your face with both hands.
“hey,” he soothed, voice velvet-soft. “it’s okay. it’ll fit. i promise you it will. we’ll go as slow as you need. you’re so wet for me already… it’ll be so easy. is that okay?”
you swallowed. nodded.
he reached between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance. the blunt head nudged against you—hot, slick, insistent.
“breathe,” he murmured. “just breathe for me.”
you did.
he pushed in barely an inch.
your breath caught. the stretch burned immediately. sharp. intense. you whimpered, fingers digging into his biceps.
“shhh, shhh,” he kissed your temple, your cheek, your lips. “you’re doing so good. so perfect. look at you taking me already.”
another slow inch.
the burn sharpened. tears pricked your eyes.
“jungkook—it hurts—”
“i know, baby. i know.” he stilled completely, trembling with the effort of holding back. “just stay with me. relax around me. let me in slow. you’re so tight… fuck, you feel incredible.”
he kissed you through it. soft, open-mouthed, distracting. whispered praise against your lips.
“you’re the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen.”
“so good for me.”
“taking me so well even though it’s your first time.”
“i’ve wanted this for so long.”
little by little, the sting began to melt. the fullness turned heavy, aching, good.
addictive. your hips shifted experimentally.
a soft moan slipped out.
his eyes fluttered shut. “that’s it… that’s my girl.”
he sank the rest of the way in one careful glide.
you both groaned.
he bottomed out, hips flush to yours, and stayed there—letting you adjust, letting himself feel every fluttering pulse around him.
“you’re perfect,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “so perfect. feel that? that’s us. just us.”
tears slipped down your temples—not from pain anymore, but from how full you felt. how wanted. how seen. he kissed them away.
“move,” you breathed after a long moment. “please… please move.”
he did.
slow. deep.
every drag of him inside you lit up nerves you didn’t know existed. the ache turned molten. sweet. you wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer.
he groaned your name like a prayer.
“you feel so good,” he rasped. “so warm. baby, you’re squeezing me so perfect.”
you keened at the praise, nails raking lightly down his back.
“more,” you whispered. “please.”
he gave it to you—still controlled, still careful, but deeper now. harder. the bed creaked softly beneath you.
“look at me,” he murmured.
you did.
his eyes were liquid dark, reverent.
“i’m so proud of you,” he said, voice shaking. “letting me have you like this. trusting me. you’re everything. you know that? everything.”
your eyes fluttered. the coil was building again—different this time. deeper. all-consuming.
“jungkook—”
“i’ve got you,” he promised, hips rolling in that perfect grind. “come for me, baby. let me feel it. please, baby.”
you shattered.
harder than before. clenching around him so tightly he cursed under his breath. your whole body shook, soft cries muffled against his shoulder.
he followed right after, hips stuttering, burying himself as deep as possible as he spilled inside you with a long, broken moan of your name.
for several long minutes you just held each other. breathing hard. sweaty. trembling.
he pressed the softest kisses to your hairline, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose.
“you okay?” he whispered eventually.
you nodded against his chest. smiled sleepily.
“more than okay.”
he exhaled, relieved. wrapped both arms around you and rolled so you were tucked against his side, still connected.
“stay,” he murmured, almost shy now that the urgency had passed. “just… stay with me tonight?”
you nuzzled closer, already drifting.
“always.”
the apartment was quiet in a way it had never been before.
not tense.
not forbidden.
just quiet.
the kind of quiet that settled after something life-changing.
you were wrapped in his sheets, hair messy, lips swollen, limbs pleasantly heavy. the world felt softer around the edges. unreal.
jungkook was sitting up beside you, chest rising and falling slowly, still trying to steady himself. he looked wrecked in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with disbelief.
you were looking at him like you had just discovered something sacred.
he ran a hand through his hair and let out a small, almost shy laugh.
“are you sure you okay?” he asked, voice lower than usual.
you nodded immediately. “perfect. all because of you .”
that made his ears turn pink.
he disappeared into the bathroom for a moment and came back with a warm cloth. the gentleness in his movements made your chest ache. he knelt beside you on the bed like you were fragile porcelain.
“let me,” he murmured.
he was careful. attentive. not clinical, but reverent. like this mattered. like you mattered.
you watched his face while he cleaned you up, the concentration in his brows, the softness in his eyes. he kept glancing up to check your expression.
“tell me if anything feels uncomfortable,” he said quietly.
you shook your head. “it doesn’t.”
he exhaled, relieved.
when he was done, you sat up slowly and took the cloth from his hand.
“my turn,” you said.
he blinked at you. “you don’t have to.”
“i want to.”
that softness again. that eagerness that kept undoing him.
you guided him back onto the bed, pushing him gently until he was the one lying down. he let you. completely.
there was something so vulnerable about him like that, broad shoulders against white sheets, hair falling into his eyes, chest rising steadily under your gaze.
you were just as careful with him.
your touch was slower, lighter, almost curious.
he swallowed hard.
“you’re staring,” he muttered.
“i am.”
he huffed a breath that might have been a laugh.
“why?”
you shrugged slightly. “i never thought you’d look like this.”
“like what?”
“soft.”
that made him go quiet.
when you finished, you tossed the cloth aside and crawled back toward him without hesitation. skin to skin. you pressed yourself against his side like it was instinct.
he stiffened for half a second. not because he didn’t want you there, but because he wasn’t used to it. not used to being held.
then his arm wrapped around you, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies.
you rested your cheek against his chest.
he smelled like clean laundry and something warmer now. something entirely his.
“was this okay?” you mumbled sleepily.
his arm tightened around you.
“yeah,” he said softly. “it was more than okay.”
your fingers started tracing idle patterns against his skin.
that was when you noticed it fully. the ink winding down his arm.
you lifted your head slightly, eyes scanning the dark lines and shaded details of his sleeve.
“i never thought you’d have tattoos like this,” you murmured.
he looked down at you, amused. “like what?”
“like this,” you repeated, dragging your fingertip slowly along the edge of one design. “i thought you’d have, like… a tiny minimalist one. something academic.”
he laughed, the sound vibrating under your ear.
“a tiny minimalist one?”
“maybe a paintbrush,” you said seriously. “or something pretentious.”
he laughed harder at that.
“i’m not that bad.”
you hummed, tracing another section carefully. “it’s pretty.”
“pretty?”
“yeah.” your voice was soft, sincere. “i liked that it didn’t match what people expected.”
he watched you with an expression that shifted from amused to something deeper.
“you didn’t seem surprised,” he said quietly.
“about what?”
“that i wasn’t what people expected.”
you rested your chin on his chest and looked up at him.
“i’d known that since the first day.”
his fingers slid into your hair absentmindedly.
“you were full of surprises too,” he murmured.
you smiled sleepily. “like what?”
“like how brave you were.”
you flushed at that.
“i was terrified.”
“you didn’t look it.”
you tucked yourself closer into him, your leg sliding between his instinctively. he inhaled softly at the contact but didn’t move away.
“i liked being close to you,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.
his hand stilled in your hair.
“i liked you being close,” he answered.
the room went quiet again, but it was different now.
comfortable.
your fingertip continued tracing the lines of his sleeve, slowly, carefully, memorizing. you followed each curve like you were studying something important.
he watched you the entire time.
like he still couldn’t believe you were there.
like he was afraid if he closed his eyes, you’d disappear.
“don’t look at me like that,” you mumbled without opening your eyes.
“like what?”
“like i’m going to vanish.”
his breath caught.
you opened one eye and smiled faintly.
“i wasn’t.”
his arm tightened around you again, pressing a soft kiss into your hair.
“good,” he whispered.
and for the first time since the line had blurred, neither of you felt like you were falling.
you just lay there, skin to skin, quiet and tangled together, tracing ink and memorizing warmth, like you had all the time in the world.
author’s note: this took forever to write bc i got super self indulgent😭 i hope you enjoyed it, i’ve had this idea for a while. thank you for reading<333
"How did this even look before? You know, artistic license is a great thing, i get to pick now"
I find it funny how every time someone goes to the castle they say "Some unnatural and mysterious force has been rebuilding these walls!" and for a second you go ooo, spoopy, until your brain catches up and it's… it's minecraft, duh, and that mysterious force is Scott doing renovations daytime cable style. But the delusion is very cool to live in for a hot sec!
// "There's been sanity in this trip, and I appreciate that! I havent had the urge to stab any of you!" , delighted Cleo. And indeed, eerie crypts and mystic tomes are quite good for anyone with a modicum of taste. //
A snippet of a Cleo, Drift, Shelby and Pearl on a trip in session 2, personally felt this moment in the soul, every trip I pick the creepiest historical location possible and have a splendid time.
Ahk and Teddy’s friendship is basically never talked about. There’s so much fun fluff to be had! In NATM 3, Teddy is the main person who actually checks if Ahk is okay after the tablet spazzes out -I KNOW THE SHOW IS A COMEDY BUT SOMEONE PLEASE CHECK ON THE POOR BOY HE IS ACTIVELY EXPERIENCING THE ROTTING OF HIS BODY ALIVE AND HE JUST SUFFERS IN SILENCE THE WHOLE TIME AND IT IS HORRIFYING- and the check in is so sweet. Teddy knows what’s up; what a sweetheart.
listening to brutus by the buttress for the first time in years and it fits Kahmunrah and Ahkmenrah so much like:
I too have a destiny
this death will be art
the people will speak of this day from near and afar
this event will be history
& I'll be great too
I don't want what you have
I wanna be you
because honestly i do think deep down kahmunrah did love his brother even when he killed him but his jealousy clouded everything else. ahkmenrah’s reign heralded an era of peace while kahmunrah thought expansion would serve his people best. but then of course history hardly remembers him compared to his brother
